Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Monster Hunter in the USA. We have Five STRANGE RULES

Episode Date: March 9, 2026

Join Lighthouse Horror on Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonShop at the Lighthouse Horror Giftshop: https://hauntedstuff.com/Art & Credits: ninerioartsMusic by Lucas King, Myuu, Kevin MacLeod & Darren CurtisOriginal YouTube link: I'm a Monster Hunter in the USA. We have Five STRANGE RULES. Copyright © 2025 Lighthouse Horror. All rights reservedThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

People never call it what it is. They say big dog, bear. They say something got into the livestock. They don't say werewolf. My name is Matthew. I'm 41 years old, and for the last 12 years, I've made a living, killing werewolves for counties that don't want headlines, and families that don't want reporters on their lawns. I'm not military.

I'm not part of some secret order. I grew up outside Ashland, Kentucky. My dad ran a tire shop off US 23. My mom worked nights at a hospital cafeteria. I hunted deer every fall, starting at 13. Then that's about as dramatic as my origin story gets. The first werewolf I saw, it wasn't during a full moon in some fog-covered forest. It was behind a Dollar General outside Grayson. Sheriff's Department called it in as a rabid animal. I was 29 and still doing contract pest control. Coyotes, feral hogs, nuisance bears.

I shot it twice before I understood what I was looking at. The second time I didn't hesitate. Word travels in rural counties. After that, I started getting different calls, quiet ones. The kind where deputies don't file reports. The kind where farmers hand you cash in an envelope, and don't ask for a receipt. That's how this job works. No uniforms, no badges, just a truck, silver rounds, and five rules.

That night we were parked off Kentucky Route 10. Half a mile past a rusted farm gate that leaned like had given up. The property belonged to a man named Curtis Henson, 62 retired machinist, three goats missing in two weeks. One found opened up behind the feed shed. Sheriff rode it up as feral dogs. Curtis called me anyway. I shut the engine off and let it ticked down in the dark. The quiet out there was not natural. No insects, no distant highway hump. You hear that? I asked. The kid in the passenger seat shook his head. His name was Brandon Ellis, 24, fresh out of the academy, volunteer deputy. He still checked his rifle every five minutes, like it might disappear if he didn't look at it.

That's the problem, I said. You, um, you think it's here? He asked. It's always here, I began. Question is, whether it's alone. He shifted in his seat and adjusted the sling on his rifle, silver-plated rounds in his magazine. I had 12-gauge slugs in my lap, each one hand-loaded and dipped clean.

thermal monocular hanging from my neck. Red lens flashlight clipped in my vest. Turnicant in my left cargo pockets, I don't pack light. You said there were rules, Brandon said. Sheriff didn't mention rules. The sheriff thinks this is animal control, I began. It isn't. I opened the door and stepped out into gravel.

The ear smelled like cut hay. The farmhouse sat. 200 yards up the drive. Ports light off, windows black. Beyond it, the barn crouched low and square against the tree line. Brandon came around the hood and joined me. His boots crunched too loud. Roll your feet, I said. He adjusted and tried again. We walked halfway up the drive before I stopped and raised the thermal to my eye. One large heat signature right behind the barn. Not moving much, elevated temperature, roughly the size of a giraffe horse if you were generous. Brandon leaned in.

You see it? I see something, I said. We cut left instead of heading straight in. Always change the angle. If it's watching, and it probably was, it expects you to walk right up to the barn door like an idiot. Brandon kept his light low. So, you've been doing this 12 years? Closer to 13, my said.

And you've never messed up, huh? I lowered the thermal and looked at him. I've messed up, kid, that began. That's why there's rules. A wooden plank creaked from inside the barn. Brandon's breathing changed. Before we get any closer, I began. You need to understand.

understand something. I'm listening. There are five rules. You break one and you don't get a redo. He tried to smile, but it didn't stick. What kind of rules? Well, the kind you follow, even when you think you don't need to. The heat signature inside the barn moved.

It paced once along the interior wall. The outline through the boards wasn't clean. wasn't clean, but the height was wrong for a dog. Shoulders too wide. Head carried too high. Brandon raised his rifle halfway. Not yet, I said. It looks big.

Yeah, big isn't the same as shifted. He glanced at me, confused. One. Never shoot until you confirm the target is fully shifted, I said. metal scraped inside the barn. A chain clinked once. Then a low sound rolled out through the slats. Steady.

