A tiny child by the name of Brandon Fortis stumbled home just as the sun began to rise. You know the way, go home without me. You've done well, his father had told him. He pushed the elevator button, opened the door to his apartment, walked to his room, and fallen fast asleep.
Hours later, he awoke to someone crying downstairs. He hopped out of bed, rubbed his pale brown eyes and walked into the kitchen. His mother stood there, holding the phone, tears streaming down her face. The television on the counter was blaring. He peered up at it, sitting next to his half-eaten birthday cake declaring his five years of age.
"The Terror of Watercreek has finally been caught. After many months of animals turning up, dead and maimed, in Jacobus Woods, police have finally found it. The injured body of a wolf was recovered last night after reports of howling and growling were sent to the police. Scientists have examined the body, and upon match of evidence the wolf was revealed to be the "Terror"," the news lady announced.
His mother gasped and sobbed again, bawling into the phone. Brandon looked away from the TV and up at his mother. He walked over to her and hugged her legs.
"What's wrong, Mummy?" he asked, looking up curiously. She hung up the phone and knelt down. She put her hands on his shoulders and brought him close.
"Brandon," she said quietly," That was Dr. Viring. He—he said—that your father was killed last night." She gulped, looking him in the eyes.
Suddenly, all the information clicked. The Terror—it had been caught and killed. The terror—it was his dad. He screamed, and then buried his head in his mother's shoulder. She picked him up and they collapsed in an armchair, sobbing, and stayed together for the rest of the day and into the night.