MidnightScreams

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The island was a jagged silhouette against the blood-red horizon, its rocky cliffs jutting out like broken teeth. Officer Clara Hayes tightened her grip on the steering wheel as the ferry chugged closer to the shore. The air was thick with the stench of salt and decay, and the wind carried a low, mournful howl that made her skin crawl. She had been sent to investigate the disappearance of three hikers who had vanished on the island a week ago. No bodies, no traces—just a trail of blood leading to the abandoned factory that loomed in the distance.

Clara wasn’t one to shy away from danger. At 34, she had seen enough horrors in her line of work to know that fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She was pragmatic, relentless, and had a reputation for getting the job done, no matter the cost. But something about this place felt… wrong. The island was too quiet, too still, as if it were holding its breath.

The ferry docked at a crumbling pier, and Clara stepped onto the island, her boots crunching on the gravel. She adjusted her utility belt, her fingers brushing against the cold steel of her gun. The factory was a massive, rusted structure that dominated the landscape, its broken windows staring out like hollow eyes. The hikers’ last known location had been here, and if there were any answers to be found, they would be inside.

The factory doors groaned as she pushed them open, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. The interior was a labyrinth of rusted machinery, broken conveyor belts, and pools of stagnant water. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and something else—something metallic and sharp. Blood.

Clara’s flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing streaks of dried blood on the walls and floor. She followed the trail, her heart pounding in her chest. The deeper she went, the more the factory seemed to come alive. The walls creaked and groaned, and she could have sworn she heard footsteps echoing somewhere in the distance.

Then she saw it.

A body—or what was left of it—lay sprawled across the floor. The torso had been ripped open, the ribs splayed outward like the petals of a grotesque flower. The organs were gone, and the limbs were twisted at unnatural angles. Clara’s stomach churned, but she forced herself to kneel beside the corpse. The hiker’s face was frozen in a mask of terror, his eyes wide and unseeing.

As she examined the body, a low growl reverberated through the factory. Clara froze, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. The growl grew louder, closer, and then she heard it—the sound of claws scraping against metal. She turned her flashlight toward the noise, and her breath caught in her throat.

Eyes. Glowing yellow eyes, staring at her from the shadows.

Clara raised her gun, her hands steady despite the fear coursing through her veins. “Show yourself!” she barked, her voice echoing through the factory.

The creature stepped into the light, and Clara’s blood ran cold. It was massive, its hunched form covered in matted fur. Its snout was elongated, its teeth bared in a snarl that dripped with saliva. But the worst part was its eyes—they were intelligent, calculating, and filled with a hunger that made her stomach twist.

The werewolf lunged.

Clara fired, the gunshots ringing out like thunder. The creature howled in pain as the bullets tore through its flesh, but it didn’t stop. It slammed into her, sending her crashing to the ground. Her gun skidded out of reach, and she scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest.

The werewolf circled her, its breath hot and rancid. Clara’s mind raced, searching for a way out. She spotted a rusted pipe on the ground and grabbed it, swinging it at the creature with all her strength. The pipe connected with its skull, and the werewolf staggered back, dazed.

Clara didn’t hesitate. She ran, her boots pounding against the concrete floor. The factory was a maze, and she had no idea where she was going, but she knew she had to keep moving. The werewolf’s howls echoed behind her, growing louder with every step.

She turned a corner and found herself in a large room filled with broken machinery. There was no way out. Clara’s heart sank as she realized she was trapped. The werewolf emerged from the shadows, its eyes gleaming with malice. It lunged again, and Clara braced herself for the impact.

But it never came.

Instead, the werewolf stopped mid-leap, its body convulsing as if it were fighting some internal battle. Clara watched in horror as the creature’s form began to shift, its fur receding, its bones cracking and reshaping. Within moments, the werewolf was gone, replaced by a naked, trembling man.

Clara’s mind reeled. She recognized him—it was one of the missing hikers. His name was Ethan, and he had been reported missing along with the others. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You have to kill me. Before it takes over again.”


Clara hesitated, her grip tightening on the pipe. She had seen what this man—this creature—was capable of. But could she really kill him in cold blood?

Before she could decide, Ethan’s body began to convulse again. His eyes turned yellow, and his teeth elongated into fangs. Clara knew she was out of time. She swung the pipe with all her strength, aiming for his head.

But Ethan was faster. He caught the pipe mid-swing and wrenched it from her grasp. Clara stumbled back, her heart pounding in her chest. The werewolf was back, its eyes filled with a predatory gleam.

Clara’s mind raced. She had one last option—a silver knife she kept strapped to her ankle. She had always carried it as a precaution, never really believing in the old legends. But now, it was her only hope.

She reached for the knife, but the werewolf was already on her. Its claws slashed through her side, sending a searing pain through her body. Clara cried out, but she didn’t stop. She grabbed the knife and plunged it into the creature’s chest.

The werewolf howled in agony, its body convulsing as the silver burned through its flesh. Clara watched as the light faded from its eyes, and the creature collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Clara stumbled back, her hand pressed against her wound. She had done it. She had killed the beast. But as she looked down at the body, a chilling realization washed over her.

The wound on her side was deep, and the werewolf’s claws had been coated in its own blood. Clara’s vision blurred as a wave of nausea swept over her. She knew what was coming. The transformation. The hunger.

She had always done what needed to be done, no matter the cost. But now, the cost was her humanity.

As the first pangs of the transformation began, Clara raised the silver knife to her chest. She would not become the monster. She would not let the hunger consume her.

With a final, trembling breath, she plunged the knife into her heart.

...
In the final moments, Clara realizes that the werewolf’s bite has infected her, and she chooses to end her own life rather than succumb to the curse. The story ends with her lifeless body lying beside the werewolf’s, a tragic reminder of the cost of her bravery. But as the camera pans out, we see a pair of glowing yellow eyes watching from the shadows—another werewolf, waiting to continue the cycle of horror.