Chapter 1: My Shop vs. The Supernatural

I woke up in a supernatural hunting ground—with my pet shop, of all things.

The instant I realized where I was, I thought it had to be a fever dream. Like something out of a late-night cable show. Except I was standing in my own shop, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, surrounded by glass tanks and the nervous chatter of anxious animals. The shelves still smelled faintly of cedar shavings and dog biscuits. But outside, the world had flipped upside down.

I kept hearing voices in my head, memories or maybe hallucinations from the last few days—

A gruff werewolf: Ma’am, where’d you get this rooster? Why’s it got so much fight in it?

A wild-eyed cultist: That venomous hellhound I spent years training—it got eaten just like that!

...

And me, trying to sound calm: Sorry, it’s not that my pets are too strong—it’s that you’re all too weak.

It sounded cocky, sure. But after everything I’d seen in the last seventy-two hours, I was starting to believe it myself. My pets had always been a handful, but here, they were practically superheroes. I tried not to grin when folks stared, but honestly, it was the first thing in this place that made me feel at home.

On the third day after winding up in this bizarre world, my generator finally ran out of gas. The pet shop lost power and water—and all the pets were howling with hunger.

What kind of backwoods nightmare is this? I thought, a hollow silence settling in after my own outburst.

The dogs’ barks echoed off the empty shelves. The parakeets fluttered their wings in the dim. I sat on the cracked counter, legs swinging, staring up at the dead bulbs and thinking about how, back in Atlanta, a blackout meant lighting some candles and ordering pizza. Here, it felt like the start of a siege.

I looked out at the thick pines and maples. It was a world away from the glass towers of downtown Atlanta I used to know.

The trees pressed in close, all tangled branches and heavy shadows. Nothing like the neat city parks I used to jog through on weekends.

I missed the sound of traffic, the constant glow of streetlights, the way the city never really let you feel alone. Honestly, out here, the silence was almost too loud.

Just as I was debating whether I should go out and forage for food for my pets, the shop door suddenly slammed open.

The bell above the door gave a frantic jingle. It was one of those old brass ones I’d picked up at a flea market. A man stumbled inside, blood streaking down his arm, leaving dark spots on the linoleum. He looked like hell, but somehow managed to make the chaos of my shop feel even more real.

His boots left muddy prints, and the air suddenly smelled like copper and sweat. The animals all went quiet, as if they sensed something even stranger than themselves had just blown in.

No kidding, he looked like he’d wandered off the set of a supernatural drama. Judging by his ripped leather jacket and the strange sigils on his shirt, he could’ve been an extra from one of those CW shows my cousin binged every fall.

The jacket was shredded at the sleeves. The symbols on his shirt glowed faintly, like someone had drawn them with glow-in-the-dark paint. I wondered if he’d picked it up at a Halloween store or if it actually meant something out here.

"Hey, man, you okay?" I called out, taking a cautious step forward.

I walked over, about to give him a nudge, when—holy crap—a centipede as long as a forearm wriggled out from his sleeve.

The thing was so big, I actually froze for a second—my brain refusing to process how something like that could even exist outside a horror movie. My hand hovered in midair, torn between helping the guy and just running for the nearest broom.

The centipede was pitch-black, its pincers snapping open and shut at me.

Its body shimmered with a weird, oily sheen. Each leg made a faint scraping sound as it hit the floor. I’d seen my share of exotic bugs in the shop, but this one looked like it could take down a raccoon. My stomach twisted.

Even the ball pythons in the back cage would’ve steered clear of this monster. My skin crawled just looking at it. Yikes. I tried to remember if I’d ever read about something like this in any of my old animal care books—nope. Nothing even close.

It was vicious, too. The moment it appeared, it scuttled straight at me.

No hesitation. No warning. Just a blur of legs and snapping pincers coming right for my sneakers.

Goosebumps shot up all over my skin, and I bolted backward in a panic. "Oh, hell no!"

I nearly tripped over a bag of dog chow. I scrambled away so fast I almost knocked over a tank of startled hamsters. My breath came out in short, panicked gasps.

But there was no way I could outrun the thing—it caught up to me in no time.

My heart hammered as I heard its legs ticking against the linoleum, closing the gap with terrifying speed. I didn’t even have time to scream for help—who would hear me out here, anyway?

Just as it was about to grab my pant leg, there was a split second of silence—then a rooster flew over my head, its talons pinning the centipede to the floor.

What the—? The whoosh of wings overhead made me duck on instinct. The rooster landed with a thud, claws outstretched, pinning the monster right where it was. For a split second, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—my own bird, going full action hero.

*Cock-a-doodle-doo—*

The rooster held its head high, its comb shaking with pride. Show-off.

Its feathers fluffed up, and it let out a crow so loud it rattled the glass tanks. I swear, if there’d been an audience, the little guy would’ve taken a bow.

I gagged. Then it lowered its head and, with its sharp beak, cracked open the centipede’s skull and started feasting.

The crunch was sickening and weirdly satisfying at the same time. The rooster tore into the bug like it was Sunday brunch, not even pausing to look at me for approval.

Whoa. I rushed over to stop it.

My mind snapped back to reality—this wasn’t just any barnyard chicken. Oh, jeez.

I reached for it, trying to remember every warning I’d ever read on poultry forums. Roosters could be stubborn, but this one was downright fearless. I felt a pang of pride, mixed with worry.

But before I could pull it away, it swallowed the whole centipede in one gulp.

I gaped as it tossed its head back and gulped the thing down, legs and all. The sound it made was almost cartoonish, like a garbage disposal chomping through leftovers.

"Oh my god, are you nuts? You’ll eat anything, huh?"

I hesitated, then scooped it up and checked to see if it was feeling off.

I cradled the rooster against my chest, running my hands over its feathers, checking for any signs of distress. Its heart was beating fast, but otherwise, it seemed as chipper as ever.

Thank God—nothing seemed wrong.

I let out a shaky breath, relieved. The rooster blinked up at me, looking for all the world like it hadn’t just taken down a creature straight out of a nightmare.