I opened the front door. “Dad? I’m home.” I kicked off my shoes and tossed my bike helmet to the floor. The house was… silent.

Silent?

That wasn’t right. “Dad!?” I called out again, louder this time, moving room to room—his office? Empty. Living room? Nothing. Bedroom? Kitchen? Nowhere.

My hand pressed against my chest, trying to calm the heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

Then I saw it. The back door. Blood.

A thick streak of it, just at the base of the frame.

I swallowed hard and stepped forward—faster now, breath hitching. I didn’t think, I just pushed the door open.

Outside, a trail of dark blood dotted the ground, leading into the trees.

“Dad…?” I whispered.

The air outside was sharp and cold. It bit at my skin as I stepped onto the back porch, eyes fixed on the blood.

It wasn’t just drops anymore.

Smears. Dragged.

Something had been pulled.

I followed the trail barefoot, the wooden steps cold under my feet, the grass damp with dew—or maybe something else. The forest loomed ahead like it always had, but tonight... it felt different. Watching me.

The trees swallowed the last of the evening light.

I kept going.

“Dad,” I called again, quieter this time. Like I didn’t want to disturb something.

The trail curved around a cluster of old birches—then I saw it.

His journal.

Lying open in the dirt, soaked through with blood.

I dropped to my knees beside it, hands trembling as I flipped it open.

My name was written there. Over and over, in different inks. Notes. Dates. Symbols I didn’t recognize. And one word—scratched in deep like he’d carved it with something sharp:

Valen.

I stared at it.

A branch snapped behind me.

I froze.

Someone—or something—was in the trees.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

The sound of the branch snapping echoed too loud in my ears. My breath hitched in my throat, shallow and sharp.

Then came the cold.

It wasn't the chill of night.

It was wrong—like the warmth had been pulled from the air around me, sucked into a void that now hovered somewhere just behind my back.

I turned slowly.

There was nothing there.

But the forest had gone utterly silent. No wind. No bugs. Not even the trees dared to creak.

That’s when I felt it—

Eyes. Watching. Studying.

Then I heard it. A whisper. Not a voice, exactly, but something just as real, brushing the edge of my mind:

“Lilith…”

I staggered back, heart hammering. “Who’s there!?” I shouted, my voice cracking.

No answer.

But the air shifted again—like something massive had just moved between the trees, fast and silent. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my legs refused. My body was ice. My fingers clenched around the blood-soaked journal.

A low growl rolled out from the dark. Not an animal sound. It was deeper. Older. It made my bones vibrate.

And then— A flash of red. Eyes. Glowing like coals, far too high off the ground to belong to any animal I knew.

I blinked—and they were gone.

I gave chase.

The journal was clutched tight in my right hand, its pages sticky with blood. My lungs burned with every breath as I tore through the underbrush.

Twigs whipped at my arms.

The ground was uneven—I nearly tripped over a root, stumbled, caught myself.

Still running.

I didn’t think. I just moved. I ran toward the place where the red eyes had vanished, like a lunatic chasing a ghost.

Maybe I was, Maybe I’d finally cracked.

Branches clawed at my skin. The forest felt tighter with every step, darker somehow—like even the trees didn’t want me here.

But I kept going.

Because whatever that thing was—it knew my name.

And it had something to do with my father.

Valen. His name pulsed in my mind like a wound.

Then I saw it.

A clearing. Moonlight spilled down like silver blood, bathing the grass in stark contrast to the choking shadows behind me.

And standing in the center of it— A wolf.

But not just any wolf. Big. Towering. Its fur black as the space between stars, its eyes burning with the same red glow I’d seen before.

It looked right at me. Something cracked in the trees beside me. I snapped my head toward the sound—too fast, my neck burned with the motion.

When I looked back—

The wolf was gone.

A hand grabbed me from behind. I gasped— Another hand clamped over my mouth.

“You shouldn’t have followed.”

The voice was calm. Deep. Old. And most importantly— Predatory.

I thrashed, elbowing back hard.

Whoever held me didn’t flinch. Their grip tightened—stronger than human. Their palm stayed firm over my mouth, the other arm wrapped around my waist like iron.

I screamed—but it was useless. Muffled.

My heart pounded against my ribs like it wanted to escape my chest.

The voice came again—closer now, breath brushing my ear.

“So reckless. Just like her.”

I froze.

Her?

Who—?

The stranger inhaled.

A deep, deliberate breath.

Smelling me.

“You carry his scent. But there’s more…” he murmured. “Something buried. Something broken.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. My fingers dug into the hand over my mouth—trying to pry it away, nails catching skin, but he didn’t so much as grunt.

“Let. Me. Go,” I hissed between my teeth when he loosened just enough for me to breathe.

“If I wanted you dead, little lamb, you’d already be bleeding.”

The words were a whisper—but they hit like thunder.

Then—

Just like that— He let go.

I stumbled forward, nearly falling. Spun to face him.

But there was no one there.

Nothing but the silver-lit clearing. Empty.

