From Man To Beast

The rain slashed against the windows of the archive building like claws on glass, as if the storm itself was trying to pry its way into the forgotten halls of knowledge. Ethan Cross stood beneath the stone archway of the University of Braunschweig's historical archives, water dripping from the brim of his fedora. His boots squelched against the polished floor as he stepped inside, the door groaning behind him like a weary beast.

Ethan was no stranger to secrets. As a seasoned investigative journalist specializing in myth-busting and folklore, he'd spent years chasing ghosts across Europe. But nothing had unnerved him quite like the message he received three nights ago from Professor Wilhelm Drexler.

"It's real, Ethan. They've lied to us for centuries. I need you here-alone."

Drexler was not prone to dramatics. His reputation was rooted in logic, skepticism, and a strict adherence to historical accuracy. So when he called, Ethan listened.

Now, standing in the dimly lit corridor of the archive wing, Ethan felt the weight of something pressing down on him. It wasn't just the air, thick with mildew and age-it was something older. Hungrier.

A door creaked open at the end of the hall.

"Ethan," a voice rasped.

Professor Drexler looked thinner than he had in years. His eyes, always sharp, were now rimmed with sleepless red. He ushered Ethan into a room lined with oak bookshelves and dust-laden tomes. At the center, under a protective glass case, lay a book unlike any Ethan had seen.

It was bound in what appeared to be animal hide, the leather darkened by centuries. A crimson wax seal-still intact-bore the insignia of a wolf's head howling at a crescent moon.

"This," Drexler said, breathlessly, "should not exist."

He unlocked the case with trembling fingers. As the seal broke with a crack that echoed too loud in the silence, a rush of stale air burst forth-air that hadn't touched lungs in over five hundred years.

Ethan leaned in. "Where did you find it?"

"I didn't," Drexler whispered. "It was delivered. No name. No return address. Just... this."

The first page was a dense scrawl of Latin and Old High German, written in frantic, jagged lines. But the drawings were unmistakable. Human figures bending backward, bones splitting, hair sprouting, jaws elongating.

"You're thinking folklore," Drexler said, reading Ethan's expression. "But these entries are dated. Locations noted. Names listed. Cross-referenced with death records. All matching."

Ethan's brows furrowed. He flipped through the pages, stopping at one with a sketch of a man chained to a tree. Below, the translation read:

*"He screamed for mercy as the moon rose. But when the silver light touched him, his cries became snarls. And then, silence."

Drexler pointed to a marginal note. "This one was found near Leipzig. 1472. His name was Heinrich Albrecht. Witnessed by seven villagers. Tried and burned for heresy. But not before he turned again-right in front of the magistrate."

Ethan frowned. "This is... compelling. But it's still circumstantial. No physical evidence. No proof."

"That's where you're wrong."

Drexler walked to a locked drawer and withdrew a small vial containing a single, yellowed tooth. "Recovered from the grave marked Albrecht's. Forensics couldn't identify the species. It's not human. Not canine either."

Before Ethan could respond, Drexler handed him a photocopy of the manuscript's final page.

It was written not in old script, but in modern ink.

And at the bottom, a chilling line:

"He walks again. He wears your face."

Ethan's stomach dropped. "Is this a joke?"

Drexler's hands trembled. "Look at the date at the corner."

April 17th, 2025. Yesterday.

"This wasn't in the book when I catalogued it last week. Someone-or something-added it."

A sudden sound split the silence: a low, drawn-out growl. It came from the corridor.

Ethan turned, heart hammering.

"There's no one else here," Drexler said, reaching slowly for the light switch.

The lights flickered-and then died.

In the darkness, something moved. A shadow darted across the far wall.

Ethan's recorder buzzed in his satchel. He fumbled to retrieve it, but froze.

Tucked beside the recorder was another page. It hadn't been there before.

This time, it bore his full name.

Ethan Cross. The next vessel.

A crash erupted in the hallway.

Drexler grabbed Ethan's arm. "We have to go. Now."

But as they stepped into the hallway, they found the exit blocked. Something stood at the far end-a silhouette hunched and heaving, eyes glinting like cold fire.

It sniffed the air.

And then it spoke. In a voice that wasn't human:

"I've been waiting for you, Ethan."