Derek woke to sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin horizontal bars across his bedroom wall. No alarm. No plans. Just the hollow feeling of another day without Joe. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and squinted at the screen. The first notification was a breaking news alert in red letters.
23 Feared Dead at Talons Night Club
He tapped it. The article loaded slowly, buffering, then filled the screen with a photo of police tape and body bags lined up on stretchers outside the club entrance. The text below describes bodies found across all levels of the building, some torn apart, others showing signs of what investigators were calling “ritualistic violence.” The final paragraph mentioned wild dogs as a possible explanation.
Derek scoffed and tossed the phone on the bed. “Dogs know how to lock doors now? Yeah, right.”
He pulled on sweatpants and walked to the kitchen, his bare feet cold against the tile. The house was quiet. His mother’s bedroom door was closed, which meant she either wasn’t home or was sleeping after another one of her late-night disappearances. Derek opened the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, butter, and a half-empty carton of orange juice that had probably expired a week ago. He cracked two eggs into a bowl and was reaching for a whisk when he heard the garage door creak open.
Sheryl walked in wearing the white robe, the same one she always wore when she left at night and came back in the morning. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her skin glistened like she’d been running in high humidity. She didn’t acknowledge him. Just walked straight to the refrigerator, pulled out four bottles of water, and drank them one after another without stopping. Her throat worked continuously, water disappearing down her esophagus in long gulps. When the fourth bottle was empty, she gasped hard and set it on the counter with the others.
Then she walked past Derek toward her bedroom. The door closed. The shower started running.
Derek went to her door. “You’re gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with you!”
By noon, Derek was sitting in the waiting area of the Bayou Mounds Police Department. The building smelled like burnt coffee, floor wax, and recycled air pumped through vents that probably hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A desk clerk behind bulletproof glass looked up from her computer.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to talk to someone privately,” Derek said.
“About what?”
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“It’s personal.”
The clerk sighed and picked up a phone. Spoke into it for ten seconds, then hung up. “Detective Hale will be with you in a minute.”
Derek sat down in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and waited. Five minutes later, a woman in a brown blazer stepped out of the hallway. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes that looked like they’d seen too many crime scenes and not enough sleep.
“I’m Detective Olivia Hale,” she said. “Follow me.”
They walked through a maze of cubicles and closed doors until they reached a small office with Derek’s name on a placard outside. Inside, files were stacked on every available surface. A desk lamp flickered intermittently. Olivia gestured to a chair across from her desk.
“So what’s going on, Mr.?”
“Brown. Derek Brown.”
“All right, Mr. Brown. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Derek’s hands rubbed together, fingers interlocking and separating. “Call me Derek. There are two things—first, these wild dog killings. I don’t buy it. And second, I think my mom’s on something.”
Olivia leaned back in her chair. “On something like drugs?”
“Yeah. Since that lab explosion, she’s been acting insane.”
“Insane how?”
Derek looked down at his hands. “One night, she came out of her room on all fours. Crawling around the living room, sniffing everything. Like she was tracking a scent, then she just stood up like nothing happened and went back to her room.”
Olivia’s pen moved across her notepad. “Go on.”
“She did it again the next night. But this time, afterward, she went into her bedroom, and I heard this crash. Her dresser hit the floor.” He paused. “Have you ever seen somebody lift a two-hundred-pound dresser and throw it across a room? Because I haven’t.”
Olivia kept writing. “What else?”
“About once a month, she leaves the house around ten at night, wearing just a robe. She comes back in the morning wearing the same thing, covered in sweat, smelling like she’s been running through the woods all night.” Derek’s voice dropped. “I’m telling you, something’s wrong. Something is definitely off.”
Olivia set down her pen and leaned forward. “Listen, Derek. I can’t tell you exactly what’s going on, but here’s what I suggest. Keep watching her. Don’t confront her yet. Whatever’s happening, drug-related or not, you don’t want to push it too hard until you understand what you’re dealing with.”
“So you think it’s drugs?”
“I think there are programs that can help if it is. Try to have an honest conversation with her when she’s calm. And if you find out who’s supplying, call me directly.” Olivia pulled a business card from her desk drawer and slid it across. “My cell’s on the back.”
Derek took the card. “And the wild dog stuff? You think that’s real?”
Olivia’s expression didn’t change. “That’s above my pay grade. I’ve got pull here, friends in the department, but even I can’t touch those cases. They’re sealed. Classified. You’d be surprised what gets buried in this city.”
Derek stood. “Yeah. Thanks, Detective.”
“Be careful, Derek. People asking the wrong questions around Bayou Mounds have a habit of disappearing from the paperwork.”
He nodded and walked out.
Olivia sat at her desk for a long time after he left, staring at the closed door, her fingers tapping slowly against the armrest of her chair.
Because she’d heard stories like Derek’s before. Three times in the past month. Always the same details. The disappearances during full moons.
And every time, it started with a family member noticing something awfully wrong.