MidnightScreams

Full Story:

I never believed in monsters.

Not the kind that hide under your bed or lurk in the shadows. Monsters were for children’s stories, for campfire tales meant to scare the weak-minded. But that was before the outbreak. Before the world went to hell.

Now, I know better.

The prison was supposed to be a safe haven. At least, that’s what they told us. When the first reports came in—people disappearing, bodies torn apart, rumors of something inhuman stalking the streets—the government acted fast. They rounded up survivors and locked us in the old Blackmoor Penitentiary, a crumbling fortress of stone and steel.

“It’s temporary,” they said. “Just until we contain the threat.”

But they never did.

The first night, we heard the screams. They came from outside the walls, distant at first, then closer. The guards tried to keep order, but it was useless. By morning, half of them were gone, and the rest were too scared to stay. They left us there, locked in our cells, with nothing but the sound of our own breathing and the occasional howl echoing through the halls.

That was a week ago.

Now, I’m alone. Or at least, I think I am. The others are dead—torn apart, dragged into the darkness, or worse. I’ve seen what’s out there. I’ve seen what they become.

The werewolves.

They’re not like the ones in the movies. There’s no dramatic transformation under a full moon, no tragic hero struggling to control their inner beast. These things are pure hunger, pure rage. They move like shadows, their eyes glowing like embers in the dark. And they’re fast. Faster than anything I’ve ever seen.

I’ve managed to survive this long by staying quiet, staying hidden. But the prison is a maze, and every corner could be a trap. The air is thick with the stench of blood and decay, and the walls seem to close in around me, suffocating me with their weight.

I’m running out of time.

I found the journal yesterday, tucked away in the warden’s office. It belonged to one of the guards, a man named Harris. His handwriting was shaky, frantic, as if he’d been writing in a hurry.

“They’re not just animals,” he wrote. “They’re smart. Too smart. They’re testing the fences, looking for weaknesses. And the silver… it’s the only thing that stops them. But we’re running out. God help us, we’re running out.”

Silver. Of course. It made sense, in a twisted kind of way. All those old stories about werewolves and silver bullets—maybe there was some truth to them after all.

I’ve been searching the prison ever since, scouring every cell and storage room for anything made of silver. So far, I’ve found a few forks, a necklace, and a pair of handcuffs. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

The howls are getting closer.

I can hear them now, echoing through the halls like a death knell. They’re hunting me. I don’t know how they know I’m here, but they do. Maybe they can smell me. Maybe they can hear my heartbeat. Whatever it is, I’m running out of places to hide.

I’ve barricaded myself in the infirmary, the only room with a working lock. The door is solid steel, but I don’t know how long it will hold. The walls are lined with shelves of medical supplies, most of them useless now. But there’s a cabinet in the corner, its door slightly ajar.

Inside, I find a syringe and a small vial of liquid. The label is faded, but I can just make out the words: Silver Nitrate.

My hands are shaking as I fill the syringe, the liquid glinting in the dim light. It’s not much, but it’s something. A weapon. A chance.

The howls are louder now, closer. I can hear them scratching at the door, their claws scraping against the metal. The barricade won’t hold much longer.

I press my back against the wall, the syringe clutched tightly in my hand. My heart is pounding, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I can feel the fear creeping in, threatening to overwhelm me.

But I won’t let it.

I’ve always been a survivor. Selfish, maybe. Ruthless, definitely. But I’ve survived this long by putting myself first, by doing whatever it takes to stay alive. And I’m not about to stop now.

The door bursts open with a deafening crash, and they’re on me in an instant. Their eyes glow like fire, their teeth bared in snarls of pure hatred. I lash out with the syringe, plunging it into the nearest one’s neck. It howls in pain, its body convulsing as the silver takes effect.


But there are too many of them.

I fight with everything I have, my movements fueled by desperation and rage. I stab and slash, my vision blurring as blood sprays across the room. But it’s not enough.

One of them grabs me, its claws digging into my arm. I scream, the pain blinding, and then I feel it—the bite. Its teeth sink into my shoulder, tearing through flesh and bone.

The world goes dark.

When I wake, I’m alone. The infirmary is a wreck, the walls splattered with blood. My blood. I can feel the wound on my shoulder, hot and throbbing, but the pain is fading.

And then I feel it—the change.

It starts as a tingling in my limbs, a sharpening of my senses. The air smells different, richer, filled with scents I’ve never noticed before. My vision is clearer, the darkness no longer a barrier.

But there’s something else. A hunger. A rage. It’s like a fire burning in my chest, consuming everything in its path. I can feel it growing, spreading, until it’s all I can think about.

I’ve become one of them.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve spent my life running, hiding, surviving. But now, I’m the monster.

I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at my hands as they twist and reform. The pain is excruciating, but it’s nothing compared to the horror of what I’ve become.

And then I hear it—a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. A heartbeat.

Someone’s still alive.

I can smell them, their fear like a beacon in the dark. My body moves on its own, driven by the hunger, the rage. I don’t want to do this, but I can’t stop myself.

I’ve always been a survivor. But now, I’m something else. Something worse.

And as I step into the darkness, I realize the truth.

There’s no escaping the beast.