Where Wolves Run: A Novella Of Horror - Plot & Excerpts
The trek was longer than Father had remembered it to be. The sun was already low in the sky. Perhaps the years had made him slower. Keeping downwind of his prey, Father crawled toward the camp. He slithered through the scrub on legs and forearms. Insects skirted from his path. Dead leaves and fallen needles gave way to his movement. Tree roots were more stubborn. They tangled into his clothes, poking holes in his sleeves and tearing his breeches. I must stay hidden. Father scurried toward a bush still ripe with life despite the lateness of the season. He forced himself beneath its confining branches. There, in the spaces between green arteries and brown veins, Father spied upon his enemies. “Will you stop splashing?” a burly, shirtless man asked. His trousers were rolled up to his knees as he waded in the river. A long, wooden rod jutted over his shoulder. His broad, muscular back faced Father, its girth boding trouble.
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