Not a bark. Not a howl. More like someone clearing their throat before speaking. Brandon flinched. Stay calm, I said. The barn door moved just an inch. Not swinging open, just pressure against it. I stepped sideways for a clearer line of fire, and I felt the gravel shift under my boot.

Safety off, I said quietly. Brandon clicked his off. Inside the barn, something heavy exhaled. Welcome to the job. Now listen carefully. The rules are the only reason I'm still alive. And the first one was about to matter. Rule 1.

Never shoot until you confirm the target has shifted fully. You don't fire on movement. You don't fire on size. You don't fire because your nerves are screaming at you to do something. You fire when the shift locks. That night behind Curtis Henson's barn, Brandon almost learned that the hard way. The barn door flexed inward again. Not much.

Just enough to show. something heavy was leaning against it from the inside. I lifted the thermal and adjusted the focus ring. The heat signature was tall. Too tall. It moved with a slow, uneven sway. One shoulder dipped lower than the other. That's the first thing people misunderstand. They think werewolves snap into place like movie monsters. One clean transformation and poof, done. It isn't clean or mechanical. Brandon whispered, "'That's it, right?' "'Maybe,' I began, but not yet.'

The door slid another inch, and a shape pressed into the gap. At first it looked human, torso, arms, head bent forward, but the proportions were wrong. The spine curved too far. The arms hung too long. Brandon brought his rifle up. Don't, I said. But it's coming out.

Not fully, I replied. The thing inside the barn shifted its weight, and the door jerked open wider with a sudden snap. Wood splintered, where something crawled through the inner brace. A hand came through first. Not a paw. A hand. Five fingers.

Too long. Nails dark and thickened. The skin looked tight over the knuckles. like had been stretched. Brandon's breath caught. It's still human. It's not, I said. It's mid-shift.

The arm convulsed. I saw the elbow joint snap backward at a wrong angle and then correct itself with a grinding motion. The fingers curled and likened, the nails split and peeled forward into black claws. Brandon's rifle wavered. shoot it now he said if you shoot it now you're just going to make it angry i replied the head pushed through next at that stage they still look wrong in a way that tricks you the jaw starts to extend but hasn't finished the nose flattens and pushes outward teeth lengthen unevenly some still human some already fanged the eyes cloud over and then refocus. Half human, half wolf. And that is the worst version. The door tore free of one hinge

as the body forced its way out. It's sure it was half shredded and hanging from one shoulder. Ribs were visible beneath skin that stretched and tightened with every breath. Brandon's finger tightened on the trigger. Wait, I said sharply. The creature dropped to one knee and let out a low, wet growl. Its spine rippled under the skin, like something was crawling beneath it. The shoulder blades pushed outward, forming ridges. The forearms thickened.

The sound it made wasn't a howl. It was a choke, like it was swallowing gravel. That's the moment most rookies break. The sound triggers something in the back of your brain. rain. Fight or flight kicks in, and you want to end it? But silver against a half-formed body doesn't kill clean. It shocks? And when you shock something mid-shift, the pain hits every nerve at once. I know because I did it once. Years ago, outside greenup, I fired too early. The slug caught it in the ribs before the rib cage had finished widening. It didn't drop.

It convulsed. And then it came at me with both arms still half human, and it tore open my left thigh before I got a second shot off. I still limp when it rains. Inside Curtis's yard, the creature's jaw snapped forward with a wet crack. Teeth settled into place. The ears pulled up and back against the skull. The torso expanded and unlocked.

You can see it when it happens. The shift reaches the end of its cycle and stops adjusting. The movements become coordinated instead of chaotic. The creature stood to full height, close to eight feet, fur now fully grown across its chest and shoulders. The eyes were clear yellow, focused. That's when it's a werewolf. Not before.

Now, I said. Brandon fired. The first round hit high in the chest. The impact jerked the creature backward a step. Silver burns through them like acid through tin. Smoke lifted from the entry wound. I fired a half second later, and I put a slug through its open mouth. The head snapped back.

Bone and fur sprayed across the barn door. It staggered forward anyway. They always do. Brandon fired again. This time the shot caught the shoulder joint and blew it apart. The arm hung useless. The creature lunged on three limbs and hit the gravel hard enough to crack it. I stepped in close and I put the final round into the base of the skull.

