"Terror at Rampart Creek: A Family's Fight Against a Rabid Wolf":
My name’s Matt Rispoli, and in August 2019, my family and I were on a camping trip in Banff National Park, Canada. It was supposed to be a perfect getaway—me, my wife Elisa, and our boys, Holden (7) and Reid (5), surrounded by the Rockies’ jagged peaks, pine forests, and crisp air that smelled like freedom. The Rampart Creek Campground was cozy, tucked along a gravel road with a rushing stream nearby. We’d spent the day hiking, the kids skipping stones and pointing at chipmunks. We even spotted a black bear lumbering through a meadow, far enough to feel safe but close enough to make Holden clutch my hand. The ranger at the check-in station had drilled us on grizzly safety: store food in the bear-proof lockers, keep bear spray handy, and make noise on trails. We followed every rule, feeling prepared. After a dinner of hot dogs and marshmallows, the kids’ faces sticky with chocolate, we told stories by the fire. Reid giggled about a “silly bear” stealing our snacks, and I ruffled his hair, saying, “Not on my watch, buddy.” Around 1 a.m., we crawled into our tent, zipping the sleeping bags tight. The boys were out fast, their soft snores mixing with the stream’s murmur. I fell asleep with Elisa’s hand in mine, thinking this was what life was about.
Then, a jolt woke me—the tent shook like something heavy slammed into it. My eyes snapped open, my heart already racing. “Matt, what’s that?” Elisa whispered, her voice sharp with fear. She was sitting up, her silhouette barely visible in the dark. I propped myself on my elbows, listening hard. “Maybe the wind,” I said, but my mouth was dry. The air felt wrong, heavy, like something was watching us. I reached for the flashlight by my sleeping bag, my fingers fumbling. Before I could grab it, a horrible ripping sound tore through the silence—claws slashing the tent’s nylon wall. A wolf’s head burst through, its eyes glinting like cold fire, teeth bared in a snarl. My stomach dropped. It was huge, its fur matted, and it moved fast, lunging straight for me.
Its jaws clamped onto my right arm, and pain exploded—hot, searing, like my flesh was being torn apart. I screamed, a raw sound I didn’t recognize. The wolf yanked, dragging me toward the hole in the tent, my legs tangling in the sleeping bag. “Matt!” Elisa shrieked, scrambling to the kids. Holden and Reid woke, their cries piercing the chaos. “Daddy! Daddy!” Reid sobbed, his voice breaking. I punched the wolf’s snout with my left fist, hard as I could, yelling, “Get off me!” My knuckles hit bone, but it only growled louder, its teeth sinking deeper. Blood ran down my arm, warm and sticky, soaking my sleeve. I kicked at its face, my boots scraping its muzzle, but it was like fighting a machine. It dragged me halfway out, my back scraping the dirt, rocks digging into my skin. The tent’s fabric flapped around me, and I could smell the wolf’s rank breath, feel its hot saliva.
Elisa was screaming now, her voice raw. “Help! Somebody help us!” She was shielding the boys, pushing them to the back of the tent. Holden was crying, “Mommy, make it stop!” I could hear her trying to calm them, her words shaky. “It’s okay, stay behind me.” But it wasn’t okay. I was losing strength, my arm throbbing, my vision blurring. I thought of my family, alone in the wilderness, and panic clawed at me. I can’t let this thing win. I swung again, my fist glancing off its ear, and shouted, “Let go!” The wolf shook its head, ripping my arm worse. I was sure it’d tear it off.
Then, a light cut through the dark—a lantern, swinging wildly. “Hey!” a man’s voice boomed, deep and urgent. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, fast. The wolf froze, its ears twitching. A heavy thud—someone kicked it hard in the ribs. It yelped, a sharp, pained sound, and its jaws loosened just enough. I yanked my arm free, crawling back into the tent, my chest heaving. Another thud, and the wolf spun, snarling at the new threat. The man stood there, a tall figure in a flannel shirt, holding the lantern high. “Get out of here!” he shouted, kicking again. The wolf snapped at him but backed off, its eyes darting between us. One more kick, and it bolted, its paws thudding into the darkness, vanishing into the trees.
