Chapter 1: Blood in the Rain, Lies in the Mud

My livestock guardian dogs had chased the wild hogs off for the folks down in Maple Hollow. The hogs got away, but my dogs—one was dead, another was bleeding out, barely breathing.

The smell of wet fur and blood hung heavy in the rain-soaked air, and my boots squelched in the mud as I knelt beside them. God, my hands shook as I pressed against the gash on my old brindle’s side, feeling the heat slip away with every heartbeat. It’s the kind of hurt that sticks in your throat and makes your jaw clench—God, it was worse than any wound I’d seen in the field before.

When I checked their wounds, my heart just dropped. I almost couldn't look.

I could barely breathe, staring at the ripped flesh, the torn muscle. My palms were sticky with blood. I had to blink away the rain—or maybe it was tears—just to see straight. Hell if I knew which. It felt like the world had gone real quiet. Except for the thunder rolling over the ridge.

As a hunter, I knew right away—my dog had been mauled by a werewolf. No doubt about it. I told the villagers they needed to get off the ridge, now.

I’d seen coyotes and even the odd mountain lion, but nothing left marks like this. My stomach twisted. I felt the old, cold dread, the kind you hear in stories told late at night around here. Honestly, I tried to warn them, but the words caught in my mouth like gravel, my voice tight.

Damn, there he was—Mr. Harlan, blocking my path.

He was a big man with a red face, rain dripping off his battered John Deere cap, standing smack in the middle of the trail, like he owned every inch of this mountain. His boots were caked in clay, and his eyes were hard as river stones.

“Mr. Blake, if you don’t want to do your job, that’s fine. But you don’t have to make up stories, you know?”

He folded his arms, looking down his nose at me like I was just some city kid, spinning tall tales around a campfire. The other folks gathered behind him, muttering, their faces pinched and wary in the gray light.

I could handle coyotes, black bears, wild hogs—no sweat. But a werewolf… No way.

My hands trembled at my sides, and I swallowed hard. Even the bravest old-timers knew when to cut their losses. I’d never met a hunter who’d face down a werewolf and walk away bragging about it. Most would rather face a tornado head-on.

Even the oldest hunters would hightail it out of here. I swear.

You could see it in their eyes. Anyone who’d lived through enough seasons in these hills knew when to listen to fear. But the townsfolk just shifted their weight and glared at me like I was the problem.

And just to make things worse, the rain was coming down in sheets, and cell service out here? Always hit-or-miss. The drone wouldn’t fly in this weather, and there was no getting a call out to the ranger station. All I could do was scoop up my wounded livestock dog and rush down the mountain.

My boots slipped on mossy rocks as I staggered downhill. The brindle dog was limp in my arms, his fur soaking my jacket. Every step was a fight against the sucking mud and the sense that time was running out. My phone buzzed uselessly in my pocket, no bars, just static and frustration.

I caught up to Mr. Harlan and the others. “There’s a werewolf up there. Don’t go back up the ridge,” I said.

My voice came out raw, almost pleading. I must’ve looked half-crazed, mud-splattered, holding a dying dog. The wind whipped at my words, but I made sure they heard me. My heart thudded in my chest, a warning drum.

Mr. Harlan’s face soured, his voice sharp. “Just because you’re a hunter doesn’t mean you can mess with us. I’ve lived here sixty years and never seen a werewolf.”

He jabbed a finger at my chest, his voice rising over the rain. The others nodded, backing him up. Eyes narrowed with suspicion and stubborn pride. Around here, if you hadn’t seen it, it couldn’t be real. That’s the code.

I was getting desperate. I knew why he didn’t believe me. Of course he didn’t believe me. The county wildlife office made us turn in everything we caught. Mr. Harlan’s daughter-in-law just had a baby and wanted some extra protein, so he’d asked my boss for a favor. My boss said no, and now Mr. Harlan thought we were hoarding the game for ourselves.

That’s just how it is in small towns—grudges stick like burrs. Folks here remembered every slight, every favor denied, and it colored everything you said. I could see it in the way they wouldn’t meet my eyes, the way they huddled together, backs up.

No matter how I tried to explain, they wouldn’t listen. Instead, they accused me of being in with the wildlife officers.