It went still. We stood there in the dust and smoke, both breathing too hard. Brandon lowered his rifle slowly. If I had shot, When the arm came out, it would have hit mid-rib, I interrupted, and it would have felt every nerve in its body catch fire. He looked at the torn gravel, imagining it. It would have covered that distance before you chambered the next round up again, and it would have used what was left of its hands to open you up. Brandon gulped.

I walked forward and nudged the body with my boot. No movement. The jaw hung slack. The fur was already losing its sheen. You don't shoot until the shift locks, I said. Full height, full structure, eyes focused. He nodded, but his hands were still shaking. I wiped the barrel of my shotgun with a rag and began reloading.

The barn behind us creaked as the hinge gave way, and the door fell flat into the dirt. Brandon stared at the corpse. How do you know when it's finished? You watch the spine, I began. You watch the shoulders, and when the movement stops looking painful and starts looking deliberate,

that's when you fire. He looked back at me. And if you're wrong? Then you're dead, I said. The wind picked up slightly and carried the smell of blood across the yard. Brandon took a long breath and studied himself. Well, that's Rule 1, I continued.

You wait until it's fully what it's going to be. Never before. Behind the barn, somewhere deeper in the tree line, a branch snapped. Brandon's head turned. I didn't move. Because one heat signature rarely tells the whole story. Rule 2.

Never let one lure you in the whole. one lure you indoors. If it goes inside, you don't follow. I don't care if it drags something in. I don't care if it screams. I don't care if it looks wounded. You keep your boots outside. Curtis Henson thanked us three times before we left his property.

We loaded the body into the bed of my truck under a tarb and told him to lock his livestock and the steel pin for a few nights. I didn't tell him about the branch snap and the tree line. There's no point in giving a man something he can't fix. Brandon rode quiet on the way back toward town. An hour later, my phone rang. Another call. Different county line. Edge of Portsmouth, Ohio.

A deputy named Aaron King said a woman had reported something huge running into a vacant house off the street. House had been empty six months. Bank foreclosure. Windows boarded, but one side door busted open. I didn't hesitate. Still there? I asked.

Yeah, we heard movement inside. King said. Then it stopped. Don't go in, I told him. Silence. You hear me? I mean, we were about to clear it. King replied.

Do not go in, I repeated. Brandon looked over at me. We're doing another? You want sleep? I asked. He didn't answer. We crossed the river into Ohio just before midnight. The vacant house sat back from the street behind a chingling fence, porch sagging, one upstairs window missing its boards.

Streetlights threw long yellow shadows across the lawn. Two cruisers were parked crooked in the drive. Deputy King stood near the front steps with a flashlight in his hand and his pistol already drawn. You're Matthew? He asked when I stepped out. That's me. He jerked his chin toward the house.

We saw something move past the kitchen window, big, not a dog. Anyone inside? I asked. Well, house is supposed to be empty. Supposed to be, I repeated. Brandon came around the truck, rifle slung. King item. "'He good?'

"'It'll be fine if he listens,' I said. And we walked toward the house together. The front door hung half open. Inside, the living room was dark except for a sliver of streetlight, cutting across the carpet. Old furniture still sat in the room, covered in dusty sheets. King lifted his pistol. We were about to sweep.

"'No,' I said. He frowned. We can't just let it sit in there. Yes, we can, I said. I stepped to the side of the doorway, instead of standing in it. Always offset. I leaned in just enough to shine my red lens across the far wall. Scratch marks.

Four long grooves running down from the ceiling toward the floor. It's in there, Brandon whispered. Of course it is, I said. A heavy fight came from deeper inside the house. Then another. It wanted us to hear it. King stepped toward the threshold. I grabbed the back of his vest and pulled him hard enough to rock him off balance.

You don't cross that line, I said. He looked defended. It's just a house? It is not just a house anymore, I replied. Rule two exists, because walls compressed space. Weirwolves don't need distance the way we do. They don't need clean lines of sight. Inside a house, they use door frames like cover.

They use stairwells like funnels. They break through drywall instead of using hallways. Out here, I control distance. And there it does. The fudge stopped. Silence. Brandon gulped. What if it's high?

hiding. It is hiding, I began. And it wants you to come find it. A board creaked upstairs. King's jaw tightened. We can't just wait. We don't wait, I said. We move it.

