Chapter 5 - Fern
The young man sitting across from me can’t stop fidgeting.
His name is Ethan, and he’s nineteen years old according to his intake form.
He’s been bouncing his knee for the past ten minutes and simultaneously drumming his fingers against his thigh in an erratic rhythm.
Every few seconds, he glances toward the window like he’s expecting something to come crashing through.
“Take your time,” I gently urge. “There’s no pressure here.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t control it anymore. It’s getting worse.”
“Can’t control what?”
Ethan runs both hands through his hair, tugging at the strands hard enough that it must hurt. “The… the other part of me. The one that wants out.”
I make a note on my pad. Dissociative symptoms, possibly dissociative identity disorder. It would explain the agitation, the sense of something lurking beneath the surface. I’ve seen presentations like this before, though usually in patients with significant trauma histories.
“When you say ‘other part,’ can you describe what that feels like?”
“It’s like…” He trails off and squeezes his eyes shut. “There’s something inside me. Something that isn’t human. And it wants to get out, especially when I’m angry or scared or—” He breaks off with a frustrated growl that sounds almost animal. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“I’m not here to judge you, Ethan. I’m here to help you work through whatever you’re experiencing.”
“You can’t help with this.” He stands abruptly and starts pacing the small room, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. “No one can. It’s just something I have to deal with until I learn to control it.”
“Control what, exactly?”
He stops pacing and looks at me with eyes that seem almost gold in the afternoon sunlight. A trick of the light, surely, though I’ve never seen anything quite like it. “The shift. When it comes, I can’t stop it. And if I can’t learn to control it soon, I’m going to hurt someone.”
The word catches my attention. Shift. An unusual term for dissociative episodes. Most patients describe feeling disconnected or watching themselves from outside their bodies. They don’t usually talk about shifting.
“Is that what you call it? The shift?”
“That’s what everyone calls it.” He seems genuinely surprised by my question. “You know, when the wolf takes over?”
I blink. “The wolf?”
Ethan stares at me for a long moment, then he laughs, though it sounds forced. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I should go.”
“Ethan, wait. We still have twenty minutes left in our session—”
But he’s already out the door, leaving me sitting in my consultation room with a notepad full of questions and no answers.
I spend the next hour reviewing his file, searching for any mention of psychotic features or delusional thinking.
There’s nothing unusual in his history. His previous notes describe him as a well-adjusted teenager with occasional anger management issues.
Standard adolescent stuff, Patricia had said when she gave me his file.
Nothing about wolves. Nothing about shifting. Nothing that would explain the conviction in his voice when he talked about something inside him that wasn’t human.
My next appointment is with a woman named Grace who complains of anxiety and insomnia.
Standard presentation, straightforward treatment plan.
She’s been struggling since her mother passed away six months ago, and the grief has manifested as sleepless nights and racing thoughts.
We discuss relaxation techniques, sleep hygiene, and the possibility of a short-term medication consultation.
She leaves with a follow-up scheduled and a referral for a sleep study.
Then comes Marcus, a man in his forties who works at the hardware store. I recognize him from my first day in town; he nodded at me when I walked past his shop. He sits down with a heavy sigh and immediately launches into a story about a fight with his brother.
“He doesn’t understand what it’s like,” Marcus insists with his hands clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles have gone white. “Trying to keep the beast at bay all the time. Some days I just want to let go and run, you know? Let the wolf have its way.”
There it is again. The wolf.
“Tell me more about that,” I prompt carefully. “The beast, the wolf. What do those words mean to you?”
Marcus gives me an odd look, like I’ve asked him to explain why the sky is blue. “They mean what they mean. The animal inside. The part of us that isn’t human. Don’t you have one? A wolf, I mean?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
His eyebrows draw together, and he studies my face like he’s searching for something. “You don’t… Patricia didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Marcus lurches to his feet, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable. His earlier openness has vanished, replaced by something guarded. “I think I need to reschedule. This was a mistake.”
“Marcus, please. If there’s something I should know about, something that would help me help you—”
“Ask Patricia,” he tells me over his shoulder as he makes for the door. “I don’t know what she was thinking, bringing you on board.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone with a growing sense that I’m missing something critical.
After Marcus leaves, I sit at my desk and review my notes from the past two days.
Ethan’s mention of shifting and wolves. Marcus’s reference to “the animal inside.” Even some of my other patients have used similar language—talking about instincts, about urges, about parts of themselves that feel separate from their human minds.
One woman mentioned “pack responsibilities.” Another talked about “running with the others” as if it were a regular social activity.
At first, I assumed it was metaphorical.
People often describe their emotions in animalistic terms. The wolf of anger.
The beast of depression. But the consistency of the language is starting to unsettle me.
It feels less like a metaphor and more like shared vocabulary, a common framework that everyone here understands except me.
I find Skylar in the break room, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
She’s the nurse who showed me where the good snacks are hidden, and over the past few days, we’ve fallen into an easy rapport.
She’s kind, funny, and refreshingly direct.
The kind of person I could see becoming an actual friend with if I end up staying in Silvercreek.
“Can I ask you something strange?” I ask as I join her by the coffee maker.
“Sure.” She takes a sip and leans against the counter. “What’s up?”
“Is there some kind of town mythology I should know about? Something about wolves, maybe? A local legend or folklore that everyone references?”
Skylar goes very still. Her coffee cup freezes halfway to her mouth, and I watch the color drain from her face. “Why do you ask?”
