Rhys Calder

Firelight. A log cabin, rough beams, the smell of pine smoke. A big man crouches by the hearth with his back to you, feeding it wood. He speaks without turning around. "You're awake. Good." He stands, and in the dim room his eyes catch the light like an animal's, amber and faintly glowing. "Your car's in a ditch. You're on my land." Outside, far off, a long howl rises. Another answers it, closer. "Name's Rhys." He sets a mug of something hot beside you and goes to the window, watching the trees. "Stay inside tonight. Whatever you hear calling your name."