I circled left along the exterior wall, keeping space between me and the windows. Brandon mirrored me. King followed, slower now. We reached the side yard. The kitchen window was broken out, glass scattered across the dirt. I lifted the thermal and angled it through the opening. Heat signature inside. Crouched low behind the kitchen island.

Not moving. See it? Brandon whispered. Yes. Why isn't it coming out? Because it wants us to step in, I said. King exhaled hard. So what do we do?

I stepped back and handed Brandon the thermal. Watch that window. Then I moved to the back door and kicked it open. The sound echoed through the house. Still no movement. I picked up a brick from the flower bed and I hurled it through the living room window. Glass exploded inward. Still nothing.

I grabbed a metal trash can lid from the side yard and I slipped up. slammed it against the siding three times, loud and sharp. A growl rolled out from inside, low and irritated. And there it was. The kitchen window frame splintered as something large shifted behind it. A flash of yellow eyes. Fur along the edge of the counter. Back up, I said.

We retreated five steps into open yard. The back door shuddered once, and then it burst outward. The werewolf exploded into the yard in a spray of wood and dust, full shift, tall, leaner than the one at the barn, and faster. It didn't charge straight. It juked left, then right, testing angles. And that's what happens inside houses. They get used to tight spaces. They learned to bounce off walls and redirect. Brandon fired first. The round clipped the hip.

The creature stumbled but kept moving. King fired his pistol twice and missed both times. The werewolf lunged toward the porch, using the railing as leverage to change direction again. If we'd been in that hallway, it would have hit us before we got a second shot. I dropped the one knee, and I waited for the turn. When it pivoted toward Brandon, I fired center mass.

The slug punched through the sternum. The creature faltered. Brandon steadied himself and put a second round into its throat. It collapsed in a grass ten feet from the front steps. King stood frozen, pistol still extended. That's why, I said. He lowered the guns slowly. Brandon looked at the shattered doorway.

If we'd gone inside, it would have come through drywall, I interrupted, or down the stairs from above you, or from the crawl space, who knows? King stared at the broken porch railing. It led us hear it. Yes. It wanted us to clear the house. Yes, I said. He wiped his sweat for it.

his forehead. We almost did. I nodded. The body twitched once and went still. Brandon let out of breath he'd been holding. So if it runs into a building, you don't follow, I said. You flush it out. He nodded slowly.

I walked to the end of the porch and looked at the gouges carved into the doorframe. Fresh wood splintered outward. You give it walls and you give it control, I said. The cruiser's lights flashed red and blue across the front of the house. Neighbors were peeking through curtains now. King holstered his pistol. That's rule too, huh? That's rule too, I said.

I reloaded and stepped back toward the truck. If it goes inside, I continued. You let it come back out. On your terms. Behind us, the house stood open and broken, but we were still standing in open ground. Rule three. Never hunt alone during a full moon sweep. You don't do this job by yourself.

Not on a full moon. Not when sighting starts stacking up in the same county. Not when tracks overlap. You think you're tracking one, you're not. Two nights after the house in Portsmouth, the call started clustering along the edge of Wayne National Forest. Chicken's gone. A calf dragged twenty yards from a fence line.

Something seemed crossing a logging road near Ironton just after midnight. Full moon was due up at 9.14 p.m. That timing matters. Brandon showed up at my place before sunset. His shoulder was bruised from recoil and lack of sleep. He didn't complain, though. You think it's connected? He asked while loading fresh silver rounds into his magazine.

Always assume it is, I said. We drove south and cut into the gravel access road that feeds into the forest. The trees out there grow tight. The canopy blocks more light than people expect. Even under a full moon, the ground stays dark. At the ranger gate, we met d'clock. deputy Aaron King again. He'd brought another volunteer, a guy named Trevor Scott, early 30s, big guy, confident in a way that comes from not having seen enough yet.

You, uh, you sure we need four of us? Trevor asked. Yes, I said. He smiled like he thought I was exaggerating. We parked the truck's nose out for a quick exit and cut our engines. The moon was already rising over the tree line. Bright and round and wrong, and that way it gets when it's too clear. I lifted the thermal and scanned the ridge line.

One heat signature. Large. Moving parallel to the logging road about a hundred yards up. There, I said, handing the monocular to Brandon. He looked. Just one. Right now, I said. Trevor shouldered his rifle.

So we circle it? No, I said. We move together. He frowned. If we split up, we can box in. No, I said. Rule three exist, because werewolves understand flanking better than you do. They don't talk. They don't signal. They read each other's movement by instinct.

