Run, Little Doe
Chapter 1
Smoke, cider, pumpkin, and sin—that’s what the air smelled like on the night of the Festival of Masks.
The night Sirena Fawn was hunted.
The sickly-sweet scent of pumpkins drifted on the breeze from the trail that wound through Briar Hollow Forest, curling toward the open field where the town gathered in celebration annually.
Lanterns swung like low-hanging stars, their glow catching on sequins, feathers, and painted smiles.
Masks of every kind—goblins, devils, porcelain dolls, and monsters lifted from horror itself—moved through the haze in a blur of colour, laughter, and shadow.
Ghostface. Leatherface. Art the Clown. Michael Myers.
The saints and sinners of the season all gathered beneath a full October moon.
The night sky felt alive with laughter and the crackle of the bonfire; it was as if it were something meant to devour the darkness.
Children chased each other through billowing smoke and mazes made of hay, lovers slipped away to steal a kiss in the pumpkin patch, and music rose like a spell from speakers somewhere unseen.
It was a night for shedding names and faces, a night for becoming something wild and unholy.
Somewhere beyond the firelight, through the drifting cinders, eerie mist, and the heartbeat-thrum of drums, the Wolf waited.
He watched her—his Little Doe—through the veil of flame and shadow, patient and hungry.
The crowd danced, oblivious. The night hummed with joy, and his pulse answered it.
She didn’t see him at first. She only felt it—the prickle at the back of her neck, the faint shift in the air, the way laughter seemed to echo around her.
When she lifted her camera, searching the crowd through wisps of smoke and her lens, she caught only glimpses of masks, eyes, and movement. Nothing more.
But something deep in her bones stirred. Not fear—something older, wilder.
Recognition.
Need.
For one breathless moment, she thought she saw him—tall, still, gaze locked on hers from beyond the firelight. Her heart stuttered, her lips parted, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then he was gone.
And in the hollow space he left behind, the whisper came—soft and certain, curling through her mind like a promise.
Run, Little Doe.