I collapsed, gasping, my arm a mess of blood and torn skin. Elisa rushed to me, sobbing. “Matt, oh my God, you’re hurt.” She grabbed a T-shirt from her bag, pressing it against the wound. The pain was blinding, but I was alive. Holden and Reid crawled over, their faces streaked with tears. “Daddy, are you okay?” Holden asked, his voice trembling. I forced a nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, buddy, I’m okay.” But I wasn’t. My arm felt like fire, and I was shaking, the wolf’s eyes burned into my mind.
The man with the lantern knelt by the tent’s torn flap. “You hurt bad?” he asked, his voice calm but urgent. His face was weathered, maybe in his 40s, with a scruffy beard. “It got my arm,” I said, wincing as Elisa tied the T-shirt tighter. Blood was already soaking through. “Name’s Russ,” he said. “Russ Fee. I was at the next site, heard the screams. We need to get you help.” He glanced at the kids, softening his tone. “You guys are safe now, alright?” Reid nodded, clutching Elisa’s sleeve. “Is the wolf coming back?” he whispered. Russ shook his head. “Nah, it’s gone. I’ll make sure.” But his eyes scanned the trees, wary.
Elisa looked at him, tears streaming. “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking. “You saved him.” Russ just nodded, saying, “Had to. I’ll get the rangers. Sit tight.” He stood, his lantern casting long shadows, and jogged toward the campground office, his boots crunching on the path. I pulled the kids close, their small bodies trembling against me. “It’s over,” I said, more to myself than them. But every snap of a twig made me flinch, my heart racing. The forest felt alive, like it was waiting to strike again. I kept the bear spray in my left hand, my right arm useless, just in case.
Elisa was whispering to the boys, stroking their hair. “We’re okay, we’re all okay,” she said, but her hands shook as she held the bloody T-shirt in place. “Matt, how bad is it?” she asked quietly, so the kids wouldn’t hear. I looked at the wound—deep gashes, flesh torn open. “Bad,” I admitted. “But I’m here.” She nodded, biting her lip, trying not to cry again. The kids were quiet now, Reid’s face buried in her lap, Holden staring at the torn tent flap. “Daddy, why did it attack us?” he asked, his voice small. I didn’t know what to say. “Sometimes animals get sick,” I said. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” But I was angry—at the wolf, at myself for thinking we were safe.
Minutes dragged like hours, the cold seeping into my bones. My arm throbbed with every heartbeat, and I felt lightheaded, the blood loss hitting me. Finally, flashlights bobbed in the distance—rangers, with Russ leading them. “Over here!” he called. Two rangers, a man and a woman, knelt by the tent. “Sir, can you walk?” the woman asked, her voice professional but kind. I nodded, though my legs wobbled as Elisa helped me up. “We’ve got a truck nearby,” the man said. “Hospital’s not far.” They shone their lights on my arm, and the woman winced. “That’s deep. We’ll get you fixed up.”
Elisa grabbed our coats and the kids’ shoes, her hands moving fast despite the panic in her eyes. The rangers helped me to their truck, the kids clinging to Elisa. Russ stayed with us, carrying our lantern. “You’re tough,” he said to me, a small smile breaking through. “Not many could fight off a wolf like that.” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “Didn’t have a choice,” I said. He nodded, like he understood.
The hospital was a blur—bright lights, doctors stitching my arm, Elisa holding my hand while the kids sat wide-eyed in the waiting room. The bites were deep, but no bones were broken. They started me on rabies shots, saying the wolf was likely rabid, which explained why it attacked. Wolf attacks are rare, the doctor said, maybe one in a million. I didn’t feel lucky, though. I kept seeing those eyes, feeling those teeth. Elisa stayed strong, but I could tell she was rattled, checking on the kids every few minutes.
Back at the campground, Parks Canada tracked the wolf and killed it the next day. Tests confirmed it was rabid, a danger to anyone else. We packed up our gear, the tent now a shredded mess, and left Banff earlier than planned. Before we drove off, Russ stopped by our car. “Heard you’re doing alright,” he said, leaning on the window. Elisa hugged him, tears in her eyes. “You’re our guardian angel,” she said. He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Just did what anyone would. Safe travels, yeah?” I shook his hand, my bandaged arm stiff. “We owe you,” I said. He waved it off, but I’ll never forget his face in that lantern light.
