The scent of pine and damp earth filled the cool evening air as Barry strode through Yuccavale's winding dirt roads. Lanterns flickered along the porches of wooden homes, casting warm pools of light onto the muddy ground. It was a quiet night—too quiet. For a place that had taken him in, giving him a chance at redemption, Yuccavale never let him forget that he was an outsider. A predator lurking among sheep.
A false peace. For the past six months, Barry had walked these roads as a sheriff, a symbol of law and order. But deep down, he knew the people of Yuccavale didn't see him that way. To them, he was a reminder of things better left forgotten. A shadow with a badge.
Barry adjusted his wide-brimmed sheriff's hat, his fingers brushing the cool metal of his badge. It felt foreign, a weight that didn't belong to him. But he had chosen this. He had to.
A soft murmur caught his attention. Near the general store, Lillian Hughes knelt beside a sobbing child, her delicate hands pressing a damp cloth against his scraped knee. The boy sniffled, his freckled face streaked with dirt and tears. Lillian whispered something soothing, her voice a gentle melody against the hush of the evening.
Barry cleared his throat. "Everything alright here?"
Lillian looked up, her auburn hair slipping from its bun. For a moment, she hesitated—like everyone else in Yuccavale, she was wary of him. But she nodded. "Nathan took a spill near the riverbed. It's nothing serious."
Barry crouched beside them. "Tough kid," he said, ruffling Nathan's unruly blond hair. The boy flinched at first but then relaxed when Barry offered a small smile.
"I ain't cryin'," Nathan mumbled.
"Didn't say you were." Barry chuckled, rising to his feet. But before he could say anything else, the distant sound of hooves thundered against the ground.
A rider tore through the main road, his horse kicking up clumps of mud. "Sheriff!" he bellowed. Barry recognized him—Luther Harris, one of the cattle ranchers on the outskirts of town. His face was pale, drenched in sweat despite the cold air.
Barry's muscles tensed. "What happened?"
"Something got into my herd," Luther gasped. "Ripped 'em to pieces. It—it ain't normal, Sheriff."
Barry stiffened. The scars along his back tingled, a phantom echo of the past.
"What do you mean, 'ain't normal'?"
Luther swallowed hard. "The bodies... the way they were torn up… It's like something played with 'em before finishing 'em off."
Barry glanced at Lillian, whose face had paled. He turned back to Luther. "Show me."
They rode out to the ranch under a moon shrouded by thick clouds. Barry's stallion, a black mare named Salem, galloped alongside Luther's horse as they approached the pasture.
The stench hit first. Blood, thick and pungent, filled the crisp night air. Barry pulled on the reins, his gut tightening. Luther had been right—it wasn't normal. The cattle were scattered across the grass like discarded dolls, their bodies shredded in a way that sent a chill up Barry's spine.
And then he saw them.
Markings.
Carved into the dirt, arranged in a precise, horrifying pattern. Circles and lines intersecting, forming a ritualistic design he knew all too well. The kind of symbols that used to follow his trail as The Calendar.
Barry's vision swam. His breath hitched. It can't be.
A low growl built in his throat. The familiar itch beneath his skin spread like wildfire. His claws twitched beneath his gloves. Not now. Not here.
Footsteps crunched behind him.
"Sheriff?"
Barry spun to see Samuel Holt, his young deputy, standing at the edge of the carnage. His brown eyes were wide with fear, his hand hovering near the revolver strapped to his belt.
Barry clenched his fists, forcing the shift back. He couldn't lose control. Not in front of Sam.
The deputy took a cautious step forward. "You okay?"
Barry exhaled slowly, steadying himself. "Yeah." His voice was rougher than he intended. "Go back to town. Tell the people to stay indoors tonight."
Samuel hesitated. "But what—?"
"Just do it."
The boy nodded and took off toward his horse.
Barry turned back to the scene, heart pounding. Whoever—or whatever—did this wanted to send a message.
His past wasn't done with him yet.
