Chapter Fifteen
Bad Moon Rising
Rachel Williams
The cabin feels smaller now. Like the walls are closing in.
I step closer to the local, because I need answers and I’m done tiptoeing around the edges of this nightmare.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If he’s hunting the men and keeping the women… where would someone go out here to hide? To keep people alive without being found?”
The man’s eyes flick to me, sharp, assessing, like he’s deciding how much truth I can handle.
“There are places in these mountains,” he says slowly, “that don’t show up on maps. Old logging routes. Abandoned moonshine shacks. Caves that only locals know how to reach.”
I nod. “But why keep the women? What’s the purpose?”
He studies me for a long moment. “You’re from here. You tell me.”
I swallow. Because I do know the stories.
The ones whispered by grandmothers who believed the mountains had rules. The ones meant to scare kids into staying close to home. The ones that weren’t stories at all.
“Some men,” I say quietly, “believed the mountains chose mates. That if you wore the right pelts, the right claws, the right skins… you could claim one.”
Beth’s breath catches. David mutters a curse.
The local nods. “Old ways that should’ve died out a long time ago.”
My stomach tightens. “Does that mean the women who went missing… they’re still alive?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He looks toward the window, toward the dark stretch of forest that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat.
Finally, he says, “If he’s keeping them… then yes. They’re alive.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine.
Alive. Alive means suffering. Alive means waiting. Death would have been a blessing.
I hope for their sakes if he’s right they are dead.
I take a breath. “Where would he take them?”
The man rubs his jaw. “There’s a place up the ridge. Locals call it the Break. Old hunting cabins. A cave system behind them. Deep enough to hide anything or get lost in.”
I nod. “Then that’s where we start.”
Before he can respond, the porch boards creak behind us. Bishop, stepping back inside, jaw tight, eyes still burning from the fight with Shaw. He looks at me first, like he’s checking I’m okay, then at the local.
“We’re going to the Break,” I say.
Bishop nods once. No hesitation. No doubt.
The local exhales. “Then you better move fast.”
After the local man gives us directions, Bishop leads the way back to the truck, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
Shaw is already gone. Good riddance. I don’t understand why David allows his behavior.
The drive toward the Break is rough. Unpaved switchbacks, narrow ridges, and the kind of drop-offs that make you reconsider your life choices.
Bishop handles the wheel like he’s been driving these mountains his whole life. David pointing the way.
I watch the tree line, the shadows, the places where the forest grows too still. A feeling of dread clawing at me.
Parking at the end of an old logging road, David announces that its time to walk. The trailhead is barely visible, swallowed by shadows and underbrush ahead.
David slings his pack over his shoulder. “Three hours in. Maybe four.”
Beth groans. “Great. My favorite number of hours.”
“What are we looking at when we get there?” Bishops asks.
David, checking his flashlight, looks up. “A few cabins in an isolated area up on top of the ridge. The cave system, if I remember correctly, is around the side of the switchback.”
The woods close around us fast. Dense pines, thick undergrowth, moss-covered stones.
All this tension is making me jumpy, and the silence lets my mind wander too much.
I feel uncomfortable with Bishop knowing even this little about where I come from. What kind of family does he think I have, and what he must think of me now.
Beth keeps glancing at the ground, at the rock formations, at the dense clusters of trees.
“There are caves everywhere up here,” she says, distracting me. “Whole networks. Some mapped, most not. There are even a few near the ranger compound.”
I stop walking for a second. “Near the compound?”
She nods. “Yeah. Old mining tunnels. Collapsed entrances. Some still accessible if you know where to look.”
Bishop looks back at her. “Meaning he could’ve been close the whole time.”
Beth swallows. “Meaning he probably was.”
We keep moving.
“Were any of the missing persons hiking in this area?” I ask David.
He pauses, taking a drink from his bottle. “I think the first two.”
That strikes me as odd, but I don’t comment. Its not the first thing they missed in this piss poor excuse of an investigation. How they allowed it to get this bad is beyond me. That goes well beyond optimism that the situation would resolve itself with nothing but time.
Hours pass. The forest thins. The ridge opens into a clearing.
And there they are.
Three old hunting cabins. Weathered wood, sagging roofs, windows clouded with dust. They look abandoned and forgotten.
But they’re not empty.
I see it immediately. Torn clothing caught on a nail near the doorframe. A backpack half-buried in leaves. A shoe. A shredded jacket sleeve.
Bishop, drawing his gun, motions for us to stay behind him. Approaching slowly, he clears the cabins, finding them empty.
As a group we follow behind him.
Beth kneels beside the debris. “This is one of the missing hikers’ packs.”
