* Updated 6/19/2023*

When you hear hoofbeats, think of horses not zebras.

That’s what our mayor said after a series of bloody attacks rattle the citizens of our otherwise quiet town of Widow’s Peak.

My fiancé is a deputy and they are all firmly behind the Mayor’s claim that there’s a pack of feral wolves who have settled on the outskirts of town. The police say they’ve got it under control and given how much Hunter was working, I believed them.

Until the fateful night I was up comforting our colicky baby and he stumbled home with his clothes in bloody tatters. His eyes were glowing faintly in the moonlight, and my breath caught in my chest when it hit me.

Hunter is the monster.

It took me months to plan an escape for the baby and I, but somehow, we managed to make it out alive without him tracking us down.

I knew we would need a refuge so we didn’t have to stay on the run forever, but I didn’t know it would be the small mountainside town of Wolf Creek where I grew up.

My grandmother welcomes us with open arms and before long, we are safely settled in my grandfather’s old hunting cabin, but she makes me promise to heed her warnings if I’m going to stay.

Her words echo in my head as I fall asleep every night:

Hang silver on the door.

Don’t leave your house on a full moon.

Whatever you do, stay away from the Murphy boys—they’re animals.

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