A Wolf in Town.....
The air tasted like iron. It wasn't just the blood that lingered, the sickening stench that stung my nostrils and burned at the back of my throat. It was something deeper—something that clawed from within me.
I'd spent years trying to drown it out. The memories, the hunger, the beast inside that whispered to me in the dark. The Calendar.
A low growl vibrated in my chest, and I clamped my mouth shut. I couldn't let it slip—not now. Not here.
I turned to Sam, forcing my muscles to relax. Control. It was the only thing that kept me from becoming something else entirely.
"Go back to town," I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. It sounded alien, even to me.
Sam didn't argue. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on the scene before he nodded and turned his horse around. I didn't watch him leave. I couldn't. My focus snapped back to the bodies.
The markings.
The circles. The lines.
God, it was too familiar.
I'd seen those marks before. I had drawn them myself.
I closed my eyes, but the images flooded me. The memory tore through me like a wound opening fresh—no bandage, no healing. Just raw.
I was younger then, alone in a dark room, the cold stone walls pressing in around me. The calendar on the wall had been my only guide—each day a new set of instructions, a new set of victims. I had a purpose, I thought. A twisted, cruel purpose, but a purpose nonetheless.
I had the knife in my hand, slick with blood. It wasn't the first time. It wasn't the last. The blade was sharp, and the circle I carved into the floor felt right—felt necessary.
I heard her before I saw her.
A little girl. A blonde child no older than eight, standing in the doorway, looking at me with those wide, trusting eyes. She didn't scream. She didn't beg.
But I could see it—the fear. It was in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, like she knew something was wrong but couldn't understand why.
I walked toward her. I didn't feel anything—not then. Not anymore. The Calendar had become my mask, my identity. And if I was going to complete what I started, I had to finish what I had begun.
Her sobs came too late.
I did what I was trained to do.
The memory slammed back into the present like a physical blow. I felt bile rise in my throat. God, I can still hear her. I can still see her face.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be here.
I opened my eyes again, gasping for air. The past was alive in my blood, in my bones. It was hunting me—catching up to me. I couldn't outrun it.
I stumbled back, my breath quickening, chest heaving. Sweat beaded along my forehead, my fingers tingling with the familiar sensation of claws that threatened to tear through my skin.
Not now. Not here. Not in front of them.
I forced my body to straighten, my hands tightening into fists. Control. Control.
I couldn't afford to lose it.
But the echoes of my past were loud, crashing against my walls, and I couldn't escape them.
I glanced at the bodies again—the cattle, torn apart, mutilated. No, this wasn't my doing. I wasn't this animal anymore.
But someone was.
"Sheriff?" Sam's voice cracked through the haze, and I turned to find him standing at a distance, eyes wide, but still cautious. He must've sensed something was wrong.
I had to pull it together.
I took a shaky breath, swallowing back the rage, the horror, the dark pull inside me. I walked past him, keeping my back straight, my hands clenched. I couldn't let him see. I couldn't let anyone see. The Calendar was dead. I had to believe that.
But what if the past wasn't done with me yet?
I turned back to the ruins of the cattle, the markings still burned into my memory. Whoever did this knew me—knew exactly how to break me.
And the thought gnawed at my insides: What if this wasn't just a coincidence? What if my past had come for me, for all of us?
I felt my heart race again, the panic starting to claw at my throat. I couldn't do this. Not now. Not with these memories dragging me under. I couldn't lose control. I couldn't let anyone see the beast inside me. Not Sam, not Lillian, not anyone.
But what if—what if I couldn't stop it? What if it was me?
I was shaking, not just from the cold night air but from something deeper—something that crawled beneath my skin like fire. The growl that was low in my chest threatened to rise, but I swallowed it down.
Focus, Barry.
I could hear her voice again, the voice of the little girl from my past. She wasn't crying anymore. But I could still hear her scream in my ears—still see her wide, unblinking eyes staring at me with the raw, innocent terror she couldn't hide.
