It was the quiet that disturbed Jasper. Fresh snow usually had a distinct and peculiar silence to it, but that night a heavier stillness crept over the fleecy pale and curled around his cabin as if it were alive. From his room he listened to the chambered hush settle over the western woods and he fought to reign in his strained thoughts. The Alaskan winter had tightened its coil and squeezed out every minute of daylight, leaving only the cold wash of a full moon that reminded him of the darkness ahead and what would come for him.
He didn’t need to look out the snow etched window to know when the figure would be there. Even with the curtains drawn, he would feel the creature. He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The back of one hand caressed the pillow where her head used to lie, the other clenched the blanket close to his shuddering chest, his heart thumped against his closed fist. It had been almost a year, but still, he couldn’t bring himself to sprawl out to the middle of the bed, for fear that one of his arms or legs might stray onto her side.
Beside the bed, Jasper’s Bloodhound lay on the floor in a rust-colored puddle of jowls and folded skin. He was a far cry from the puppy who had been more bone than flesh when Jasper found him. Abandoned with his littermates, he had been the only survivor. Jasper named him Trooper and took him home to her. She loved and spoiled that puppy, like the child she never had, but always wanted.
Trooper let out a long whine.
“I know, buddy,” Jasper said, reluctantly releasing the blanket and stroking the dog’s head. “Me too.” Though to what he was agreeing, he wasn’t quite sure.
The quiet hours were always the worst, when his mind spiraled over each thought like buzzards circling a rotting corpse and picking at the roadkill of regret and a life once lived. Yet, when the light faded for months on end, a new creature emerged. Glassy-eyed and cold to the touch, but it was very much alive. It would come for him, and there was nothing he could do but wait.
Jasper was an educated man, not highly, but enough. He knew that up there, living on the edge of the world, weird things happened all the time. Usually science could make sense of them. Sometimes not. It was in that space between bizarre and explainable where people formed their beliefs, and this was one of those things on which science had no educated opinion.
Along with the people of his small town, Jasper held full moons in suspicious regard, but particularly in the depths of winter. Beams from the full moons would pierce the dark like light through a cracked door, but they created shadows from the blurred lines between day and night. This is where the strangeness lived and fed suspicion until it was gorged with fear. Full to bursting by the January full moon—the Wolf Moon—the darkest nightmares spilled out with the howling wolves, whose call cut through the eerie quiet of winter.
Pushing away the moonlight, Jasper closed his eyes and tucked the blankets tight under his grey-whiskered chin, deciding that this time would be different. The last pulls of consciousness loosened their grip and untethered his hold on the waking world. The sleep was brief and did little to ease the weariness he carried in his bones.
Deep and clear, the frozen silence carried the long and mournful howl of a distant wolf before it faded into the night. There were no answering cries from a pack—the wolf was alone.
Jasper’s eyes shot open, and he pulled the covers over his face. He told himself he was being ridiculous. There could be a rational explanation, he assured himself, but his frantic mind and bolting heart couldn’t agree. The tighter he clung to sense, the further it slipped away. The stories from his childhood flashed in his mind like an old projector, each slide a different tale. The man who claimed that a creature from the lake had pulled him under its frozen waters. He kicked and screamed, but no sound came from his mouth. The woman with the shapeshifter that dwelled in her shadows. Its hot breath on her neck when it got too close. There were others, too, including his own. His wolf.
As long as he could remember, Jasper hated the sound of wolves. “Don’t go out when you hear a wolf’s cry. It means something’s coming,” his mother would say—maybe a wolf, maybe something worse, but he wasn’t a child anymore. His face was heavy and drawn with the lines of a hard life carved deep into his skin, like the rings of a tree. If counted, what age would they say? Sixty? Seventy? He lost track. It didn’t really matter anyway. Young or old, it was near.
Outside, the wolf continued to howl, and moonbeams pierced the gap in his curtains, slicing the room with a sliver of cold light.
Enough, Jasper thought.
“It’s just the moon and a plain old wolf,” he said, knowing it was a lie as the words left his mouth. He patted Trooper on the head. The dog lowered his chin onto crossed paws, his eyebrows twitching left to right and back again.
Cocooned in the darkness, Jasper lay in his bed until the early hours of morning. Every inch of his skin burned with hot pricks of anticipation. He listened to the quiet of the house, repeatedly mistaking his heartbeat for a trespasser’s footsteps. Then he heard them.
