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Literature

The Howl Beyond the Pines

The forest always felt different at dusk, like it was waiting for something. Robbie knew he shouldn’t be walking home this late—not with the stories his dad told about the woods, the way his voice dipped into that warning tone adults used when they weren’t entirely joking. But the shortcut saved twenty minutes, and dinner was still warm when he got home, so Robbie had taken the risk. The air was colder now, pressing against his face as he shuffled through the dirt path, his sneakers scraping against the brittle leaves. The sky above was painted in streaks of orange and purple, bleeding into the blackness that waited just beyond. The tall pines loomed like silent watchers, their spindly branches reaching out as if to snag him. And then he heard it. At first, it was just a sound—a low, guttural groan that came from deeper in the trees. Robbie froze mid-step, his breath caught in his throat. The noise came again, louder this time, almost like a growl but stretched, as though someone—or