You killed me.
The words slammed into my head like a physical blow.
No. No, no, no.
I balled my fists so tight that my nails dug into my palms, and I let the pain be my anchor. Anything to keep me grounded. But then, another thought tore through me:
What if this isn't a coincidence?
What if someone knew? Someone knew what I had done, knew what I had become, and they were coming for me—coming to finish what I started.
What if...
What if I wasn't done yet? What if I would never be done?
The thought curled in my chest, cold and heavy, like a stone that had been placed there deliberately. There was a moment—just a moment—when I thought, Maybe this is where it all ends.
Maybe this was why I was here. To be found. To face what I had done.
Maybe I deserve it.
I almost laughed, but the sound that escaped my lips was too broken to be a laugh. What had I done to deserve anything but punishment? The people I had killed—they were gone. They didn't have voices anymore. They didn't get second chances. But I—I was still here.
I was still alive.
That was the curse.
I swallowed hard, my throat thick with the taste of blood and regret. My whole body ached, muscles burning as if the very act of breathing was an effort. The shift—the transformation—was waiting to break free, clawing at the edges of my consciousness, like a hungry wolf that had been starved too long.
And then there was the fear—the fear that I'd hurt someone again. That I would kill again.
The memory was clear now—too clear. I had seen it too many times, replaying in my mind until it was no longer a memory, but a nightmare.
I had killed people. Innocent people. People who never deserved what happened to them. I'd torn them apart. I had made them suffer.
Was this just who I was? Was this always who I would be?
The beast inside me howled in rage, hungry and wild, and I almost didn't recognize the sound of it anymore. I was losing it, losing myself, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
What if this is my punishment?
What if it was all a trap, a carefully orchestrated game to draw me out and break me? To make me face what I had done, make me relive it—force me to see the faces of my victims one last time.
What if...
What if I was always meant to be a monster?
The cold air cut through me like a blade, but I barely felt it anymore. The world was spinning, everything around me starting to blur. I could feel the shift happening, my body fighting to change, to become the thing I was trying so desperately to outrun.
But then, I felt a hand on my arm—gentle, but firm.
"Sheriff."
His voice was soft, but there was a steady edge to it now—like he wasn't scared, but he should be.
I didn't look at him. I couldn't. I didn't want him to see what was happening to me, what was always there, lurking beneath the surface.
"You don't have to do this alone."
I heard the words, but they didn't make sense. I couldn't let anyone in. I couldn't let anyone close enough to see what I really was.
What if they find out?
What if they all find out?
"I'm not alone," I muttered, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince. Sam? Or myself?
I finally looked at him, just for a second, just to see the uncertainty in his eyes. He wasn't a fool. He knew.
The marks on the cattle. The mutilations. They were deliberate—too deliberate—and they were calling me back. Someone knew what I had done. They had to.
And maybe, just maybe, I was the one who had set this all in motion. Maybe I had walked into this trap without even realizing it. Maybe I had led it all back to me.
Maybe...
Maybe I was the monster.
I swallowed again, forcing the words down. I wasn't going to let myself break. Not now. Not when I was this close to losing it all.
"I'm going back to town," I said, my voice steady—more steady than I felt. "Stay here. Keep watch."
Sam hesitated, then nodded, though I could see the doubt still flickering in his eyes.
"I'll be back. I'll handle it."
But I wasn't sure I could handle anything anymore.
As I turned my back and walked away, the sound of my boots hitting the dirt felt heavy. It felt like I was walking toward something—something dark. Something that I had long since buried. And it was coming for me.
The Calendar wasn't dead. It was just waiting.
And I had no idea how to stop it. The village seemed so quiet when I got back—too quiet. The stillness gnawed at my nerves, like the calm before a storm. The moon hung high above, casting long, ghostly shadows that seemed to watch me as I walked toward the sheriff's office.
I couldn't escape it. I pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges sending a shiver down my spine. The dim light in the office flickered as I stepped inside, the familiar smell of old wood and dust hitting me all at once.