In the forest, circling his cabin, the rush of swift paws sprinting through layers of new snow over old filled the empty air. Twigs snapped. Snow crunched. A pack of wolves was in pursuit. They tore through the woods, calling to each other—something they do when they’re hunting.
Disturbed by the noise, Trooper padded through the kitchen, barking and pawing at the back door. Jasper climbed out of bed; his bones creaked and groaned with the floorboards. His calloused feet, like sandpaper scraping across wood, shuffled through the house to the kitchen.
“C’mon boy,” he called out to the dog. The fur between Trooper’s shoulder blades and on his haunches stood on edge. He looked at Jasper, but still, he pawed at the door. “Trooper, back to bed,” Jasper said a bit more firmly, smoothing Trooper’s raised hackles. But the Bloodhound didn’t follow. “Trooper! C’mon,” Jasper repeated. The insistence in his voice surprised them both. “Hurry it up.”
Reluctantly, Trooper turned and ambled through the house but turned toward the living room and laid down next to Jasper’s recliner.
Jasper eased into the chair. “It’s ok, buddy. We’ll get through.” His ears perked up to a noise right outside the window, his eyes shifting their focus to the rifle mounted above the fireplace. Snow crunched again, but this time the sound drew nearer. A shadowed figured paced back and forth outside until its four-legged silhouette settled next to the window. A cold sweat washed over Jasper and his thoughts paced like the shadow: No, not again. It’s here because you’re weak. C’mon old man, you know what to do. You can do this. You can’t do this.
Staring at the curtained window, Trooper stood up and let out a low rumbling snarl at what was outside.
It had come. It was a wolf, but this one was a hunter of a different game. It was the creature that stalked Jasper, always lurking in his shadow, but brought to light during the Wolf Moon. There were only two choices—let it consume him or face it. Jasper went to the window and pulled back the curtains.
“Hello, old friend. Did you miss me?” The wolf snorted. Its black heart-shaped nose pressed against the window and fogged the glass.
“Go away! Get!” Jasper shouted. His voice was strong, but he stared at the white paint chipping on the window. He didn’t dare look into the wolf’s eyes. “Go on…there’s nothing for you here,” he said and shut the curtains. He pressed himself tight to the wall and slid down to the floor, tucking his knees to his chest.
At the sight of Jasper’s cowering, Trooper crept to his side and curled himself into a ball, tail tucked beneath his haunches. He shivered and wouldn’t look at Jasper, who had stopped reassuring him that everything was going to be ok.
Jasper buried his face in his knees. “Go away,” he whimpered.
“That’s what you always say,” the wolf answered. “Let’s skip this game, shall we? I always find my way in.” It started pacing again. “You know as well as I do, a door or window only needs to be open a crack. That’s all it takes. This is my home too. I’ll always come back.”
Jasper panicked. Were the windows shut? Were the doors locked? He raced through the house, frantically checking and rechecking, but every door and window was shut and latched. Secured. His house was safe. It was strong. He had to believe that.
The wolf paced the perimeter of the house, tracking and mimicking Jasper’s movement. It became a preternatural shadow, but Jasper didn’t know if it belonged to him or he to it.
The hallway to his bedroom had a corner, away from the windows. Jasper wedged himself safely where the walls met, just out of sight. “You ain’t welcome here. There ain’t nothin’ here for you.” Jasper swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I ain’t weak, so stay out.”
“Weak?” The wolf sounded genuinely confused. “Weakness has nothing to do with it, dear one. That’s just a nasty rumor someone started long ago. But as to ‘nothing here for me’? Darling, I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t. You are a feast of sorrow. I can smell your heartache. I can taste your longing and regret.” Jasper could hear the wolf suck air through its teeth. “Just think of all those unfulfilled promises you made her, and then it was too late. Delicious. Now, open up.”
Jasper shouted and screamed for it to go away, but the wolf continued its taunts.
“Little pig, little pig,” the wolf dug at Jasper like a finger in his side—not tickling, but sinking too deep and hurting. “Just let me in by the hair of your chinny chin chin. You don’t even have to do much. Just open a little and I’ll do the rest.” The wolf pawed at a window. “You know what I want. I’m hungry.”
“If I feed you, will you go away?” Jasper moved to the back door, his hand resting on the knob.
“Pfft…of course not. You know better. I always come back,” the wolf snorted. “And I will keep coming back until you feed me the meal I really want—you. All of you.
Trooper padded up to Jasper, nudging his owner’s hand away from the door. The dog stared up at him. Unblinking. Unwavering.
