Midnight Howling Book 1

Chapter 1: Cold Dawn

Lyra

Lyra Gilbert lay curled on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor of the basement, her frail body trembling beneath the thin, scratchy blanket that offered little warmth. The air around her was biting, each exhale a puff of mist that lingered in the dim light, a ghostly reminder of the warmth she longed for but never found. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep, but the effort was in vain. The hours dragged on, and despite the exhaustion clinging to her bones, rest remained elusive.

A shudder passed through her as she shifted under the threadbare blanket, the fabric coarse against her skin. No matter how much she tossed or turned, there was no comfort to be found on the frozen floor. Eventually, she let out a quiet sigh, her breath shaky, and sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Her muscles protested the movement, stiff from the cold and bruised from the punishment she had received just days before.

"Might as well get the day started," she murmured, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence of the basement. There was no point in clinging to a night that offered no solace. Dawn was creeping closer, and she would be expected to be ready—expected to serve.

Her gaze drifted to the small, grimy window set high in the wall. She stood slowly, her bare feet flinching at the bite of the cold concrete beneath them as she tiptoed to the window, her thin frame shivering. At 5'2", she had to stretch on her toes to reach the ledge, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal, her grip shaky as she peered outside.

Through the tiny window, she saw the faint glow of dawn—a soft gradient of deep blues and purples giving way to the first hints of orange on the horizon. The pine trees swayed gently in the early morning breeze, their silhouettes sharp against the lightening sky. It looked like it would be a beautiful day. But the sight didn't bring her any comfort. Beauty had no place in her world.

She dropped back down, a sigh escaping her lips as her eyes flicked toward the basement stairs. The dread twisted in her stomach, coiling tighter with each passing second. Her father would wake soon, and if she wasn't careful, if she made even the slightest noise, she knew what awaited her. Her ribs still throbbed, the bruises a constant reminder of the last time she had failed to meet his impossible expectations.

Lifting the hem of her worn, oversized shirt, Lyra winced as she glanced at her side. Dark splotches of purple and yellow marred her pale skin, angry and unforgiving. She gingerly pressed her fingertips against one of the bruises, flinching at the tenderness. The memory of her father's rage flashed before her eyes, unbidden, dragging her back to that moment like a riptide pulling her under.

Flashback

"I TOLD YOU! NEVER TOUCH MY WIFE'S JEWELRY!" John's voice thundered through the house, shaking the walls with its fury. Lyra barely had time to react before he was on her, his hand fisting in the front of her shirt, yanking her forward with a strength that made her feel impossibly small.

"I was just—just cleaning them," she stammered, her words tumbling out in a rush, her voice trembling with fear. But the explanation didn't matter. It never mattered.

"Do you think I care?" John spat, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. "You filthy, ungrateful—" His voice cut off as his boot connected with her ribs, the force of the blow sending her sprawling to the floor. Pain exploded through her body, sharp and suffocating. She curled into herself instinctively, trying to protect her vulnerable sides, but he didn't stop.

The kicks came again and again, each one more vicious than the last, until the world around her blurred and her mind mercifully shut down. The last thing she remembered was the sharp tug on her hair, her head snapping back painfully as John hissed in her ear, "This is your fault. You deserve this."

End Flashback

Lyra blinked, wiping away the single tear that had escaped, her throat tight with the effort of holding back the rest. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not ever again.

With a deep breath, she pushed herself to her feet and began her silent ascent up the basement stairs, her movements slow and deliberate. The creaking of the old wood beneath her feet was like the ticking of a clock, each sound threatening to shatter the fragile peace of the early morning. She held her breath, listening for any sign of movement upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest. But the house remained still.

The kitchen was her refuge, though not by choice. The dark wooden cabinets were chipped and worn, the counters scratched from years of use, but here she had control. Here, she could lose herself in the rhythm of preparing meals, each movement precise, each task mechanical. It was the only thing she could claim mastery over in a life where so little belonged to her.

The kettle hissed as it began to boil, the sound sharp in the silence. Lyra busied herself with preparing breakfast, moving methodically through each step. She chopped vegetables, her hands steady despite the lingering ache in her ribs. Onions, peppers, spinach. Her father liked his omelets packed with everything; Ashley preferred only vegetables, and the twins—her younger brothers—demanded nothing but bacon and sausage. She knew their preferences by heart, had memorized their demands long ago.

As the bacon sizzled in the pan, its rich aroma filling the kitchen, Lyra allowed herself a fleeting moment of escape. She imagined what it might be like to sit down at a table where laughter filled the air, where her family might actually talk to her, where they shared a meal instead of her serving them in silence. She imagined her mother sitting across from her, smiling warmly as they ate together.

The fantasy was painful, and she quickly pushed it away, burying it deep where it couldn't hurt her. Hope was dangerous here. Dreams had no place in her world.

She flipped the bacon, her hands moving on autopilot. "Hopefully, today is a better day," she whispered under her breath, though even as she said it, the words rang hollow in her ears. She knew better than to expect kindness, knew better than to believe that things would change. In this house, there was no room for hope, no space for mercy. There was only survival.

And for now, that would have to be enough.