That night still creeps into my dreams—the wolf’s growl, the rip of the tent, the kids’ screams. It was the scariest moment of my life, a reminder of how fast things can turn in the wild. But we outsmarted that wolf, not just with my fists or Elisa’s screams, but with Russ’s courage and the rangers’ help. I learned to respect nature’s power, to always have bear spray within reach, and to listen for the sound of someone running to save you in the dark. We’re closer now, my family, bonded by that terror and the miracle of surviving it. But I’ll never look at a forest the same way again.
"Snow and Survival: Outsmarting a Grizzly in Yellowstone":
I’m John, and I can still feel the cold bite of that snowy August day in Yellowstone National Park, 2018. My wife, Sarah, our 10-year-old son, Timmy, and I were hiking near Old Faithful, chasing a family adventure we’d planned for months. The air was sharp, stinging my cheeks, and the trail was blanketed in fresh snow, muffling our steps. Timmy was a bundle of energy, his red jacket bouncing as he darted ahead, pointing at every track in the snow. “Dad, look! Is that a wolf print?” he called, his voice echoing through the pines. I laughed, catching up to him. “Nah, buddy, probably just a big dog. But keep your eyes peeled.” Sarah snapped a photo, her scarf fluttering in the wind. “This is gonna be a trip to remember,” she said, smiling. I had no idea how right she’d be—or how wrong.
We’d done our homework before the trip. Yellowstone was bear country, and we weren’t naive. At Canyon Village, we stopped at the Bear Aware kiosk, a small wooden stand packed with brochures and gear. The woman behind the counter, Sarah Kosey, had a no-nonsense vibe, her ponytail tucked under a ranger hat. “Bears are active this time of year,” she said, sliding a bear spray canister across the counter. “Grizzlies, especially. You need to know how to use this.” Her tone wasn’t scolding, just firm, like she’d seen too many tourists shrug it off. We rented the spray for a few bucks, and she pointed us to a training video on a cracked old monitor.
The video was short but intense—aim low, spray in two-second bursts, account for wind. It showed a dummy bear charging, and I mimicked the motions, feeling a bit ridiculous, like I was in some action movie. Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to duel a bear,” she teased. I grinned, clipping the canister to my belt. “Better safe than sorry, right?” Timmy was fascinated, tugging at my sleeve. “Does it hurt the bear, Dad?” I crouched down. “It’s like super spicy pepper spray. Stings their eyes and nose, makes ‘em run away.” He nodded, satisfied, but I caught Sarah’s eye. We both knew it wasn’t a game.
The trail to Old Faithful was stunning, like something out of a postcard. Snow clung to the pines, and steam rose from distant hot springs, curling into the gray sky. Timmy was obsessed with the geyser, peppering me with questions. “How high does it shoot? Does it ever stop?” I chuckled, pulling him close. “It’s like a giant water fountain, buddy. Goes off every hour or so, way taller than our house.” Sarah chimed in, “We’ll get there in time for the next eruption. Keep up!” We were warm from the hike, our breath puffing out in clouds, the world feeling peaceful and ours.
Then it changed. We were maybe a mile from the geyser, the trail curving through a thick stand of trees, when I heard a low grunt, like a deep cough. I froze, my hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “What was that?” Sarah whispered, her eyes scanning the bushes. Before I could answer, the branches snapped, and a grizzly bear lumbered out, its massive head swinging toward us. It was enormous—bigger than any animal I’d ever seen—its fur matted with mud, eyes dark and unblinking. My heart slammed against my ribs. “Bear!” Sarah screamed, grabbing Timmy’s arm. “John, do something!”
“Stay together! Get behind me!” I shouted, pushing them back. The bear snorted, its breath steaming in the cold, and then it charged, its paws pounding the snow. It was so fast, a blur of muscle and claws. It hit Timmy first, knocking him flat with a sickening thud. His scream tore through me as the bear’s jaws clamped onto his back, shaking him like a rag doll. “Timmy!” Sarah wailed, lunging forward, her hands clawing at the air. I was moving on instinct, terror drowning out everything but the need to act.
My hands shook as I yanked the bear spray from my belt, fumbling with the safety clip. “Get back!” I yelled, my voice cracking. I aimed at the bear’s face, praying I wasn’t too late, and squeezed the trigger. A hissing cloud of orange spray shot out, catching the bear square in the eyes. It roared, a sound that vibrated in my chest, and reared back, pawing at its face. Its head thrashed, saliva dripping from its jaws, but the spray was working. It stumbled, snorted, and then turned, crashing through the trees, branches snapping as it fled. “It’s gone!” Sarah gasped, her voice raw. “Oh my God, it’s gone.”