You split up. up, you become four isolated targets. We moved into the trees in a tight, staggered line. Brandon behind me, King behind him, Trevor bringing up the rear. The forest floor was dry, leaves crunching under boots, no matter how careful we stepped. I didn't like that. Noise covers approach.

The heat signature crossed the ridge again. Trevor leaned forward. We've got it moving. It's letting us see it, I said. The shape disappeared behind a thick stand of pines. Brandon whispered, lost it. I took the thermal back and adjusted the angle. Two new heat blooms appeared.

One to our left and one to our right. They hadn't been there 30 seconds earlier. Stop, I said. Trevor stepped forward anyway. It's splitting up. No, I said. We're being split. The original signature reappeared ahead of us and broke into a run across the ridge, fully visible now in the moonlight.

Tall and lean and fast, Trevor raised his rifle and took a step toward it. The left side heat signature started moving. Fast. Left, Brandon shouted. A massive shape burst from behind a fallen log then. It had charged straight at Trevor. He barely had time to pivot before I'd hit him in the chest and knocked him backward into a tree. King fired once and missed.

The wolf snapped at Trevor's arm and tore fabric but didn't get flesh. The third heat signature flared bright behind us. The decoy on the ridge had stopped running. It turned. And now all three were oriented toward us. Back to back, I yelled. We tightened formation. That's the difference between living and dying in a pack encounter.

You don't chase or pursue. You hold center, and you force them to come through you. The left wolf lunged again. I fired into his shoulder joint. The silver slug ripped muscle and spun it sideways, but it didn't drop. Brandon pivoted and fired right, catching the second wolf across the ribs. It staggered and snarled. The one on the ridge let out a long, rising howl.

It wasn't random. It was coordination. The injured wolf pressed in again, not retreating. Trevor finally got a clean shot off and blew a chunk out of its flank. The third wolf came downhill. Fast. I felt the ground. vibrate before I saw it fully.

Down, I said. Brandon dropped to one knee and fired upward as the creature cleared a fallen branch mid-leap. The round caught it in the lower abdomen. It crashed short of its target and it rolled hard across the forest

floor. King moved to finish the injured one on the left. Don't chase, I said. Too late. King stepped forward to paces to get a better angle, and the right-side wolf used the gap instantly. It slammed into him from the side, and it drove him into the dirt. I fired it near point-blank range, catching it behind the ear. The skull cracked, and it went limp across King's legs. The third wolf, the one Brandon had

hit mid-air, was already scrambling to its feet. It wasn't retreating. It was recalculating. Trevor, bleeding from a shallow gash on his forearm, raised his rifle and fired twice in quick succession. The first missed. The second hit center chest. The wolf staggered but didn't fall. Full moon. They don't feel pain the same way under a full moon.

I stepped forward, planted my feet, and waited for the charge. And it ran toward me. Head low, arms wide. I aimed for the mouth and fired. The slug punched through the upper jaw and exited behind the skull. The body folded inward and skidded to a stop less than ten feet from us. Silence dropped back over the forest. Trevor was breathing hard.

King rolled onto his side, groaning. Brandon kept scanning with a thermal hand shaking. One more? He asked. I swept the tree line. Nothing. Just residual heat from our bodies. King pushed himself up.

Dirt and blood streaked across his uniform. If we'd split up, you'd be gone, I said. Brandon looked at the dead wolf near his boots. They used a decoy. Yes, they did, I said. Trevor wiped blood from his forearm. I thought we could box it. You don't box a pack, I said.

You try and survive it. He nodded, slower now. We stood there under the moonlight, just staring out in front of us. Rule three isn't complicated. You don't hunt alone when the moon is full, because when you think you're tracking one, you're already inside a triangle. And triangles close fast.

Rule four. Some of them aren't bad. Don't kill the wrong one. Now most of them are killers. That part doesn't change. Most of them don't care about fences or property lines. They don't care about livestock tags or porch lights. They hunt wood moves, and if it's smaller than they are, they take it.

But every once in a while, you find one that isn't hunting. And if you shoot that one, you don't just make a mistake. You create a problem that follows you for years. We got the call outside Vanceburg, Kentucky, just before dusk. A couple in their late 50s reported a giant creature in their backyard. The husband said it was standing upright, and holding something long and sharp. That description puts your pulse up fast. Long and sharp means weapon.

