Midnight Howl Chapter 6

The scent of ozone and old parchment clung to the astronomy tower’s domed interior, a stark contrast to the sterile glow of computer monitors lining the curved wall. Professor Morgan stood beside a large telescope, its brass fittings gleaming under the soft auxiliary lights. Lena stood a few feet away, clutching a printout of lunar cycles she’d compiled from the university’s digital archives. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that had become her constant companion since the robbery at the diner.

“The precision is quite remarkable, Lena,” Morgan said, his voice a calm, measured echo in the spacious room. He traced a line on a sprawling chart he’d unrolled across a central table—a physical copy of data Lena had only seen in pixels. It detailed lunar anomalies stretching back over a century. “Your cross-referencing with the meteorological data was a smart move. It eliminates solar interference as a factor.”

Lena forced a nod, her throat tight. Her independent research had been desperate, a clawing need to understand the primal fear that spiked every time she glanced at the moon. The “Blood Moon Prophecy” manuscript she’d found hinted at a cyclical awakening, but this… this was cold, hard data. “The correlation is… undeniable, Professor.” She pointed a slightly trembling finger at the chart. “Every recorded perigee syzygy—the super blood moon—within the last hundred years is logged here.”

“Indeed.” Morgan’s eyes, usually warm with academic curiosity, held a new, unnerving intensity. He tapped a specific entry dated 1923. “And see these corresponding archival markers?” He gestured to a separate ledger, its pages brittle with age. It was not a public record;

the cover was plain leather, stamped with what looked like a stylized paw print. Lena hadn’t noticed it before. “These are case numbers from the city’s historical preservation society. Unexplained animal attacks, mostly in the riverfront and warehouse districts., if grim, pattern.”

A cold dread, sharper than the metallic air, seeped into Lena’s bones. *Animal attacks.* The words from the library manuscript echoed in her mind: *‘The blood moon wakes the sleeping beast.’* She wasn’t just looking at astronomical phenomena;

she was looking at a timeline of violence. Her violence?

The violence of others like her?

“The next occurrence,” Lena whispered, her voice barely audible. “It aligns with finals week.”

“It does,” Morgan confirmed, his gaze fixed on her, studying her reaction. “A period of significant stress for the student population. An interesting variable, wouldn’t you say? The human psyche under pressure, the ancient pull of a celestial event…” He let the sentence hang, a carefully baited hook. “I’ve taken the liberty of accessing deeper municipal records. All these historical ‘animal attack’ files have a specific classification code. X-7.”

He said it with the easy authority of a professor discussing a theoretical model, but Lena felt the world tilt. Professor Morgan hadn’t just helped her research;

he had guided it, using his privileges to access information far beyond a student’s reach. He knew. The thought was a sucker punch to her gut. He knew about the code, about the pattern. How much else did he know?

“I… I should go,” Lena stammered, suddenly desperate for air, for the mundane reality of her dorm room. “I have a shift at the library.”

“Of course,” Morgan said smoothly, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. “Your diligence is impressive, Lena. We’ll continue this discussion soon. There’s much more to the story.”

Lena practically fled the tower, the printout crumpled in her fist. The calm collegiate atmosphere of the campus felt like a thin veneer over a world teeming with hidden horrors. She needed to get away, to think. Instead of heading to the library, she descended into the bustling subway station, letting the crowd swallow her. The pressing bodies, the rumble of trains, it was a welcome distraction from the screaming chaos in her head.

As she moved through the throng, a scent cut through the mix of perfume, sweat, and stale air—a musky, feral odor that made the hair on her arms stand up. It was the same scent she’d caught near the diner after the robbery, the same one that had lingered faintly near the recent murder scenes reported on the news. Her breath hitched. Without conscious thought, her feet changed course, following the trail.

The scent led her away from the main platforms, down a dimly lit corridor marked “Maintenance Access - Authorized Personnel Only.” A chain-link gate was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she stepped into the echoing silence of a disused service tunnel. The air was cool and thick with the smell of damp concrete and rust. The feral scent was stronger here, a clear path.

Her pulse roared in her ears, a mix of terror and a thrilling, predatory focus. She moved deeper into the darkness, her senses hyper-alert. The faint drip of water was a drumbeat. The scuffle of a rat in the shadows was a thunderclap. Then, a flicker of movement ahead—a large, dark shape disappearing around a distant bend.

*The killer.*

The thought was instant, undeniable. Lena broke into a run, her sneakers slapping softly against the grimy floor. The tunnel twisted, descending further underground. The air grew colder. She rounded a corner and saw the figure again, farther away now, moving with an unnatural speed. A low growl rumbled in her own chest, a sound that was both foreign and terrifyingly familiar.

Panic and adrenaline surged, a toxic cocktail that burned through her veins. She harder, her lungs burning. As she ran, a sharp, searing pain shot through her jaw. She gasped, stumbling, her tongue probing the inside of her mouth. It found the sharp, elongated points of her canine teeth. They had extended, piercing the soft flesh of her lower lip. The coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

Staggering to a halt, she leaned against the damp tunnel wall, panting. Up ahead, the figure was gone, vanished into the maze of tunnels. The hunt was over. She was alone in the oppressive silence. Trembling, she looked down. A shallow puddle of stagnant water lay at her feet, reflecting the dim emergency light from a distant fixture.

Hesitantly, she leaned over, staring into the murky reflection. The face that stared back was hers, but wrong. Her features were strained, her skin pale. But it was the eyes that made a sob catch in her throat. The whites of her eyes were no longer white. They were flooded with a deep, arterial crimson, like twin pools of blood. The beast within was no longer sleeping. It was staring right back at her.