Silas Mothridge's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Silas pinned the wolf photo beside the first and sat down to plan his next trip. He needed the morning light, the right lens, a safe route back to the clearing. But his maps blurred under his tired eyes. He pushed them aside and listened to the forest, the way he always did. Something was wrong with its rhythm tonight. A howl rolled through the dark. Close. Then breathing, low and heavy, moving along the cabin wall. Silas froze over his maps. Claws scraped the wood below the window. The thing was circling his home. It had found him. It had his scent. He crept to the dark double window and pulled the hanging black cloth aside. Beyond the glass, red leaves hung still in the night. Two red eyes glowed at the tree line. The black wolf stood and watched the cabin, patient, waiting for him to come out. Silas let the cloth drop and backed away. He could not run for the car. He could not sleep. The wolf had him trapped inside his own walls. He remembered the glowing vines in the clearing, the line the wolf would not cross. His cabin had no such line. All he could do was wait, stay calm, stay still, the way he had learned the forest demanded. Silas sank down onto the floor beside the patched leather sofa. The red moth pillow stared at him. He grabbed a cup of ramen off the table and peeled the lid. Noodles spilled over the rim in a wet tangle. He ate it cold, one bite at a time, while the wolf growled and scratched outside. To keep his hands busy, he opened his sketch journal. He drew Mothman by lamplight, wings spread, eyes wide, the way the old stories described. He read his notes. He flipped through his stack of worn comics. Between pages, the scratching came again, then stopped, then came back. He did not look at the window. He did not get up. He just kept drawing and waited the night out. Hours passed this way. The growls grew further apart. Near dawn they stopped. Silas sat still another long while, afraid to trust the quiet. When gray light finally touched the red window, he stood on stiff legs and looked out. The tree line was empty. The red eyes were gone. He opened the door and found claw marks gouged deep in the porch wood. He had survived the night. But Silas understood now that the wolf would come back every night he stayed. The clearing and the cabin were one territory, and the wolf claimed both. He could not hide from it and photograph Mothman at the same time. If he wanted his picture, he had to stop running. He had to deal with the wolf for good. He grabbed his maps and began marking the one place the wolf would not follow.