Brandon and I pulled into the gravel drive and cut the engine. The house sat back from the road with a small fenced garden beside it, wooden tomato cages, fresh-turned soil, a stack of bagged fertilizer near the shed. The husband met us on the porch. His hands shook while he talked. It was big, the husband said. Standing in the garden.

Did it attack anything? I asked. No, no. It was digging, he said. Digging? Brandon asked. Like it was burying something. The husband added. Brandon looked over at me. We walked around the side of the house and stopped at the fence line. I shut off my flashlight and let my eyes adjust.

And there it was. Fool, werewolf. Broadshore. shoulders, thick fur down its spine, standing over a row of freshly turned soil. In its hand was something long and metallic. Brandon lifted his rifle. Hold, I said quietly. The creature bent forward and drove the metal object into the dirt.

I raised the thermal monocular and scanned the yard. heat signature. No movement beyond the steady rhythm of digging. The metal object caught a bit of fading light. Shevel. This is our chance. Let me shoot it, Brandon said. The creature stopped digging, and it turned its head slowly in our direction. Its eyes reflected the last bit of sunset. It straightened to full height, still holding the shovel. Brandon tightened on the trigger. Don't, I said. The werewolf looked at us for a long

second, and then it spoke. I'm not a bad one, idiot. What? Brandon said, blinking. The werewolf shifted the shovel in his hands, and scowled. I'm planting my damn tomatoes, it said. There was no growl in its voice. I lowered my shotgun slightly. Sorry, I said. The werewolf glared at us another moment, and then it turned back to the soil. It stabbed the shovel into the ground again. Scrape. It paused and glanced over its shoulder. People see fur, and they lose their damn minds, it muttered.

And then it went back to digging. Brandon slowly lowered his rifle all the way And we stood there watching for a few seconds The werewolf straightened again Wiped Dirt off one claw against its leg And walked toward the edge of the yard with a shovel over its shoulder I can't even go outside for a bit of moon air And plant my damn tomatoes without idiots running about

Trying to shoot me and whatnot The werewolf muttered as it shook its fist at us and then it disappeared fully into the tree line. Brandon exhaled hard. We almost shot him. Yeah, I said. He was holding the shovel, Brandon said. He looked toward the dark trees where the werewolf had gone.

What if we'd kill them? he asked. Be glad we didn't, I replied. He nodded slowly. Now, remember, most of them are bad. But every once in a while, you find one that just wants to be left alone. Rule 4 exists, because your job isn't to kill everything with fur and claws. It's to kill the ones that deserve it. Rule 5.

If you see two of them fighting, leave them alone. You don't step between them. You don't take advantage of the distraction. don't move closer for a clean shot, you back up. You wouldn't jump between two rabbit dogs tearing at each other at a yard, would you? Now multiply that by ten. We learned that one outside Iron Ten, Ohio, three nights after the Forest Pack encounter. Call came in around 120 a.m. Two different residents reported large animals fighting near an abandoned storage facility off State Route 93. One caller said, it sounds like

sounded like trucks crashing into each other. Accurate. Brandon and I pulled into the cracked asphalt lot and killed the headlights before we reached the chain link fence. The moon was high and bright enough to cast hard shadows across the rows of metal roll-up doors. We heard it before we saw it. A deep, vibrating snarl.

That impact. Metal buckled somewhere in the darkness. Brandon said, That's not one. We moved along the fence line and found a gap where the chain had been torn loose. I raised the thermal,

and I scanned over the rows of units. Two heat signatures, both enormous. They weren't circling. They were colliding. One slammed the other into a row of storage doors hard enough to dent the steel inward.

The second wolf twisted, clamped its jaws into the first one's shoulder and drove it sideways across the pavement. The sound wasn't howling. It was bone and muscle hitting metal. Brandon leaned forward. They're distracted. The two wolves rolled across the asphalt, claws tearing grooves into the surface. One got on top and drove its forearm down into the other's throat. The lower wolf kicked upward and sent them both crashing in the surface. into a stack of plastic bins outside one of the units.

The bins exploded into pieces. Brandon shifted his stance. If we take the dominant one first, back up, I interrupted. He looked at me like I was wasting an opportunity. That's the trap. Now, when two werewolves fight, it's not a duel. It's not about territory in a way you think.