Sam was still out there, watching the outskirts. Good. He had the right idea, keeping distance. I wasn't sure if he could sense it yet—the shift in me—but it was only a matter of time before he did.
I ran a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to tear at my scalp. The walls of the room seemed to close in around me. I could hear my heartbeat, thudding like a drum in my chest. Each pulse, a reminder of the animal inside, the beast that had never fully let go.
I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it. No one could come in. No one could see me. I had to stop thinking. Stop feeling. The memories were a storm raging inside my head, drowning out everything else.
What had I done?
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn't help. The faces. The blood.
Her face.
I saw it again—those wide, terrified eyes. That last breath, ragged and choked. I could still hear her voice whispering in the back of my mind:
You killed me. You killed us all.
I slammed my fist into the desk, sending papers flying. I wasn't going to let her words haunt me again. I wasn't going to let the Calendar come back.
But what if I couldn't stop it?
I leaned against the desk, gasping for air, trying to steady my breathing. My muscles were on fire. My skin felt like it was about to rip open, stretch too tight for the bones beneath. The claws were ready to emerge. The fangs, the wolf—everything.
What if I could never outrun it?
I closed my eyes, trying to ground myself in reality. I had been Barry before I was The Calendar. I had been more than just the monster I became. I had to be. But...
What if the Calendar had always been a part of me?
The worst part was the quiet thought that had been creeping in the back of my mind for days: What if I wanted to kill again?
It was a terrifying question. One I didn't want to answer. But it kept coming back, gnawing at my resolve. What if I was lying to myself? What if this… this need, this hunger inside me, was never going to go away?
What if—
What if I was always going to be a killer?
I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, my breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't—
Knock. Knock.
The sound of the door rapped through the room, jarring me from my spiraling thoughts.
I froze.
No one should be here.
I stared at the door. Sam?
But then, another knock. This one louder, more insistent.
I clenched my jaw and wiped the sweat from my brow.
God, I didn't need this right now.
"Sheriff?"
Lillian's voice. Soft, but unmistakable.
My heart skipped a beat. Lillian.
What the hell was she doing here? I couldn't even face myself in the mirror, let alone talk to her. She had no idea what was lurking beneath the surface.
I wasn't ready. Not now. Not with everything—the beast—raging inside me, threatening to break free.
"Sheriff?" Lillian's voice came again, more urgent now.
I forced my feet to move. I crossed the room, my hands shaking as I reached for the door. I had to put on the mask. The one I wore for everyone else. The one that hid the truth.
I opened it, and there she stood. Her green eyes, filled with concern, immediately locked on mine. Her face softened when she saw my state—disheveled, sweaty, and clearly on edge.
"Barry, what's going on?"
She didn't say sheriff. She didn't stand at a distance. Her tone was personal, as if she knew something was wrong. And that only made me more terrified.
I forced a smile, but it felt like a grimace, something too strained to be real.
"Just… long night," I muttered, my voice too hoarse. I cleared my throat, trying to calm the storm in my chest. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."
She didn't buy it. Of course she didn't. Lillian stepped closer, her eyes searching mine, like she could see right through the walls I had built.
"Barry…" Her voice softened. "I know something's wrong. What happened out there? With the cattle—those marks, it's…"
"I said I'm fine."
I couldn't hear it anymore. I couldn't face the truth again.
Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, pushing the door shut. But not before she stepped forward, blocking the way.
"Let me in, Barry."
I didn't look at her. I couldn't. I was afraid she'd see it—the beast waiting to break free.
God, I couldn't let her see it.
"I don't want to hurt you." The words came out before I could think, rough and raw, like a prayer.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't move.
"I'm not afraid of you, Barry," she said softly. "But I am afraid of what you're hiding."
I stepped back, my hands shaking again.
What if she's right?
What if I couldn't stop hiding? What if my past was always going to be a part of me? What if I had already hurt everyone I cared about, without even realizing it?