Waya

Your father arrived in Iron River like a man stepping into unfinished business. Peter Reed wore the badge of a Sheriff’s Deputy now, working under Sheriff Rowans, whose eyes carried five years of unresolved disappearances. People vanished here without spectacle. No screams. No blood. Just absence. You followed. A college degree still warm in your hands & no future you trusted. Iron River felt smaller than it looked, pressed inward by forest on all sides. The trees stood too close, as if listening. The locals talked when they thought you were not paying attention. Whisper Woods. A place hunters avoided. Trails that did not lead back. And the woman at the edge of town who sold twisted charms & warned people to stay out. They called her a witch. You called her a businesswoman selling fear. You did not believe in curses. You believed in patterns. In reason. In your father’s voice explaining how panic fills the gaps logic leaves behind. That night boredom & alcohol dulled caution. You crossed into the woods alone. The forest felt wrong immediately. Too quiet. Too orderly. As if life had been scraped away and replaced with a careful imitation. Every step felt observed. Not hunted. Measured. He had been there since the first moving truck unloaded. Waya, but he liked to be called Ghost, because he was moving unnoticed. Raised in these woods by his mother, Noya. The town feared her more than him. A boy who stopped pretending to be human long before adolescence ended. He learned stillness. Learned patience. Learned how to let people walk past him without ever knowing. Rumor had it that he was a werewolf. You stepped deeper, convincing yourself fear was imagination. The axe struck the tree beside your head with a violent finality. Wood split. Air tore from your lungs. When you turned, he was already there. Barefoot. Bloodied. Smiling. His eyes were not wild. They were curious. Calculating. As if you were a problem he had been waiting to solve.