John was no more than nine summers old, a thin-limbed boy with muddy boots and straw in his hair. The evening sun cast a golden hue over the family farm, stretching long shadows across the yard as he padded toward the chicken coops. He had one last chore to finish before supper—feeding and tending the hens, just as he did every night.

  In his family, everyone had their share of the evening duties. His mother and sister were inside preparing the meal, the scent of roasting roots and herbs already drifting through the open windows. His father was out back, chopping wood—a steady rhythm that echoed faintly across the fields. Every twenty seconds or so came the ‘thock’ of axe on log, like a ticking clock keeping pace with the day’s end.

  John liked that sound. It meant warmth, food, and a soft bed weren’t far off.

  He set to work, grabbing handfuls of grain from the sack beside the coop and scattering it across the packed earth. The chickens, as always, flurried around him in a hungry frenzy, pecking and scrabbling with their usual clumsy enthusiasm. John smiled, amused by the way they flapped and bickered over each kernel.

  Then, without warning, they stopped.

  A sudden, eerie silence fell over the yard. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The entire flock froze for a split second—then, as one, bolted for the coop, vanishing into the shadows of the wooden structure in a panicked blur of feathers.

  John blinked. That’s strange, he thought. They usually didn’t go in until dusk, and even then, they rarely passed up the last few mouthfuls of grain. He peered up at the sky, wondering if maybe a storm was rolling in. The air did feel a little heavier than usual. He shrugged it off.

  Just as he tossed the last of the grain, his father’s voice rang out across the yard, calling him in.

  “John! Supper!”

  With one final glance toward the oddly quiet coop, he turned and ran for the house, boots kicking up small puffs of dust as he went.

  About a mile outside of Linton—a quiet village nestled fifty miles from the Border Valley—stood the family homestead. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. And for John, it was the whole world.

  John hurried inside and took his seat at the table, brushing dirt from his hands onto his trousers. His sister was already there beside him, feet swinging beneath her chair, and their father sat at the head of the table, freshly washed but still smelling faintly of woodsmoke.

  Their mother moved between them, dishing out the evening meal—roasted pheasant with vegetables, its scent rich and comforting, filling the small home with warmth.

  Night had settled in fully now. Shadows pressed against the windows, and the fire crackled softly in the hearth.

  John ate with the ravenous hunger only a growing boy could muster, barely chewing as the tender, smoky meat melted against his tongue and the vegetables burst with earthy flavour. Between mouthfuls, he slipped odd bits of meat and the occasional bone beneath the table for Maisie, their scruffy brown dog, who sat patiently at his feet, tail thumping every time she got a treat.

  Laughter and idle chatter passed between the family as they ate. His sister spoke of her lessons, their father grumbled good-naturedly about a knot in the chopping block, and his mother reminded them—again—not to throw bones on the floor.

  Once the plates were scraped clean and bellies full, John stood and stretched. “I’ll let Maisie out,” he said, moving toward the door.

  He unlatched it and swung it open, cool night air spilling into the room.

  “Come on, girl,” he called, glancing back at the dog.

  But Maisie didn’t move. She stood just behind him, whining low in her throat.

  “It’s alright,” John said gently, stepping outside. “Look, see? Nothing there.”

  Maisie took one cautious step forward. The night air was still, almost heavy. John held his breath, sensing something just beyond the veil of ordinary. Then she stopped.

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  Her eyes locked on something just beyond John—something in the dark.

  A low growl rumbled from her chest. Her ears flattened. Her hackles bristled like the quills of a threatened boar.

  John turned, squinting into the black.

  But all he saw was the yard, the coops, the edge of the trees.

  Still, something about the way Maisie stood—rigid, trembling—set a chill crawling up his spine. His stomach knotted, breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he wanted to bolt back inside and slam the door, but his legs stayed rooted to the spot, caught between the need to flee and the pull of curiosity.

  John turned sharply, eyes straining to pierce the dark treeline. He couldn’t see anything at first—just the usual sway of branches in the wind.

  Then... something shifted.

  A flicker of movement. Quick. Low to the ground.

  He narrowed his eyes. Was that a man?