It's like a violent hierarchy correction. Whoever wins walks away stronger and meaner. And if you interrupt that process, both of them redirect at you. One of the wolves broke free and staggered backward, chest heaving. The other followed immediately, not giving it space, not letting it disengage. They slammed together again. The ground shook under our boots. Brandon took one cautious step forward through the fence gap.

I grabbed the back of his vest, and I pulled him hard enough to make him stumble. Do not go in there, I said. They're right there. And they will both turn on us if we move closer, I replied. As if to prove the point, the larger of the two wolves paused mid-strike and lifted its head. It sniffed the air. The smaller wolf twisted free and lunged again, but the larger one wasn't focused on it anymore. Its eyes shifted toward the fence line, toward us.

Back, and I said. We moved five steps away from the opening. The larger wolf shoved the smaller one aside and took two deliberate steps in our direction. The smaller wolf came in it from behind and sank its teeth into the back of its thigh. The larger wolf roared and spun, slamming the smaller one into a storage unit door, so hard the metal bowed inward. And that's what saved us. If the second wolf hadn't re-engaged, the first one would have charged the fence. Brandon's breathing was fast now. The smaller wolf's leg bent in an unnatural angle under the larger one's weight. The larger wolf clamped its jaws

around the smaller one's throat and drove it down out of the asphalt. There's a moment in those fights where it shifts from struggle to execution. You see the resistance fade. The larger wolf held its grip and shook once, and the smaller wolf went limp. Silence fell heavy and sudden across the lot. The standing wolf lifted its head slowly. Blood ran down its chest. One eye was half-swollen shut, its ribcage rose and fell and deep pulls. It turned fully toward the fence then. Toward us. And this is the part rookies get wrong. They think the fight weakened it. It didn't. It thinned competition. The wolf took a step forward. Then another. It wasn't charging yet. It was deciding. I raised my shotgun.

but didn't step through the fence. Brandon brought his rifle up. Wait for the angle, I said. The wolf advanced three more steps into the open lot, leaving the body behind. It lowered its head and let out a low growl. If we'd been ten feet closer, it would have closed that distance

before we could chamber another round. It crouched. That was the decision. I fired first. The slug hit high in the chest. The impact staggered in but didn't stop the forward motion. Brandon fired half a second later, catching it across the lower ribs. It charged then.

Not straight. It veered left, then right, testing the fence gap. I stepped sideways to widen my line, and I fired again, this time aiming for the open mouth. The slug punched through the upper jaw. The wolf slammed into the chain-length fence, hard enough. to make it rattle and sag. Brandon fired one last round into its neck. The body slid down the fence and went still. We held position for a full ten seconds. No movement, no heat shifts on thermal, just two massive shapes on the asphalt. Brandon lowered his rifle slowly.

He looked through the fence at the torn-up lot, the gouges and the pavement, the bent metal door's, the body lying twisted near the storage units. They weren't ignoring us, he said. They were prioritizing. Well, you don't break up a fight between dogs, I began. You don't get between bears. And you don't put yourself into a werewolf fight, thinking it's your moment. Brandon looked at the dead wolf slumped against the fence.

They multiply everything by ten. He said quietly. Now Rule 5 isn't about courage. It's about survival. If you see two of them fighting, you let them finish. And then you deal with what's left. Well, by the time we left the storage lot, the sun was lifting over the trees. The chain-link fence still sagged where one of them had slammed into it.

The storage doors were bent inward, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. Two bodies lay under tarps in the bed of my truck, heavy and still. By midday, deputies would file a report about wild animals. The dents would get blamed on vandals, and life would keep moving. Now like I said, most werewolves are bad. Most of them don't try to live quietly. Most don't plant gardens. Most don't mind their own business.

They move at night. They test fences. They circle house. they kill. That's the part people are right to fear. But not all of them are the same. Every once in a while, you find one that isn't prowling, isn't stalking, one that looks irritated more than predatory when you shine a light on it.

You learn to see the difference in how they stand, how they move, and whether they're coiled the strike or just trying to be left alone. You don't learn that from stories. You learn it from standing in an element. yards and enough forest and enough empty parking lots to know what you're looking at. You learn it by surviving your mistakes, and you always remember the rules. You don't shoot until the transformation is complete. You don't follow one inside a building.

You don't hunt alone on a full moon. You don't kill the wrong one. And if you see two of them fighting, you stay out of it. That's it. Five rules. You follow them. Or you become a lesson.