No voice, No wolf, No man.

Just the sound of my own ragged breathing and the journal trembling in my hands. 

I stood motionless in the clearing for what felt like an eternity, heart still drumming a frantic tattoo against my ribs. Slowly, the clearing sank back into the embrace of shadows as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. 

My chest heaved as I forced myself to step away from that place—away from the crushing unknown.

I hurried back through the underbrush, every step heavy with doubt. The trail of red droplets seemed to vanish under my frantic pace, swallowed by the dark forest that whispered secrets I couldn’t quite grasp. 

With each step, a part of me desperately clung to the comforting lie that the encounter was a trick of the mind—just the fevered product of an overactive imagination fueled by worry for my missing father.

As I neared home, my thoughts raced in tangled loops. Maybe it was just my mind playing cruel tricks on me. 

A desperate search in the dark, my heart pounding like thunder, my senses blurred by fear… I tried to dismiss the memory, to convince myself that any slip of shadow or voice was nothing more than a figment of paranoia—a mix of too many restless nights and too much loneliness.

The familiar porch of our house came into view, its warm light promising safety, even as my fingers tightened around the bloodstained journal. 

I could almost convince myself that the lingering echo of that low, predatory voice was a dream—nothing but a nightmare not meant to cross into daylight.

Inside, the silence of the house felt like a shroud. Every creak of the floor and whisper of wind outside made me jump, but I told myself it was only my nerves. 

I sank onto the staircase, clinging to the comforting familiarity of home, even though every fiber of me whispered that nothing would ever be the same again.

I sat there in the dim hallway, tears stinging my eyes as I fought the urge to cry. Maybe it was all in my head. I tried to believe that the terrifying vision of the big, black wolf, the cold grip of that unseen force, and the chilling words in my ear were but tricks of a frightened mind.

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me back from that forest—something ancient and dangerously knowing. And somewhere behind closed doors, hidden under layers of silence and secrets, a name whispered in darkness still echoed in my ears: Valen.

Yet for now, as I cradled the journal and stared into the half-light of the room, I clung to the fragile hope that it was only my heart playing dangerous games with my mind.

I fell asleep reading the journal on the desk.

When I woke up, I was lying in bed.

The blanket had been pulled over me. The lamp was off. The chair where I’d been sitting was pushed back neatly, like I had never been there at all.

For a moment, I thought maybe I had moved in my sleep. Maybe I’d gotten up—half-dreaming—and climbed into bed without remembering.

But I wasn’t that kind of sleeper.

My skin prickled. A chill traced the back of my neck as I sat up slowly. The journal… it was resting on my nightstand now. Open to a page I didn’t remember reading.

A fresh smear of blood marked the margin.

Not old. Wet. Red.

And in the center of the page, scrawled in a new, jagged hand—not my father’s—was a single line:

“You’re not ready yet, little flame.”

My stomach dropped.

He’d been here.
He’d stood at my desk. Touched the journal. Watched me sleep.

Why?

And more terrifying—how had he gotten in?

I backed away. My heel hit the edge of the bed frame. I nearly tripped.

I was shaking now. Not from cold. Not entirely. I curled my arms around myself, trying to hold something inside me together.

But part of me—some cracked, curious part—wasn’t entirely afraid.

Some part of me was burning.
Awake.

That voice from the forest, that heat behind the words—You shouldn’t have followed.
He knew me. He’d touched me.
He was real.
He was here.

I looked back at the journal. The blood. The message.

I should have told someone. But I didn’t.

Instead… I sat down. I opened the page again. And I read.

The journal creaked as I opened it fully. Pages stuck together, brittle and warped from dried blood. The handwriting was my father’s—sharp, hurried, not like the neat script he used for grocery lists or birthday cards. This was raw. Desperate.

I flipped through the entries until one caught my eye.

March 3rd.
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
But I hesitated.
He looked at her… the way only he ever could.

Valen.

I thought he was dead—we all did—but the beast sleeps only when it chooses.

Lilith… if you find this, if you're reading it, then I failed you.

I never told you the truth about your mother.

My heart skipped.

The ink blurred under my fingertips. I blinked hard and kept reading, even as the words smeared.

They called him the Hollow Wolf.
Not just a vampire. Not just a monster.
He was made for death. Built by blood and bound by something darker.

But he loved her.
God help me, I think she loved him back.

And I was the fool who thought I could take her from him.

My fingers trembled as I turned the page, but it was blank. Just splashes of faded red and the faint impression of where a pen had pressed too hard.

I swallowed.

There were too many questions and not enough answers. The Hollow Wolf. My mother. Me.
What had he meant? What had he done?

And why did Valen come back now?

The room suddenly felt smaller. I could still feel the heat of that hand against my mouth, the weight of his presence behind me in the woods.

He knows I’m reading this.

A whisper inside me said run. But I didn’t.

Instead, I closed the journal, pulled the blankets tighter around my body, and sat in the silence until morning light broke across the floor like the line between two worlds.

One I used to know.

And the one I’d already stepped into.