David crouches beside her. “And this is from the couple who disappeared last month.”
My stomach twists. “He brought them here.”
Bishop steps inside the first cabin. I follow.
The interior is stripped bare. No furniture, no bedding, no signs of habitation. But the floorboards are scuffed. The dust disturbed. Something heavy was dragged through here.
“He didn’t keep them in the cabins,” Bishop says. “He moved them.”
“To the caves,” I finish. The odds of finding survivors is low. But we have to try. We have nothing else to go on.
Beth nods. “We’re going to need maps. Geological surveys. Old mining records. Anything that shows the cave systems.”
David sighs. “We’ll have to go back to the compound for that.”
Bishop shakes his head. “Not tonight. We’re losing daylight.”
He’s right. The sun is already bleeding into the treetops, turning the sky bruised purple.
“We camp here,” he says. “Cabins are still standing. Showers and restrooms work off the old water tank. No heat, but we can pair up.”
Beth raises a brow. “Pair up for warmth or safety?”
“Both,” Bishop says.
We split off; Beth and David take one cabin; Bishop and I take another.
The water still runs, cold but clean. The toilets flush. The place feels dilapidated, but functional.
Beth joins us briefly, leaning against the doorframe.
“You know,” she says, “wolf mating season is brutal. Rogue wolves will take down a pack wolf to claim its females.”
I freeze.
Bishop does too.
Beth continues, voice low. “If he’s following wolf behavior… he’s eliminating the men. And keeping the women.”
I swallow hard. “Meaning he’s building a pack.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens.
“Assuming that’s correct. Were all the people who went missing couples?” I don’t recall it being mentioned. Only a list of the missing persons. Not that they all were in pairs. That seems like an important detail to have been overlooked. Again.
She nods. “That’s why it took so long for them to be reported.”
I think about the timeline and when the victims were reported, sometimes a week or more after the fact.
“When is the next full moon?” I ask the room in general.
Beth checks her phone, “No service. I think it’s this week though. Why?”
I look at Bishop. “That’s when Dwayyo hunts.”
And somewhere out there, in the caves beneath our feet, women are waiting, possibly alive and terrified.
Beth, looking quickly at the woods behind her shuffles back in the direction of the cabin she shares with David without another word.
Bishop, staring intently at me is already waiting for what Im about to say.
“If that’s right it means he’s targeting women who already have been claimed. It’s not coincidence. He’s choosing them. He may have been at this for a long time.”
The idea of it is horrifying. An untold number of women he could have held here or elsewhere. Tortured and brutalized by someone who pretends to be an animal.
“What kind of profile are we looking at?”
Bishop looks concerned. “Profiling isn’t necessarily intended to prove guilt, its meant to rule people out.”
“But we could be looking at one of a few situations.” He offers. He doesn’t seem happy with the idea.
“Without knowing more, we have option one: he’s suffered a psychotic break. Trauma inflicted caused a separation from reality and he’s playing out what he believes is reality. He believes he is a wolf.”
He pauses, staring out the window without an expression.
“Option two: He’s a psychopath, who heard the legends and decided to play them out. It’s fun for him, scaring the locals. Hunting. In which case he is most likely a local.”
“Worst case scenario….” He trails off. “It’s a little bit of both.”
The cabins settle into silence as the last of the daylight bleeds out behind the ridge.
Our cabin is the one closest to the tree line. Of course it is.
Bishop gestures toward the bed. “Come on. We should get some sleep.”
The interior is bare. Just a couple of old beds, a table that’s seen better decades, and a small bathroom in the back. No heat. No insulation worth mentioning. The air feels stale.
He drops his pack on one of the beds. I do the same on the other. We look at one another and wordlessly push the beds together.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The quiet between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged. Heavy with what we started last night.
I sit on the edge of the bunk, rubbing my hands together for warmth. “So together again.”
Bishop glances at me, one brow raised. “For safety.”
“Right,” I say. “Safety.”
He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression softens.
I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “Do you think the women are still alive?”
He sits across from me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I think we have to operate under the assumption they are.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He meets my eyes. “It’s the only one I can give you without lying.”
I nod because I knew that. I just needed to hear him say it.
The wind pushes against the cabin walls, making them creak. Bishop’s gaze flicks toward the window, then back to me.
“Come here.” he says, standing. His tone changing.
I let out a breath. Rising and moving into his arms he holds me tightly against him.
Then, lifting me up, he carries me into the bathroom.
“I can’t think straight when you’re around.” He sets me on my feet and roughly undresses me.
“All I can think about is you, and this,” He rips off my panties, “pussy.”