We dropped to Timmy’s side, my knees sinking into the snow. He was curled up, sobbing, his red jacket torn and stained with blood. “It hurts, Dad,” he whimpered, his face pale. “I know, buddy, I know,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re right here.” Sarah was already ripping open her backpack, pulling out the first aid kit with trembling hands. “John, help me!” she said, her eyes wild with panic. I tore Timmy’s jacket off, wincing at the sight of the bite mark on his back. It was ugly—jagged and bloody—but not as deep as I’d feared. “It didn’t get him too bad,” I muttered, more to myself than her. Sarah pressed a gauze pad against the wound, her hands steadying as she worked. “Hold still, Timmy,” she said softly. “You’re so brave, baby.”
I grabbed our satellite communicator, a clunky device we’d almost left behind, and hit the emergency button. “This is John, we’re on the Old Faithful trail! Our son’s been attacked by a grizzly! He’s hurt, we need help!” My voice was hoarse, shaking. The ranger’s voice crackled back, calm but urgent. “Stay where you are. We’re sending a team. Keep him warm and stable.” I relayed the coordinates, my fingers numb from cold and fear. Sarah was wrapping Timmy’s wound, taping the gauze in place. “You’re doing great, kiddo,” she said, brushing his hair back. He looked up, tears streaking his face. “Will the bear come back, Mom?” She hugged him gently. “No, sweetie. That bear’s not coming anywhere near us again.”
I wasn’t so sure. I kept the bear spray in one hand, my eyes darting to the trees. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, made my pulse spike. The forest felt alive, watching us, and the cold was creeping into my bones. “John, he’s shivering,” Sarah said, pulling a blanket from her pack. We wrapped Timmy up, shielding him from the wind, and I held him close, his small body trembling against mine. “You’re tough, Timmy,” I said, my throat tight. “Tougher than that bear.” He gave a weak smile, and it broke my heart.
The wait felt like forever, but the rangers arrived in under 20 minutes, their boots crunching through the snow. A woman with a medic patch knelt beside Timmy, checking his wound. “You did good with the spray,” she said, glancing at the canister still in my hand. “Saved his life.” They loaded Timmy onto a stretcher, and we followed, half-running to keep up. At the trailhead, an ambulance was waiting, its lights flashing against the snow. Sarah climbed in with Timmy, and I followed in our car, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.
At the hospital, doctors cleaned and stitched Timmy’s wound. “He’s lucky,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses. “The bite missed anything vital. He’ll have a scar, but he’ll heal.” Sarah buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing with relief. “We almost lost him,” she whispered. I held her tight, my own eyes burning. “But we didn’t. We were ready.” Later, in the dim hospital room, Timmy slept, his chest rising and falling under the blanket. Sarah and I sat in silence, too wired to rest. “I keep hearing that roar,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Me too,” I admitted. “But we stopped it. The spray, the training—it worked.”
I wrote a note to the Bear Aware kiosk the next day, my hand shaking as I typed. “Your spray and training saved my son’s life. I’m convinced we wouldn’t have made it without it.” Sarah Kosey called us later, her voice warm. “I’m so glad you’re all okay. You did exactly what you were supposed to.” It felt good to hear, but the fear lingered. The wilderness was beautiful, but it was also raw, unforgiving. That bear could’ve taken everything in seconds.
We learned later that bear spray, made from hot peppers, burns a bear’s eyes and nose, driving it away without killing it. That $10 rental, that five-minute video, turned a nightmare into a story we survived. But I’ll never hike without spray again. The memory of that grizzly’s eyes, the weight of its charge, the sound of Timmy’s scream—it’s carved into me deeper than any scar. Nature’s no joke, and neither is the fear of facing it.
