Rough planks cover the opening, set close together to keep the cold and curious eyes out. Only a narrow knot-hole breaks the wood, no wider than a coin. I stare at it from across the room, heart climbing back into my throat.
Don’t, I think. But I must.
I cross the room slowly, my feet barely lifting from the floor. The candle has burned low, its flame trembling, threatening to give me away. I leave it behind and lean toward the wall, pressing my eye to the dark break in the plank.
For a moment, nothing appears.
Then—
Eyes.
They gleam pale in the night, fixed and unblinking, level with mine. Too close. Too intent. My breath stutters as my heart lurches violently, hard enough to hurt.
Then the shape shifts, just enough.
The line of a muzzle. Thick fur along the neck, breath steaming faintly in the cool air.
A wolf.
Relief crashes through me so fast it makes my knees weak, leaving behind something giddy and foolish. I suck in a shaky breath and almost laugh, the sound dying in my chest before it can escape.
Just a big, dark, furry wolf. Nothing more.
The deer—the torn throat, the blood—wolves do that. They rip and pull and leave bodies folded wrong. What I thought were hands were only forelegs braced in the carcass. Claws in flesh. The strands were fur, dark and matted. The shape wrong only because the darkness twists everything it touches.
And the eyes—
Moonlight catches in an animal’s gaze and sets it burning. Everyone knows that. Silver turns red, red looks like fire when you’re already afraid.
My forehead presses harder to the wood.
I ran from a wolf. Like a child, scared out of my skin by shadows and night and stories told too often by fire. Wolves roam these woods, they always have. They hunt. They feed.
The beast lingers for a moment longer, pacing, nose lifting as if tasting the air, then it turns away soundlessly and melts back into the dark.
I straighten slowly and step back from the window, pressing a hand to my chest as my heartbeat finally begins to calm. It was only a wolf. Only the night playing tricks on me, reminding me of itself.
Still, the feeling does not leave me.
It clings to my spine as I move up the ladder again, each rung colder than before, each creak sounding louder in my head. My space welcomes me back with its familiar dimness, but they do not soften.
I pull the wooden box from beneath the bed and open it, hands trembling despite my efforts to still them. The herbs spill their scents into the air as I tuck each bundle away neatly, as if order might settle what my body refuses to forget.
When the lid closes, the quiet rushes back in.
The bed takes my weight with a low creak as the wool is drawn up to my chin. My heart beats too fast, a restless, uneven rhythm that will not slow no matter how carefully I breathe. The image of red eyes flares unbidden behind my lids, gone as quickly as it comes, leaving only the echo of it behind.
I clutch the rosary tight in my fist.
The beads press into my palm, familiar and grounding. My fingers move over them without thought, counting, circling, returning. In the dark, the prayers Mama and Popa Vasile insist upon fall from my lips—words shaped like walls, meant to keep things out.
Tatal nostru, Care e?ti în ceruri…
Apara-ma, Doamne…
Fere?te-ma de rau…[10]
The words slip into each other, carried on urgent, shallow breaths. I repeat them until they blur, until sound gives way to rhythm alone, until my body can no longer hold itself upright against fear.