One of the women muttered something about “government boys always looking out for their own.” Another spat in the mud, glaring at me like I’d sold them out. It was pointless arguing logic when trust had already snapped.

Then the local hothead, Dean, showed up, sneering before I could say a word.

Dean was the kind of guy who always had a chip on his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, face set in a permanent scowl. He swaggered over, hands shoved in his jeans, and looked me up and down like I was gum on his boot. I could feel my jaw tighten, wishing I could just walk away.

“All this drama over money, huh? It’s just a dog. Get another one later, for all I care.”

He rolled his eyes, voice dripping with contempt. Then he spat a wad of tobacco juice into the mud for good measure. It splattered right next to my boot, and I felt the urge to swing, but held back.

He jabbed a finger at my big brindle dog, barely hanging on. “It’s almost dead. Why bother? Just bury it.”

He didn’t even look at the dog, just scoffed and grabbed a shovel off the back of someone’s truck. The metal clanged, echoing through the trees. He started digging a shallow hole right there, mud flying everywhere.

Mud flecked my boots and jeans. I just stared at him, stunned.

The sound of the shovel biting earth was almost louder than the rain. My jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“Does your crew even know what they’re doing? Can’t even handle a wild hog.”

He sneered, and the younger guys behind him laughed, goading him on. My face burned, but I refused to look away.

I couldn’t help snapping back, “If you don’t know what you’re talking about, just stay out of it. My dog was killed by a werewolf. I’ve gotta get back and call for help.”

My voice cracked, raw with anger and grief. The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable.

Mr. Harlan thought I was mocking him and gave my brindle dog’s belly a mean kick. I couldn’t believe it.

I heard the sick thud, and my vision went red. The dog whimpered, legs twitching weakly. I had to bite my tongue to keep from losing it right there.

“You brought a sick dog to hunt hogs, couldn’t catch anything, and now you’re spinning werewolf stories. You just want the game for yourself and to squeeze us for more. Got any shame at all?”

His words were sharp as barbed wire. The others murmured in agreement, arms crossed, eyes hard. It was clear they’d made up their minds about me.

I lost it and shouted, “I raised these dogs since they were pups—how could they be sick? And you think I’d steal your wild hog meat? Why would I bother, huh?”

My voice echoed off the trees, desperate, chest heaving. I looked around, hoping for a flicker of understanding, but all I got were blank stares and more muttered insults.

I forced them to look at the wound, my hands shaking. Rain washed more blood away.

“A hog’s tusks are for stabbing, not tearing off flesh. But look—half its neck is gone, skin and muscle both, and those are claw marks. Only a werewolf could do this.”

The gash was ugly, ragged—nothing like a hog’s work. I held my breath, waiting for someone to see the truth.

Everyone stared, then broke out laughing. The sound was harsh and cold, echoing through the trees.

A couple of them slapped their knees. Dean snorted so hard he almost choked.

“We’ve lived here our whole lives and never seen a werewolf. But you show up and suddenly there’s one?”

One of the old-timers wiped tears from his eyes, shaking his head. The rest just smirked, arms folded, sure they were right and I was a fool.

I grew more anxious. “Mr. Harlan, the river just past here is the county line. It’s spring—werewolves cross over to hunt in these woods. You don’t know how vicious a hungry one can be, not out here. I’m telling you, come with me, let’s call for help.”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out pleading, almost begging. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake some sense into them.

Dean scowled, snatched up his shovel, and smashed it down on my brindle dog. There was a sickening crack, the dog’s skull split, its eyes wide with terror. Dean just looked down at it, sounding annoyed. My stomach lurched.

The crack echoed in my bones. I dropped to my knees, staring at the dog’s lifeless body. Rain mixed with the blood.

“Call for help, huh? Think you can scare us with that? Think you’re something special?”

He spat again, voice flat, as if killing my dog was just another chore.

I stared at my dead brindle dog, its eyes glazed, rain washing over its face. My blood boiled—I raised my fist, ready to swing at Dean.

My knuckles whitened. I took a step forward, every muscle tense and ready to snap.

Mr. Harlan called people over to pull us apart. He said, “Mr. Blake, enough. I’ll pay for a couple more dogs if that’s what you want.”

Rough hands grabbed my shoulders, dragging me back. Mr. Harlan’s voice was gruff, almost mocking.

