1. Grace

1

GRACE

T he newsroom has never been this quiet. In place of the clicking noise of the keyboard, the constant sound of the monitors displaying the news, and the shouts from frantic reporters there is only silence. Though I vaguely remember waving a distracted goodbye to my editor, I barely register his departure. To me, it only signals a reprieve from the constant grind of my career.

Carefully, I click back into the window I'd hidden in the background earlier in the day. I'd scarcely glanced at the headline, but it had been enough to elicit a jump in my heart, and I knew I had to read it with better care.

"Body Found in Ravine by Hiker" screams the headline.

I take a closer look at the article. It doesn't say much.

A hiker who wandered off the trail and lost his group stumbled upon an unidentified body in Pilham Cove. It's uncertain whether the body had been killed elsewhere and dumped from the ravine above, or attacked by wild animals in the area. There seems to have been no attempt to hide it from the trail, though it was found in an area that's barely accessible to passing visitors.

The coroner has made an initial assessment and tentatively proclaimed the cause of death to be blood loss from sustained wounds. From the clothes and belongings found with the body, police assess a hitchhiker. No identification has been found. Police are still investigating.

My brows furrow at what I just read. "Attacked by wild animals…"

I unlock the filing cabinet beneath my desk to take out the folder I had hidden in the back. It's already fairly thick from all that I've discovered so far. I've been doing some research on unusual animal attacks in my spare time.

My boss, though supportive of most of my investigative pieces, would balk at how much time I've spent on this so far. Personal vendettas have no place in my line of work unless it leads to a potential Pulitzer. I can almost hear his voice, dismissive and skeptical. Unfortunately, he, like the majority of the citizens in town, choose to believe wild animals are behind most of these attacks.

I don't blame them. I would be skeptical, too, if I hadn't seen an attack with my own eyes.

I sit back in my chair, the fluorescent light of the newsroom casting a harsh glow on the yellowed pages of the folder. My fingers trace the edge of a grainy photograph, my mind pulling me back to a time I've tried hard to forget.

I'm ten years old again, standing on the edge of the forest with Becky. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the distant chatter of our Girl Scout troop. Becky's laughter rings in my ears, her auburn curls bouncing as she skips ahead. Then, suddenly, silence.

I turn to see her eyes wide with terror, a monstrous wolf looming over her. It's unlike any animal I've ever seen, its fur a dark, menacing gray, and its eyes... those glowing yellow eyes. A snarl rips through the air, and I'm frozen in place as the beast lunges.

The memory fades, leaving me with the lingering echo of Becky's screams. I shake my head, dispelling the haunting images. I can't afford to get lost in the past. I need to focus on the present, on uncovering the truth behind her death.

Spreading out the contents of the folder on my desk, I sift through the evidence I've gathered. Reports from obscure internet forums detailing strange sightings, blurry photos of supposed shifters, and local books on Pilham's lore. Each piece is a fragment of a larger puzzle I'm determined to solve.

A particularly worn book catches my eye. "Legends of Pilham Cove." The pages are filled with stories of mysterious creatures and unexplained phenomena. My fingers brush against the worn pages and I turn to the chapter titled "Beast of the Ravine." The ink is faded, but the words leap off the page with an eerie vibrance. I start reading aloud, the empty newsroom echoing with my voice.

"The creature known as the Beast of the Ravine is a shifter, capable of transforming from wolf to man at will. Unlike the werewolves of folklore, shifters do not require the full moon to change forms. This ability grants them a unique edge, allowing them to seamlessly blend into human society. They look, act, and seem like ordinary people, making it nearly impossible to distinguish them from us. It's believed that many shifters live among us, hidden in plain sight.

The writer of this book, during his travels abroad, encountered one such shifter. Unlike the fearsome tales, this shifter was friendly and revealed much about their kind. He shared that shifters are scattered throughout the world, living in packs that offer them protection and a sense of community.

The shifter mentioned a pack residing in the United States, specifically in the region now known as Pilham Cove. This pack is believed to be particularly wary of humans, given the history of violence and misunderstanding that shrouds their existence. Most shifters live in peace, though rogue shifters are known to exist. These beasts are particularly violent, as befits their feral nature."

I pause, my mind racing. Could this be the key to understanding the attacks? The idea of creatures living among us, indistinguishable from humans, sends a shiver down my spine. I flip to the front of the book to check the publication details. It was published in 1995 by a man named Henry Whitaker.

A quick internet search confirms my fears. Henry Whitaker passed away last year. My heart sinks at the thought of a potentially invaluable source of information lost forever. But I refuse to be deterred. There must be another way to find out more.

I note the publisher's details, "Shadow Creek Publishing," and draft an email, hoping they might have additional resources or contacts who could help.

Subject: Inquiry About "The Beast of the Ravine"

Dear Shadow Creek Publishing,

My name is Grace Thatcher, and I am an investigative journalist with the Pilham Gazette. I am conducting research on local folklore and came across Henry Whitaker's book, "Legends of Pilham Cove." I am particularly interested in the chapter on shifters, specifically, the Beast of the Ravine.

As Mr. Whitaker has passed away, I am reaching out to inquire if there are any additional notes, unpublished works, or contacts related to his research that might be available. Any assistance you could provide would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Best regards,

Grace Thatcher

I hit send, feeling a mix of hope and apprehension. As I wait for a response, I can't help but glance around the empty newsroom. The monitors cast their ghostly glow, and the silence feels almost oppressive. I lean back in my chair, my thoughts a whirlwind of possibilities and fears.

The truth is out there, and with every piece of evidence, I'm one step closer to uncovering it. It's something I can't let go. Not until I've gathered enough evidence to prove that what I saw wasn't just a figment of my imagination. I just hope I'm ready for what I might find.

The sound of a creaking floorboard snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn sharply, my heart racing. Standing behind me, peering over my shoulder, is Adam Straker. His polished appearance is as immaculate as always, his dark hair perfectly styled, but it's the smug look on his face that sets my teeth on edge.

"Interesting research you've got there, Grace," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He leans closer, his green eyes narrowing as he takes in the scattered papers. "Cryptids and monster wolves? I thought you were smarter than this."

I clench my jaw, anger bubbling up inside me. "What do you want, Adam?"

He straightens, a sneer playing on his lips. "Just making sure you're not wasting company time on fantasies. But hey, if you want to chase fairy tales, be my guest." He chuckles, the sound grating against my nerves, and turns to leave. "Good luck with your wild goose chase," he calls over his shoulder as he walks away, sniggering.

I slump back in my chair, the anger quickly giving way to doubt. What if he's right? What if I'm chasing shadows, letting my past cloud my judgment? But then I remember Becky's eyes, wide with terror, and the determination surges back. I can't give up. Not yet. Not until I've investigated this as far as I can.

I gather the papers, organizing them into a semblance of order. The newsroom around me feels even darker, the only light coming from my monitor. I take a deep breath, pushing aside the fear and the doubt. I owe it to Becky to find the truth, no matter how elusive it may be.

With renewed determination, I return to my research, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I search for more clues. The flickering light of the monitors casts long shadows, and for a moment, I can almost believe I'm not alone. But I shake off the feeling, focusing instead on the task at hand. The truth is out there, hidden in the shadows, and I'm going to find it.