Jasper kneeled and took Trooper’s head in his hands. The Bloodhound’s long ears felt like warm, freshly spun silk between his fingers. “No, buddy—not this time. We can do this,” he said, kissing the dog’s head.
Turning on his heel, Jasper crossed the house and pulled the rifle from its mount, above the fireplace. From years of practice and repetition came the familiar ease of holding the weapon. The sleek walnut grip and forestock fit naturally in his hands like it was an extension of his body, smooth and lethal.
Jasper slid on his boots and threw open the front door, half expecting the wolf to be waiting. When it wasn’t, he took the front steps in a single jump, his knees buckled on the landing. He quickly recovered and charged into the yard.
The full moon’s beams reflected off the virgin snow, casting a blue light, as bright as day. Shadows from the forest and the dark outlines of the trees set a stark contrast against the white snow.
“C’mon, you son of a bitch!” he shouted, but there was no answer.
He raised his rifle and fired two shots into the air. Something skittered in the dark. Pulling the buttstock tight into his shoulder, Jasper pivoted and scanned the property. The dark blots of two squirrels scurried over the woodpile and up a tree. “I know you’re out there. C’mon,” he whispered, his cheek pressed tight up against the stock.
Jasper crept forward and circled around the back of the house. Snow crunched beneath his feet. Blood pulsed in his ears. There was no sign of the wolf. The snow all the way around the house lay untouched, but he backtracked to the front of the house.
The prick of ebbing adrenaline tingled in his limbs. Relief eased his tense muscles. A biting shiver sent chills down his spine and stung his fingers. He looked down at himself. In his hurry, he hadn’t thought to put on a coat or gloves before charging out of the house.
Jasper’s teeth chattered but he paused to lift his face to the sky and breathe deeply. The crisp air was a welcome pleasure after such a long night, even as the frigid air burned his lungs and threatened to send him into a coughing fit.
He climbed the porch stairs and shut the front door behind him—something he’d done thousands of times. He was three steps across the room when he realized that he had left the door open when he went into the yard. He stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the house. Nothing. No movement inside or outside.
“Trooper,” Jasper called. In the commotion, Jasper didn’t notice the dog hadn’t followed him outside. He looked through the house for Trooper, under the bed and in all his usual places. He called the dog again, but he still didn’t come. An anxious tug pulled at his stomach. Trooper always came when called.
In a kitchen corner, Jasper found Trooper cowering in a puddle of his own mess. The acrid scent of urine wafted toward him. The dog’s ears sloped to the floor and when Jasper reached down to comfort him, tremors of fear rippled over his fur. Jasper couldn’t understand why he was so afraid of him.
Before Jasper heard it, the hairs on his neck stood on end. A familiar dread budded in his chest. Nails clicked on the wooden floor behind him. The Bloodhound submitted even lower, laying his belly in the piss and squeezing his eyes shut.
Jasper spun around to see the wolf’s amber eyes fixed on him as it stalked closer. He held his ground, bracing himself. Trooper, taking his cue, rose on wobbly legs and let out a shaky growl—unconvincing, but he stood, and that was enough to make Jasper proud.
Without a word, the wolf lunged. Jasper barely had enough time to raise his rifle and fire. The wolf dropped, fell limp to the floor. Jasper and Trooper crept toward it, inspecting their target. The wolf lay heaving, breath ragged, and tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. For a split second, it looked up at Jasper with eyes, he could have sworn, flashed the same shade of blue as his own. In that moment, the wolf looked scared—Jasper felt a flicker of pity.
“I’m done with you,” Jasper said.
“You’ll never be rid of me because I’m part of you. You won’t always be strong enough to fight me off.”
“Maybe not, but I am today. And that’s enough for now.”
With its last strength, the wolf swung its paw, slashing a deep gash across Jasper’s face. Then closed its eyes.
Tears streamed down Jasper’s face—tears of joy and triumph, but also of despair. He knew the wolf was right—he’d never be rid of it. It was his fierce familiar. He shot it, yet despite its stillness, he knew it hadn’t truly died. It couldn’t. Not completely.
The mark it left on Jasper never healed. Sometimes it looked like it would, but then a memory, a thought—anything—would trigger the cycle of festering, scabbing, picking and finally peeling off to show the raw pink scar beneath. Jasper didn’t know if, faced with the wolf again, he’d be strong enough to fight.
When the world felt cold and emptiness gnawed at Jasper’s insides, a wolf’s call would echo in the distance, and he would know it was his. Neither good nor evil, an adversary who must be fought, though never defeated.
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