My fists clenched so hard my jaw shook. I wanted to deck these people.

My voice was barely more than a growl, but I forced the words out. I tasted blood where I’d bitten my cheek. The rain drummed harder, masking the tears I wouldn’t let fall.

“I’ll say it one more time: It’s dangerous up there. Get off the ridge and call the wildlife office. I’m done. I quit.”

Dean burst out laughing, tears streaming down his face. The others joined in, mocking me. Their laughter was sharp, ugly—like crows picking at roadkill.

I was floored. My livestock dog had just been killed by a werewolf, and there could be another one lurking. What the hell was so funny?

I looked from face to face, searching for even a flicker of doubt. My hands shook, but I shoved them in my pockets, forcing myself to stand tall.

Dean said smugly, “Mr. Blake, you think you’re clever. But your little scheme? I see right through it. You just think the wildlife office pays too little, so you killed the hog to sell it. That it? When we caught you, you made up this werewolf story. You want us to go down with you so your buddies can take the hog, and you get the credit and the meat.”

He wagged his finger in my face, lips curled in a smirk. It was all small-town suspicion, thick as the fog rolling off the river.

The villagers’ faces lit up with sudden realization. They looked at me with suspicion, muttering in Appalachian drawl—half the words I couldn’t even follow, but their eyes were anything but friendly.

They closed ranks, voices low and dangerous, their words blending into a chorus of distrust. Their stares were cold as winter creek water.

Dean said, “You livestock guys use your pull with the wildlife office to push us around. Not only do you take our rifles and fine the poachers, but you make us pay you to chase off hogs.”

He jabbed his shovel in the mud for emphasis, glaring at me.

Mr. Harlan added, “They’re running a racket—making a killing, or so he thought. You say it costs five grand to train a dog for six months, but it looks like any mutt in town. I got mine for twenty bucks.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. A couple of the younger guys nodded, grumbling about city prices and government waste.

Dean looked shocked. “That much? Your dog eat caviar or something? Five grand? Why not just buy a truck?”

He barked a laugh, waving his arms. A few made jokes about fancy dog food and rich city folks.

At that, the villagers’ looks got even colder. No one believed a word I said. From their view, I was just a scammer—using my job to let my dogs hunt and charging whatever I wanted, double-dipping.

Their suspicion was thick as the fog, and I could feel it settling over me, heavy and suffocating. What kind of twisted thinking was that?

My breath came short and ragged. But pride ran deeper than sense in these hills.

As the townsfolk grabbed sticks and advanced, my dogs’ tails stiffened and dropped, low growls rumbling. Without my command, they wouldn’t attack, but Mr. Harlan shouted, “Mr. Blake, you’re heartless! You want your dogs to tear us up? We could die out here!”

He was almost shouting over the storm, his voice cracking. The others braced themselves, ready for a fight they didn’t really want.

I stared at him, stunned. Even now, he was still talking nonsense?

My mouth fell open, words failing me for once. I just shook my head, rain dripping off my cap, unable to believe what I was hearing.

Mr. Harlan shouted again, “Here’s the deal—either hand over the hog, or we’ll kill your dogs. Take your pick. If you sic your dogs on us, you won’t leave this ridge alive!”

He brandished his stick, face twisted with anger and fear.

I said helplessly, “Mr. Harlan, had enough yet? Why would I want your wild hog? If you keep this up, you might as well run for mayor and ban hunting while you’re at it.”

Mr. Harlan, furious, swung a stick at my head. I wasn’t about to take it—I whistled sharply, and my Rottweiler lunged, knocking him to the ground. The dog bared its fangs, barking madly at him. Facing a hundred-pound Rottweiler, the townsfolk stumbled back in fear. Dean’s bravado wavered, but he held his ground, stick raised like a club.

I ignored him. Another whistle, and the Rottweiler followed me as I ran down the ridge. A werewolf had already killed one of my dogs. If I didn’t call for help, what if someone got killed?

My heart hammered in my chest as I crashed through the underbrush, the dog at my side. The rain blurred everything, but I kept going, desperate to get out, to get help before it was too late.

