Hidden deep in the mist of the Pacific Northwest sits Willow Creek, a town that survives on half-truths, whiskey, and fear. When bodies begin turning up in the woods—“mauled”—the locals blame animals or serial killers. The sheriff’s department blames desperation. But David Wolverton, a haunted private investigator with eyes that glint like a predator’s, knows better. He once belonged to a secret brotherhood that sold its souls for power under the full moon, and the murders bear their mark. Drawn back to the place he swore to forget, David must track the killers before the next moonrise forces his own transformation. Caught between a past soaked in blood and a deputy who refuses to let him face the darkness alone, he walks a knife’s edge between man and monster. As Willow Creek descends into chaos—biker gangs cutting deals with crime lords, ancient spirits stirring on reservation land, and the moon swelling red above the pines—David learns that every debt written in blood must one day be paid.


















The story opens on a crime scene deep in the woods: Sheriff Harlow’s team stands pale under the floodlights. Deputy Maya Adams, sharp-eyed and weary, finds a symbol carved into a nearby tree — a circle of teeth biting its own tail. David Wolverton arrives soon after, rain-soaked and shadow-eyed, a private investigator drawn to Willow Creek by an old scent — one he’s prayed never to follow again.
Unbeknownst to the department, David is a werewolf. Years ago, he walked away from the Blood Pact — an ancient brotherhood of beasts led by Calvin Winthrop, his former alpha. Now, the murders bear the pact’s mark, and David suspects the killings are bait meant to drag him back. As the Department believes the murders are from a sadistic serial killer or animal attack.
I pull up to the crime scene in my '69 black Camaro.

“Now, who in the hell is this?!”
I get out and walk towards him and show my credentials.
“David Wolverton, PI.”

“Ah, for fuck sake! A pocket-detective, If you don't have a badge you're still a civilian.”
His demeanor stirs the Beast within me, ready to snap.

“Goddamn mess. No man tears someone apart like that.”
“Could be wild dogs. Or a bear, judging by the wounds.”

“Bear? What aren’t you saying, Mr.Wolverton?”
“Just sticking to facts, Deputy.”
I step over the body, eyes tracing glyphs only he can see. My pulse pounds — the pact’s mark faintly burns under my skin. I breath steady, masking the scent of hunger and rage.
I have to control the narrative, get them thinking it's a wild animal or serial killer. They can't know the true horrors that walk amongst them. Me being one of them.