Page 2 of Run, Little Doe
It should feel comforting, almost familiar, but it doesn’t. There’s something different this year, something restless.
The shadows move wrong, stretching too long beneath the glow of the dimly lit lanterns. The music is louder, faster, and more feverish than I remember in previous years. It vibrates throughthe soles of my boots, through my ribs. For a moment, I swear the ground itself hums with it.
As I arrive at the field all decked out for the festival, camera in hand, Carly finds me near the apple-bobbing stand, her skirt so short you can see her ass peeking out, her fox mask gleaming under the firelight. She squeals and pulls me into a hug, her drink sloshing over the edge of her cup, her voice muffled behind velvet and feathers.
“You look incredible,” she says. “Like you were made for that mask.”
Maybe I was.
Or maybe,itwas made forme.
I’ve known Carly and her mom my entire life; our moms worked together, and we were in school together since pre-k. Most of those photos, buried in boxes from previous festivals, include her and her mom, and in later years, the two of them and their new family. Fifteen years ago, Carly’s mom remarried. Her stepdad, Greg Wolfe, is one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, and her stepbrother, Emerson Wolfe, serves me drinks down at the pub on a regular basis. I have always been welcomed like family with the Wolfe’s, but it feels like they’ve been even more protective of me since my parents died. Even Greg and Emerson welcome my presence and have gotten used to waking up and finding me at their breakfast table, drinking their coffee, and eating their food. I knew there was never any chance Carly would let me come here alone this year, and I silently thanked her for that.
She drags me through the crowd, past the bonfire, past the costumed dancers spinning in blurred circles, past the children dressed as monsters chasing their parents. The festival alwaysfeels like stepping into a dream, but tonight it borders on something else—something that profoundly moves and breathes. Every flicker of light feels like it’s watching. Every masked face turns just a second too late. Something is different tonight, but I can’t place my finger on exactly what.
I lift my camera and start to take pictures as I have since I was a pre-teen, the shutter clicking softly against the swell of music. This is my favourite town event to photograph; it has always been. Through the lens, everything sharpens—the dance of the flames, the curve of a stranger’s smile, the slip of movement at the edge of the frame.
And then—him.
For the briefest second, I catch sight of a man standing apart from the crowd, cloaked in smoke and mist. He dons black jeans, a black t-shirt that clings to his muscular arms, and a wolf mask that appears as if it's made from an actual wolf skull, only covering the top portion of his face. There is the slight suggestion of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes. The camera flash catches something metallic at his throat — a pendant, maybe — but when I lower the lens, he’s gone.
A chill snakes down my spine. Did I imagine that?
Carly tugs at my arm, oblivious. “Come on, pretty Doe! Let’s get a drink and then go dance!”
I force a laugh and smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes, and I tuck my camera close, following her into the firelight. The whole time, I can feel it — the weight of unseen eyes tracking me from somewhere beyond the masks.
The Wolf
I watch her long before she ever lifts the camera.
Through the haze of heat from the bonfire and the veil of dancing smoke, I watch, tracking her every movement — the way her fingers tighten on the lens, the way she hides behind it, as if that could ever protect her. The mask she wears catches the light like copper flame, those delicate doe eyes carved wide and trusting.
I laugh to myself.
Trusting.
If only she knew what tonight was made for.
The crowd swells and bends around her like waves in the sea. Music rises — wild, as if thrumming through the earth. I feel it in my blood, in the sharp ache beneath my ribs. The air reeks of cider and heat, and yet her scent permeates through it all, something warm and sweet, edged with sorrow and something dark not yet awakened.
I’ve followed that scent before — through the alley from the pub late at night after closing, down the narrow lanes of this town that pretends it has no secrets, through the woods as she took shortcuts to her home, at town events not unlike this one. I feasted upon her scent through her open window while she lay fast asleep, dreaming those dreams that make her whimper; theones that make her moan. I've lost myself in her pheromones while she sat on her porch reading her dirty books; while her eyes glazed over, her mind putting herself into those books she devoured night after night. My dirty Little Doe.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, the masks give me permission. Tonight, I'm done with the stalking. I'm taking my prey. This is her favourite event of the year, and I plan to make it one of the most memorable nights of her life.
She turns, just once, her gaze brushing mine. Even from a distance, I feel the hit of it — I can see my Little Doe’s pulse quicken on her throat. The camera flashes. For an instant, her world collides with mine, and I know—she saw me. Not enough to understand, but enough to feel.
The instinct to claim her stirs low in my chest, primal and certain.
Mine.
I slip deeper into the smoke, keeping her in my line of sight as she lets the other girl pull her toward the fire. She moves like a creature born of light and loss, caught somewhere between running and staying. Her laughter comes hesitantly, forced — I can tell the moment she feels me again. The way her shoulders stiffen. The way she looks over her shoulder, pretending she isn’t searching.
I’ll wait. I’m patient. The wolf knows when to stalk and when to chase.
When the first sparks drift skyward, carried by the breeze toward the dark line of the forest, I finally turn away. The festival continues roaring behind me, alive and oblivious, whileI disappear into the trees, biding my time until the moment is right.