Hemlock's Reluctant Truth

The air in Old Man Hemlock’s cabin was thick with the scent of dried herbs and something else, something acrid and forgotten, like dust disturbed after decades of stillness. Carter sat on a stool that felt as ancient and rickety as the man beside him, his hands clasped tight, the rough wool of his sweater scratching his palms. He’d come here expecting gruff dismissal, perhaps a flurry of superstitious warnings about meddling with things best left alone. He hadn’t expected the tremor in Hemlock’s voice, the way his rheumy eyes, usually sharp with suspicion, now held a flicker of something akin to fear.

“You say it howled,” Hemlock rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. He was hunched over a chipped enamel mug, his gnarled fingers white-knuckled around its rim. “A howl unlike any wolf you’ve heard?”

Carter nodded, his gaze steady. “Yes, sir. It was… deeper. More sorrowful, somehow. And the markings on its flank, they weren’t natural. Like carvings, almost.” He pushed the memory of the wolf’s pained eyes from his mind, focusing on the task at hand. He’d brought a small, crudely drawn sketch of the markings, a pale imitation of the intricate symbols etched into the creature’s fur. He laid it on the scarred tabletop between them.