No matter what the townsfolk thought of me, or how they misunderstood me, human life came first. Everything else could wait. But once a werewolf tasted human blood, it wouldn’t go after livestock behind fences anymore—it’d go for defenseless people. Years of development had already forced werewolves into shrinking woods. My dogs chased hogs into its turf and were killed; the hogs vanished. The werewolf had reached its limit. It didn’t care if you were man or beast—if you trespassed, you died.

I knew the stories, the warnings passed down from old-timers in battered rocking chairs. The woods were shrinking, the balance broken. Now, the monsters had nowhere left to go but right up against us.

But as I ran downhill with my dogs, the townsfolk chased after me. Dean shouted furiously, “Get back here! You come back!”

Their boots pounded behind me, voices echoing through the trees. I didn’t look back, just kept running, lungs burning, the dog barking at my side.

I left them behind, almost reaching my pickup parked halfway up the ridge, when I suddenly felt a chill down my spine. I turned to see Mr. Harlan swinging a stick hard. I threw up my arm—the stick shattered against it, pain shooting through me. I yanked my arm back, blood dripping from splinters. The Rottweiler bit Mr. Harlan’s pant leg, or he would’ve hit me again.

The pain was sharp, white-hot, but I barely noticed. Adrenaline took over, and I barked at the dog to let go, shoving Mr. Harlan away with my good arm.

I yelled, “Are you out of your mind? There’s no signal up here—I need to get down and find my boss!”

My voice cracked, wild with frustration. I wanted to shake him, to make him see sense, but he just glared, stubborn as ever.

Mr. Harlan spat at me. “You’re the crazy one! Hogs are bad enough for our fields, and now you come up here, can’t catch one, and make up some werewolf story. Are you all just desperate for cash?”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes burning with accusation.

I asked, “When did I ever say I wanted money?”

My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

He shouted, “You livestock guys claim it’s a public service, free. Who does anything for nothing? So you stole the hog and brought a sick dog up here just to squeeze us—for the meat and for cash.”

His words were bitter, heavy with years of resentment.

Dean grabbed his shovel, pointing it at me. “He’s right. You’re up to no good!”

He advanced, shovel raised, his face twisted in anger.

With that, he smashed my pickup’s headlights to pieces. My blood rushed to my head. I tried to grab the shovel, but I was shorter than him, and he raked my arm, drawing blood. Dean didn’t care—he pressed the shovel to my chest. “Don’t think you can mess with us. If this was in town, you’d be dead already!”

The Rottweiler growled, ready to defend me.

I was at my wits’ end. “How long are you gonna keep this up? Why don’t you go find my boss yourself?”

My voice was raw, almost pleading. I was out of options, trapped between their suspicion and my own desperation.

“Fine! I’ll go! Let’s see what other tricks you try!” He took out his phone and turned to Mr. Harlan. “What’s your boss’s number?”

Dean’s hands shook as he scrolled through his contacts, the rain making his screen slick. He looked at Mr. Harlan, who just shrugged.

Mr. Harlan said, “I don’t know, just the mayor’s.”

He spread his hands, looking helpless.

“Then I’ll call the mayor.”

Dean’s thumb hovered over the screen, defiant. The others watched, waiting for a miracle.

He dialed, but muttered, “No signal. Forget it.”

He shook his head, stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

I said anxiously, “I told you, there’s no service up here!”

The rain was relentless, soaking us all to the bone.

Mr. Harlan cursed, “So what? It’s just a hog—why make such a fuss?”

He kicked at the mud, voice petulant.

Dean thought Mr. Harlan had a point and put his phone away. “Just stay put. You’re not going anywhere…”

He stepped closer, blocking my path, shovel still in hand.

He didn’t finish—Mr. Harlan pointed at the woods. “Dean, another dog’s running toward us! He’s setting his dogs on us! All he cares about is money! Stop him—don’t let him loose the dogs!”

His voice rose in panic, finger trembling as he pointed. The others whipped around, fear flaring in their eyes.

Hearing that, Dean eyed me warily. He said, “Mr. Blake, we may be poor, but if you scam us, don’t blame us for fighting back.”

He hefted his shovel, voice low and dangerous.

He raised his shovel to attack. I never thought they’d go this far. I had no choice but to whistle again.

My lips split with the force of it, and the sound cut through the storm.

