My Book:: The House in Lycan Woods

[∴♪WolfurChickϗ]

Alright, so I'm writing a book called "The House in Lycan Woods"

If you couldn't tell, it is about Werewolves.

I am WIDE open for critiques. however, if you must critique it, please PM me instead of posting it here.

I will post my book chapter by chapter as I finish them.

Alright, please read and critique!

[∴♪WolfurChickϗ]

Introduction::






As I gazed upon the torn letter in my hands, not even remembering how it ended, I could hardly understand what it meant anymore. The idea of fear seemed so very far away to me now. I know it had been me who wrote it, but I no longer felt that the words were actually mine. Infact, the idea of fear seemed so stupid to me now, so unneccassary. I studied the last sentance, my eyes darting back and forth between the paper and the rustling net of blankets strung out in a tree outside the window.

"I have something stronger than fear; the need to survive." I read the line out loud, but it sounded like a strangers words as it left my lips. In my mind, it sounded nothing like me, but what I once was, so different than what I had become.

Movement flashed in my vision and I ducked behind the tattered and stained sofa, with only my eyes peering over and into the darkness. What I could see through the cracks in the tiny window hadn't changed; a thick forest, the darkness of night splashed apon it like an ancient painting, and the swaying of the large net which hung from an old oak in the silent breeze, its seperate pouches squirming with movement.

My mind reminded me that I wasn't alone in this forest. Far from it. Luckily, I remained protected inside the old wooden shack, unseen and unheard from the outside. And still, with every movemtn, I hid myself, not from fear, no, that would have made me afraid. I hid and waited.... waiting for the opportune time to take back what was mine. After all, I had earned it. With all of my blood, with all of my sweat, I had earned it.

After a few silent moments, I shrugged off my curiosity, persuading myself that it was nothing more than a bird, probably an owl flying swiftly and silently through the trees. My eyes once more traced the words on my letter, remembering the day that I first wrote it. It was the day I began truly changing, not only physically, but mentally, spiritually, behaviorally. It was the last letter I ever wrote, the last secret I ever kept.

Then I tried remembering who I was before then, but everytime I had a memory, it no longer felt like myself. It was as if I was holding somebody else's memory. Like I was telling the story of a stranger, much different from me.

I picked up another letter from a cardboard box, labelled fragile, which was obviously once used for something else. My sharp eyes scanned the words. They felt even more distant than the last letter. It took me a few minutes to recognize it, but when I did, I realized that the words must have been written a hundred years ago, though I knew I was only seventeen. As I tried to remember all that had happened, my memories took me back to my first day in high school, which seemed to me now so impossibly long ago. Once again, I was nothing but a stranger in my past.