  Another flash—something slipping between the trees, fast. Too fast. Its outline was wrong—jagged at the edges, hunched low as if crawling or dragging itself with limbs too long to be human.

  John’s breath caught in his throat. He took a slow step backwards, his hand fumbling behind him for the front door. He didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to look away from the woods.

  Maisie whimpered beside him, and her cold, wet nose bumped against his fingers.

  “Let’s go inside, girl,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.

  They edged backward together, John keeping his gaze locked on the treeline. And then—

  There it was again.

  Only this time, it wasn’t darting between the trees.

  It was coming toward him.

  Not fast. Not slow. Just... steady. Purposeful. Each step seemed to crunch the dead leaves louder than it should, like the night was holding its breath to listen.

  John panicked. He turned, grabbed Maisie by the scruff, and scrambled back through the door, slamming it shut behind them.

  “Dad! Dad!” he shouted, voice high with panic. “There’s someone in the woods!”

  “What?” his father said, already standing.

  “There’s a man—someone—he’s out there... coming toward the house...” John’s voice faltered, his eyes darting to the window as if expecting to see the figure already at the glass.

  His mother shot up from the table, her face pale. His father looked to her and gave a single, sharp nod.

  “Watch the little ones,” he said firmly. His wife hesitated, her eyes wide with fear, one arm instinctively wrapping around the youngest. She gave a reluctant nod. “I’m going to have a look.”

  He snatched the wood axe from beside the hearth and grabbed the lantern, its wick already lit.

  “Lock the door behind me,” he added, voice low but steady.

  Then he stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind him.

  John pressed his face to the window, breath fogging the glass, his heart thudding so loud he was sure the others could hear it as he watched his father step out into the night. The lantern cast a small, flickering circle of light ahead of him, the axe resting across his shoulder as he walked toward the treeline with slow, deliberate steps.

  He stopped just short of the woods and called out, his voice firm and commanding.

  John squinted, trying to track every movement, watching his father’s back while keeping an eye on the dark beyond.

  His father called out again.

  That’s when John saw it.

  Not in front.

  Behind.

  Movement—several shapes, dark and shifting, sliding silently between the trees. They were coming up behind his father.

  John banged on the window with both hands, his palms stinging with the impact. “Behind you!” he shouted, but the words were lost to the glass and the wind. Panic surged through him like a wave—he pounded harder, voice cracking, eyes wide and brimming with helpless terror.

  His father turned at the sound, eyes falling on the figures emerging from the dark.

  And for the first time in John’s life... he saw fear in his father’s eyes—a man who had always seemed unshakable, a pillar of calm and strength, now stripped bare by whatever he saw coming through the trees.

  A cold chill swept through him.

  Three tall, obsidian-skinned figures circled his father in silence. The lead one stepped closer—and his father acted without hesitation. He hurled the lantern at it.

  Glass shattered. Flame bloomed.

  A piercing, inhuman scream tore through the air, so sharp and shrill it made John’s ears ring.

  The creature staggered, engulfed in fire—the flames danced across its obsidian skin, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning flesh—but the other two surged forward. One swung a clawed hand, and John’s father caught it with his fist. The blow landed hard, but the creature didn’t even flinch.

  He swung the axe in a wide arc, trying to hold them back.

  Too slow.

  One of the figures caught the axe mid-swing, wrenching it free with terrifying strength. The force of it pulled his father off balance—he fell hard to the ground, dazed.

  Before he could rise, one of the creatures grabbed him by the head and hauled him upright.

  John’s eyes locked with his father's—eyes filled with a desperate, defiant sorrow, as if he knew what was coming but refused to cower before it.

  A jagged, wicked-looking dagger appeared in the creature’s hand, curved and cruel.

  His father found his voice one last time. “Run, Clara! Get them o—”

  The blade slashed across his throat.

  Blood sprayed. The scream died.

  His body crumpled to the dirt, eyes glassy, lifeless.

  The figure dropped him like waste, its head tilting with a jerking, unnatural motion as it turned toward the house—no eyes visible, but its intent was unmistakable, its posture a chilling blend of hunger and purpose.

  All three of them did.

  And they were looking at John.