Right away, the rest of my livestock dogs burst out, biting Dean’s shovel and knocking him down. Surrounded by dogs, he screamed in terror. “Mr. Harlan! He’s trying to kill us!”

The dogs circled, barking and snapping, keeping the crowd at bay.

Mr. Harlan’s face went pale. He accused me of siccing the dogs on people, saying I’d lost control.

His voice shook, but he tried to sound brave.

I fought to keep my anger in check, pointing at Mr. Harlan. “You’re the ones risking lives! A werewolf’s territory can cover the whole county! Winter’s just ended, they need more land to hunt. If it can kill my dogs, what chance do you have? Go up there now, and you’re just feeding the beast. Why throw your lives away?”

My words tumbled out, desperate and true.

Dean ignored my warning. If my dogs weren’t protecting me, he’d have beaten me already. He forced himself to calm down, then said, “God’s watching. Come with me to the traps on the back ridge. If there’s no werewolf, I’ll call the cops when we get down and settle this.”

He glared, daring me to refuse.

I pleaded, “Why go to the back ridge? Just let me go down and call for help!”

My voice cracked, but I tried to keep it steady.

He said, “Those traps have caught hogs and deer—if there’s a werewolf, it’ll get caught too.”

He shrugged, as if it was that simple.

Woof!

Suddenly, the woods echoed with frantic barking, like firecrackers popping. The barking grew louder and closer.

I turned to see several of my livestock dogs racing from the trees, panting, whining, eyes darting around.

Their fur was slick with rain and mud, eyes wild with fear.

Dean cursed, “What, you calling more dogs to attack us?”

The others watched, nerves stretched to the breaking point.

But the dogs just gathered around, separating me from the crowd and shielding me. Looking at them, I felt a mix of relief and grief. I’d released twelve livestock dogs—two were dead, only seven made it back. They were caked in mud, panting, clearly after a brutal fight. With the rain washing away scent, the missing dogs were probably gone for good.

The sight twisted my gut. I knelt, running my hands over their heads, feeling every shiver and flinch. These dogs had given everything for me, and I couldn’t save them all.

But then I noticed the GPS trackers on their collars. My dogs wore trackers and remote alarms. If I sent a dog for help, I wouldn’t have to go down myself. Time was running out—every minute counted!

Hope flickered in my chest. I fumbled for the control, hands slick with rain. The device beeped, and the dogs perked up, ready for orders.

I crouched down and pressed the alarm button, signaling the dogs to run for town. Mr. Harlan yelled, “Mr. Blake, stop fooling around. What’s the point?”

His voice was sharp, but I ignored him, focused only on the task at hand. I knew what needed to be done, even if they didn’t.

I ignored him. I took the collar off my brindle dog and held it out for the Rottweiler, whispering, “I’m counting on you.”

The Rottweiler whined, tail tucked, but took the collar gently in its jaws. I scratched behind its ears, murmuring encouragement, and sent it off into the storm.

The collar was clearly bitten through by a werewolf—anyone in the business would know. The Rottweiler sniffed it, let out a nervous growl, then barked loud. I knew it was spooked. The collar reeked of blood and beast—like handing a bloodied knife to a man.

The smell made my own stomach turn. The Rottweiler looked at me, eyes wide, then bounded off down the trail, barking as it went.

The other dogs circled me, barking non-stop, urging me to go.

They pressed close, nudging my legs, their eyes pleading.

I patted their heads, whispering, "Good dogs, good dogs," trying to give them courage I barely had myself.

How ironic. While people were busy slandering and turning on each other, only these loyal mutts stood by me.

I felt a lump in my throat, the kind you get when you’re too tired to cry. These dogs—muddy, battered, loyal to the end—were the only friends I had left in Maple Hollow.

I gave the dogs a hard push and shouted toward the road, “Go! Hurry!”

My voice was hoarse, but the dogs sprang into action, tearing off down the road. Their paws splashed through puddles, tails streaming behind them. I watched them go, hope and fear tangled tight in my chest.

At that, all the townsfolk turned to glare at me, grabbing sticks, ready to break the dogs’ legs.

Their faces twisted with anger and fear, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d made it worse. But I stood my ground, rain-soaked and bloodied, determined to do what was right—even if I had to do it alone.

Somewhere past the tree line, a low, wrong howl threaded through the rain.