Eli sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the stale scent of cardboard. The room was too clean, too quiet—like it had been waiting for someone who never showed up. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting long shadows that stretched across the wooden floor like fingers reaching for something just out of sight.
He pulled out a photo frame wrapped in bubble wrap. Empty. He'd meant to bring something—a picture, maybe—but there was no one to put in it. No family snapshots. No blurry group selfies. Just him. Always just him.
The silence pressed in, thick and deliberate. Outside, the cicadas had stopped. Eli froze. That wasn't normal. Not here.
He stood and moved to the window, the floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. The garden below was bathed in moonlight, silver and still. Trees stood like sentinels, unmoving. But there—at the edge of the fence—something shifted. A figure, maybe. Or a trick of the light.
He leaned closer. The glass fogged slightly from his breath. Nothing.
But the feeling remained. Like something had noticed him.
He stepped back, heart ticking faster now. The air in the room felt heavier, like it had thickened around him. He rubbed his arms, suddenly cold.
A soft sound broke the silence. Not outside. Inside.
A whisper. No words. Just breath.
He turned sharply. Nothing there.
Eli swallowed hard. He didn't believe in ghosts. But this house—this town—it felt like it remembered things. Like it carried stories in its walls. And maybe, just maybe, it had started listening to his.
Later That Night
The moon had risen higher, casting pale light across the garden. Eli lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was expectant. Like the night itself was holding its breath.
He sat up, drawn to the window. The trees hadn't moved. The air was still. But something was different.
A low hum vibrated through the glass. Faint. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.
He opened the window slowly. The air outside was cool, tinged with the scent of damp earth and something metallic. He leaned out, scanning the yard.
Then he saw it.
A shape—tall, narrow, almost human—standing just beyond the fence. No face. No movement. Just presence.
Eli's breath caught. He blinked. It was gone.
But the hum remained. Inside him now. Like something had reached through the night and touched him.
He closed the window, locked it, and stepped back. His skin prickled. Not with fear. With recognition.
He sat back on the edge of the bed, pulse still fluttering. His hand reached instinctively for the book he'd unpacked earlier—Moonblood, its cover worn and creased, the title barely legible in silver ink.
He flipped to the chapter he couldn't forget—the one where the werewolf first appears, not in a burst of fury, but in silence.
"It didn't howl. It watched. From the edge of the woods, where the moonlight couldn't reach. Its eyes weren't hungry. They were patient."
Eli stared at the line. Outside, the trees stood still. The moon hung low, casting pale light across the garden. And just beyond the fence—he'd seen it.
A shape. Tall. Still. Watching.
He turned the page.
"The boy didn't run. He couldn't. Something in the creature's gaze held him still. Not fear. Recognition."
The air in the room felt heavier now, like the story had slipped off the page and into the night.
He closed the book slowly, fingers trembling. Moonblood wasn't just fiction anymore. It felt like a warning. Or an invitation.
He lay back down, the book still in his hands. Sleep wouldn't come. Not easily. Not tonight.
Outside, the trees remained still. But something had shifted.
And Eli knew—whatever it was, it hadn't come for the house.
It had come for him.