"The Circles That Saved Me":
It was late autumn, 1948, in our tiny village of Longshan, hidden deep in the rolling hills of rural China. The air was sharp, the kind that stung your cheeks and made your breath curl like smoke in the cold. I’d spent the whole day in the fields, harvesting the last of the millet under a gray sky, my hands rough and aching from the sickle. My name’s Li Wei, just a farmer, nothing more, trying to scrape enough together to keep my wife, Mei Ling, and our two kids fed through the winter. The sun was sinking fast, painting the horizon a dull orange, and I knew I had to get home before dark. The path from the fields to our village wound through a thick forest, and everyone in Longshan had stories about what lurked in those woods after nightfall—wolves, mostly, with eyes like fire and jaws that could snap a man’s leg like a twig.
I was packing up my tools when Old Man Chen hobbled over, his walking stick tapping the dirt. Chen was the village rice seller, his face all creases and wrinkles, like a map of every hard year he’d lived. He squinted at me, his eyes sharp despite his age. “You’re not walking that forest path tonight, are you, Li Wei?” he asked, his voice rough as gravel.
I shrugged, tying my bundle of millet stalks. “It’s the quickest way home, Chen. I’ll be fine.”
He leaned closer, his breath sour with the day’s rice wine. “Quicker ain’t worth your life, boy. Those wolves are clever. They can smell fear, you know. Wait for morning.”
I forced a grin, trying to shake the unease creeping up my spine. “I’ve walked it a hundred times. Besides, Mei Ling’s got hot soup waiting. Can’t keep her worrying.”
Chen snorted, muttering something about “young fools” as he turned away, his stick thumping the ground. I pulled my straw hat low against the chill and started toward the forest, my boots crunching on the frosty path. The fields gave way to trees, tall and bare, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The light was fading fast, and the forest was already dark, the kind of dark that swallows sound and makes every rustle feel like a threat. I gripped my walking stick—a sturdy piece of oak I carried for snakes or stray dogs—and told myself I wasn’t scared. But my heart was beating a little too quick, and my eyes kept darting to the shadows.
The path was narrow, twisting through pines and thick underbrush, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. I’d gone maybe a mile when I heard it—a low, rumbling growl that stopped me cold. My breath caught, and I froze, my stick raised like it could do anything against what I knew was out there. The growl came again, closer, from the left, deep in the shadows where the trees were thickest. Then I saw them: two glowing eyes, like burning coals, staring right at me from the dark. A wolf stepped onto the path, its gray fur matted with mud, its teeth glinting in the faint moonlight. It was huge, its shoulders broad, its paws bigger than my hands, each step silent but heavy, like it owned the forest and I was trespassing.
My legs screamed to run, but I knew that was suicide. Wolves are fast—faster than any man, especially a tired farmer with a bad knee from years of crouching in the fields. Fighting wasn’t an option either. My stick might as well have been a twig against those jaws. The wolf’s eyes locked on mine, unblinking, and I could feel it sizing me up, deciding if I was worth the effort. My mouth went dry, and my hands shook so bad I nearly dropped the stick. I thought of Mei Ling, waiting at home, and my kids, asleep in their straw beds. I couldn’t let this thing win.
Then I remembered a story my father told me when I was a boy, about a man who outsmarted a wolf by pretending to set a trap. It was an old tale, half-forgotten, but it was all I had. My father said the man drew circles in the dirt and acted like he was laying a snare, scaring the wolf into thinking it was doomed. It sounded insane, but I was out of options, and the wolf was taking another step closer, its lips curling back to show more teeth.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and steady, even though my chest felt like it was caving in. “Okay, Li Wei,” I whispered to myself, “don’t panic. You’re smarter than this beast.” I lowered my stick, not too fast, and knelt down on the path, keeping my eyes on the wolf. It stopped, its ears twitching, like it was trying to figure out what I was doing. My hands were trembling, but I gripped the stick and started dragging it through the dirt, drawing a big circle, maybe four feet wide. I made the scratches loud, scraping the ground so the wolf could hear every move.
“What’s this, huh?” I said, louder than I meant to, my voice cracking. “You think you’re clever, wolf? I’ve got something for you.”
The wolf’s head tilted, its eyes narrowing. It took a step closer, but it was slow, cautious, like it didn’t trust what it was seeing. I kept working, my heart hammering so loud I was sure the wolf could hear it. I picked up a handful of rocks from the side of the path, small ones, and started placing them inside the circle, spacing them out like they were part of some trap. I patted the ground hard, making a show of it, muttering nonsense to keep the wolf’s attention. “This’ll get you,” I said. “Step in here, and you’re done.”
