Werewolf Of FeverPeak

Chapter 4 - The Awakening

Aiden drove through the twisting roads of Feverpeak, the icy wind slashing through the half-cracked windows of his car. His cigarette, nearly burned to the filter, hung loosely from his lips. As he flicked the butt out the window and looked up at the fading sunlight, he stepped on the gas, speeding down the street and nearly crashing into his own garage. His house sat at the edge of a cracked, narrow road, sagging under the weight of years of neglect. The once-white paint had faded to a sickly gray, peeling in jagged strips that revealed the weathered wood beneath. The roof was missing shingles, with patches of rusted tin visible where gaps had been haphazardly repaired. The windows, framed by crumbling sills, were clouded with grime; some were cracked, while others were completely broken and stuffed with old newspapers or plastic bags to keep the drafts out. Weeds and thorny vines had overtaken the small yard, choking what little grass remained and snaking up the sides of the house like nature reclaiming its territory. A rusted, bent chain-link fence leaned precariously toward the sidewalk, its gate hanging off one hinge, creaking with every gust of wind. The porch, once a gathering place, now seemed to dare anyone to step on it, its wooden boards bowed and split. A single porch light flickered weakly, casting just enough light to illuminate the battered front door. The only sounds were the distant hum of the freeway and the occasional bark of a stray dog, underscoring the loneliness that hung in the air like a thick fog.

Aiden stepped into the house, ignoring the mess of mail and newspapers scattered across the floor. Pizza boxes and beer cans littered the tables, but he walked past them without a second glance, heading straight for the basement. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud. Every step he took down the wooden stairs creaked under his weight. The basement was dimly lit by a single, buzzing fluorescent light that flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows across the cluttered space. The walls were a patchwork of exposed brick and crumbling drywall, stained from years of water damage and neglect. Weapons lined the walls in a chaotic display: crossbows, silver-tipped arrows, machetes with nicked blades, and rusty chains. Some hung from makeshift hooks, while others leaned haphazardly against the cracked foundation, as if grabbed in haste and never properly returned. In the far corner, a heavy wooden table bore the scars of countless experiments-deep gouges from knife blades and bullet holes riddling its surface. Above it, maps, old and yellowing, were tacked to the wall, covered in hand-drawn marks and scrawled notes. Some locations were circled in red ink; others were marked with X's, indicating unknown names and targets still at large. Faded Polaroids of strange-looking, slain figures with vacant eyes were pinned alongside the maps like grim trophies. A small cot, barely wide enough for one person, was shoved against the far wall, covered with a tattered wool blanket. A stained pillow slumped on top, evidence of countless sleepless nights. The floor was a mess of spent bullet casings, crumpled papers, and empty whiskey bottles, their glass glinting in the low light. Shelves sagged under the weight of old books-grimoires, monster compendiums, and occult texts-many of them dog-eared, with pages torn out or marked with sticky notes. Jars filled with strange substances lined the shelves too, from powders to animal bones floating in murky liquids. They were labeled in near-illegible scrawl, their contents a mystery to all but Aiden. A faint, acrid smell of gunpowder and sulfur hung in the air, mixing with the earthy dampness of the basement. The hum of a generator echoed softly in the background, powering the few essentials the hunter relied on: a CB radio crackling with static, an old TV set displaying grainy surveillance footage, and a small, battered laptop plugged into the wall.

Aiden walked over to the table and took out a tuft of fur from his pocket, setting it on a small glass plate. Grabbing a recorder from the cluttered table, he undressed and sat down. "October 4th, 7:37 PM. It's moved on to humans. First reports of pets going missing started back in March. I was never able to get DNA samples until today. It's getting sloppy-left a piece of its fur behind. I will find out what exactly it is, no matter the cost." He ended the recording and yawned, preparing to start testing when suddenly, the CB radio crackled with static.

"Be advised, we've got a 146 at Banjo's Deli. No rush, hehe... Their son killed an officer a year ago. Let that fucker learn!" Aiden's head snapped toward the radio. "I will, though," he muttered, standing up. He walked over to a closet and swung it open, revealing a dark brown leather suitcase. He took it out, setting it on the hammock, and knelt before it, whispering, "Time to reopen the scars... please keep my soul clean, Crowley." He opened the suitcase, his heart pounding in his chest. After a few minutes, he was ready. Standing in the middle of the basement, beneath the swaying light, Aiden transformed into Crowley. The plague doctor's mask, made of worn leather with a long beak, evoked fear and curiosity in equal measure. The black, reflective lenses concealed his eyes, hiding any trace of humanity. The mask served both as protection from airborne curses and as a grim reminder of death's shadow.

Crowley's attire was dark and layered, reinforced with armor. It was designed for both stealth and combat, prepared for movement through dark forests, abandoned ruins, and foul swamps. Strapped to his belt and chest were various pouches and vials filled with strange herbs, alchemical concoctions, and holy water. Each tool had its purpose-some to kill, some to heal, others to protect Crowley from harm. In his hands, he wielded a silver revolver and a blade etched with ancient runes, stained by his past battles. He took a deep, muffled breath and slapped his own head, grounding himself. Crowley then moved to the closet and shoved it aside, revealing a large tunnel. Crawling through, he emerged in a neighboring, dilapidated house. Aiden tore through the space like a madman, tossing objects aside until he found a pair of keys. Pressing a button, a single beam of light pierced the darkness. Moments later, Crowley, like a missile, sped through the destroyed front door on a motorbike. In the distance, the faint chime of the town's clock tower echoed-it was officially 8 PM. He weaved through back roads and alleyways, racing toward the heart of Feverpeak, ready for the hunt to begin.