“A few of my patients have mentioned things. Wolves, shifting, animals inside them.” I try to keep my tone clinical, like I’m just doing due diligence. “I’m wondering if there’s a cultural reference I’m missing. Some kind of local tradition that would put their language in context.”
Skylar sets down her cup and replies, “Fern, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
She glances toward the door like she’s checking if anyone is listening. When she speaks again, her voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. “When Patricia hired you, didn’t she explain about the town? About the community here?”
“She said Silvercreek has unique challenges. I assumed she meant rural mental health access issues, maybe some cultural isolation factors.”
Skylar opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks genuinely distressed, like she’s stumbled into a conversation she doesn’t know how to navigate.
She twists her hands together in front of her, and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“I think you need to talk to someone else about this. Someone with more authority than me.”
“Skylar, you’re scaring me a little. What’s going on?”
Before she can answer, a shadow falls across the doorway. I turn to find Connor standing there, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. His blue eyes move between Skylar and me, taking in the scene with quick assessment.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks.
Skylar looks at him with obvious relief. “Connor. Thank God. She’s asking about the town. About the wolves.” She drops her voice even lower. “She doesn’t know.”
Connor’s face goes carefully blank. “I see.”
“Someone needs to explain things to her. I thought Patricia already had, or I never would have said anything. I feel terrible—”
“It’s fine, Skylar. I’ll handle it. Why don’t you take your coffee and give us a few minutes?”
Skylar nods quickly, grabs her cup, and practically flees the break room. I watch her go with mounting confusion and a creeping sense of dread.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, turning to face Connor. “Why is everyone acting like there’s some big secret?”
“Come with me,” he requests. “We need to talk, and this isn’t the place for it.”
“I have patients—”
“Your next appointment isn’t for an hour. I checked.” He holds open the break room door and gestures toward the hallway. “Please, Fern. This is important.”
Against my better judgment, I follow him out of the medical center and into the cool afternoon.
He leads me around the side of the building to a small garden with a wooden bench beneath an old oak tree.
It’s private here, sheltered from the main street by a tall hedge.
The kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to be overheard.
“Sit down,” Connor instructs.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Trust me. You’re going to want to sit for this.”
Something in his tone makes me obey. I lower myself onto the bench and watch as he paces in front of me, running a hand through his dark hair.
He looks uncomfortable, which doesn’t match the confident security officer I’ve come to expect.
Whatever he’s about to tell me, he’s not looking forward to it.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound insane,” he begins. “I need you to hear me out before you react. Can you do that?”
“That depends entirely on what you’re about to tell me.”
“Silvercreek isn’t a normal town. The people who live here, most of them anyway, they’re not entirely human.”
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
“What do you mean, not entirely human?”
“I mean exactly what it sounds like.” He crouches down so we’re at eye level, his blue gaze steady on mine. “I assume you have patients who have been talking about wolves and shifting and animals inside them? They’re not speaking metaphorically. They’re describing their actual lived experience.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Connor, that’s…” I search for the right word. “That’s impossible. That’s literally impossible.”
“It’s not. Silvercreek is pack territory. Has been for generations. The people here, most of us, we’re werewolves. We can shift between human and wolf forms. It’s part of who we are, part of what we’ve always been.”
I stare at him, waiting for the mask to crack. For him to laugh and tell me this is some elaborate joke the town plays on newcomers. But his face remains serious, almost apologetic.
“Werewolves aren’t real,” I manage. “They’re myths. Stories. Things from horror movies and bad Halloween costumes.”
“I can prove it.” He holds up his hand, palm facing me. “Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Before I can ask what he means, his fingers begin to change. The nails thicken and elongate into dark, curved claws. Coarse black fur sprouts across the back of his hand, spreading up toward his wrist. The bones seem to shift beneath the skin as his knuckles grow more pronounced, more animal.
I scramble backward on the bench, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“It’s okay,” Connor assures me, even as his hand continues to look less and less human. “I have complete control. This is just a partial shift.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare at the impossible thing happening right in front of me.
Then, just as quickly as it started, the change reverses. The fur recedes, the claws shrink back into ordinary fingernails, and within seconds, his hand looks completely normal again. Like nothing happened at all.
“Shifters are real.” He gestures at himself. “I’m one of them. So is Ruby, and Patricia, and most of the people you’ve met since you got here.”
My mind races through the past few days, trying to reconcile what he’s saying with everything I’ve observed.
The strange language my patients use. The way people talk about the pack like it’s more than just a figure of speech.
Skylar’s panic when I asked about town lore.
Ruby’s slip on my first day when she said “pack.”
“This is crazy,” I say with a shaking voice. “You’re telling me I’ve been living in a town full of werewolves for three days and nobody thought to mention it?”
“Patricia was supposed to tell you before you started. I don’t know why she didn’t.” Connor’s jaw tightens briefly. “Maybe she assumed you already knew, or maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Either way, you deserved to know from the beginning. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
I stand up so fast I nearly knock into him.
My heart is pounding, and my thoughts are a jumbled mess of denial and disbelief and something that feels uncomfortably close to fear.
Everything I thought I knew about this place, about these people, about the patients I’ve been treating… All of it is crumbling.
“I need air,” I manage. “I need to think.”
“Fern—”
But I’m already walking away, leaving Connor standing alone in the garden while my entire understanding of reality shatters into a thousand jagged pieces.