I glanced at the wolf. It was still watching, but it hadn’t moved closer. Its tail flicked, and its nose twitched, sniffing the air. I could see it thinking, its brain working out whether I was bluffing. Wolves aren’t dumb—my father always said they’re smarter than dogs, smarter than most men give them credit for. This one knew something was off, and that was my only edge. I crawled a few feet away, still facing the wolf, and started drawing another circle, smaller this time. I grabbed a broken branch and stuck it in the center, like it was a stake for a snare. “Oh, you’re not getting away,” I said, trying to sound confident. “This one’s for you, right here.”
The wolf growled again, low and deep, but it didn’t lunge. It paced a little, its eyes darting between me and the circles. I kept talking, my voice shaky but steady enough. “Go on, take a look. See what happens if you mess with me.” I picked up another rock and tossed it into the second circle, letting it thud against the dirt. The wolf flinched at the sound, its ears flattening, and I felt a spark of hope. It was working—maybe.
I stood up, slow as I could, keeping my stick raised like I was ready to spring some trap. The wolf watched every move, its muscles tense, like it was deciding whether to pounce or back off. I started backing away down the path, one step at a time, never turning my back. “Come on, wolf,” I said, almost whispering. “Try it. Step in there and see what happens.”
The wolf took a step toward the first circle, its nose low, sniffing the ground. It pawed at the dirt, then stopped, its eyes flicking back to me. I kept moving, my boots scraping the path, my hands sweaty on the stick. The wolf didn’t follow. It just stood there, staring at the circles, its tail still, like it was frozen by doubt. I don’t know if it thought there was really a trap or if it just didn’t like the strangeness of it all, but it wasn’t coming after me.
I kept backing up, my eyes locked on the wolf until the path twisted and the trees blocked it from view. My legs were shaking so bad I thought I’d collapse, but I didn’t dare stop. I turned and walked faster, my stick ready, my ears straining for any sound of paws behind me. The forest was quiet, too quiet, and every snap of a twig made me jump. I kept seeing those glowing eyes in my mind, waiting for them to appear again. But the path stayed empty, and soon I saw the faint flicker of lanterns in Longshan, glowing like beacons in the dark.
When I reached our house, Mei Ling was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face tight with worry. The lantern light cast shadows on her cheeks, making her look older than her twenty-five years. “Li Wei!” she snapped, her voice sharp but trembling. “Where have you been? I told you not to take that path at night. The kids are asleep, and I’ve been pacing for hours!”
I stumbled inside, my legs giving out as I sank onto the wooden bench by the table. My hands were still shaking, and I could barely hold the cup of tea Mei Ling pushed into them. “I met a wolf,” I said, my voice so quiet it barely sounded like mine.
Mei Ling’s eyes went wide, and she dropped to her knees beside me, her hands gripping my arm. “A wolf? Li Wei, are you hurt? How did you get away?”
I took a shaky breath and told her everything—the glowing eyes, the growl, the circles in the dirt, the rocks, how I’d bluffed my way out. I described the wolf’s every move, how it sniffed and paced, how it stared at those circles like they were cursed. Mei Ling listened, her mouth open, her fingers tightening on my sleeve. When I finished, she shook her head, a mix of fear and awe in her eyes. “You’re mad, Li Wei,” she said, her voice soft now. “Mad, but so clever. You could’ve died.”
I managed a weak laugh, the tension in my chest easing just a little. “I’m not taking that path again, Mei Ling. Not at night, not ever.”
She stood up, brushing her hands on her apron, and went to the stove to reheat the soup. “Good,” she said over her shoulder. “Because I’m not raising these kids alone. You hear me?”
I nodded, sipping the tea, the warmth finally reaching my bones. We sat there for a long time, the lantern flickering, the house quiet except for the soft snores of our kids in the next room. I kept replaying the night in my head—the wolf’s eyes, the circles, the moment I realized it wasn’t following. I’d outsmarted it, but I knew it was as much luck as brains. That wolf was still out there, prowling the forest, and I’d been given a second chance I didn’t deserve.
As I lay in bed that night, Mei Ling’s breathing steady beside me, I couldn’t shake the image of those glowing eyes. The forest was no place for a man alone, not after dark. I’d won this time, but I knew the wolves were watching, waiting for the next fool to wander their path. I closed my eyes, promising myself I’d never give them another chance at me.
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