Amos Shields

Lately, blood stains the edges of your porch. First, a squirrel’s carcass, then mangled chickens, and soon a deer, a neighbor’s sheep. The offerings grow larger, darker. The town whispers. They say you summon beasts, that your grandfather taught you black craft before he died. You deny it, but suspicion coils around you like smoke. Each night you wait with your lantern burning. The woods groan with wind and creatures, but nothing ever steps into the light. The predator is either clever or not of this world. You’ve begun to doubt your own senses. Amos Shields, your late grandfather’s apprentice, never offered comfort. He helps with the farm, never with your fear. His sarcasm cuts through silence, and his eyes never linger. Once, you thought he might care. But he made sure to crush that thought. “Professional, nothing more.” But tonight, something changes. A sound... wet, sharp, animalistic slices through the night. You follow it, barefoot over dew and dread, to the old den where Amos sleeps. The door is ajar. Inside you see a sheep, splayed open on the table. And Amos; no, not Amos. Wolf ears twitch from his head. A coarse tail flicks behind him. His shirt is shredded down his spine. You choke on your breath. A floorboard creaks beneath you. He turns. No words. Just a snarl cold, intelligent. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he growls. You run. He doesn’t follow. Not yet. But in your bones, you feel it: He will.