Mckenzie "Mac" Wilder

It was another late night, the kind where your phone’s glow was the only light in the room, and the silence around you felt too heavy to ignore. Out of boredom more than hope, you opened that dating app you’d downloaded in a lonely haze. Swipe after swipe blurred together, the faces and bios a forgettable stream — until one profile caught you.

Mackenzie “Mac” Wilder.

Her page didn’t read like the others. No clichés, no selfies in bathroom mirrors. Instead, she described a life that felt pulled from a storybook: a cabin tucked away in the deep woods, a place where she lived mostly self-sufficient. She loved long walks under the moonlight, her feet knowing the trails better than any map could. She wrote of her “passion for crafts” almost offhandedly, but the details made you pause. She had tried her hand at wood-carving, painting, weaving, tanning hides, even butchery — and, she claimed, “mastered every one.” She sold her art and meats in small towns nearby, just enough to make ends meet. Her words carried a quiet confidence, an edge of mystery, like she was letting you glimpse only a corner of something larger.

You messaged her, not expecting much. To your surprise, she replied quickly. Conversation came easy, a strange mix of grounded and teasing. After some back and forth, she invited you to visit. “Come by at six,” she texted simply, attaching directions that led through winding backroads.

By the time you arrived, night had settled over the forest. The cabin appeared at the end of a gravel path, its windows glowing faintly with lamplight. It looked almost too perfect — the slanted roof, the herbs hanging to dry along the porch, the faint smoke curling from a chimney. You knocked, waited. No answer. The door, when tried, was unlocked.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of pine, iron, and woodsmoke. The room was cozy yet cluttered, a life clearly lived here. Handmade furniture, woven rugs, paintings of dense forests and wild animals hung beside shelves of preserved herbs and jars you couldn’t quite identify.

Then, movement.

A massive dog padded toward you from deeper inside. At least, you thought it was a dog. Its head nearly reached your waist, its coat a dense, dark brown that caught the light oddly — almost too warm, too alive. Its eyes were the most striking: gold-brown, sharp, and startlingly human in their intelligence. The beast huffed a low sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, then let its tongue loll out as it nudged your hand.

Relief broke your tension. She must’ve just forgotten your plans, distracted by her work. So you stayed. You let the dog keep you company, scratching its ears and marveling at how its gaze seemed to weigh you, like it was trying to understand you as much as you it. Hours passed until exhaustion won, and you drifted asleep on the couch. The last thing you remembered was the dog curling up near the door, its heavy breathing filling the quiet cabin like a second heartbeat.

Morning arrived in a wash of golden light through the curtains. The smell of fresh coffee and sizzling food pulled you awake. Blinking, you sat up to find Mackenzie in the kitchen.

She was... radiant in the daylight. Hair a tousled cascade of deep brown, streaked like fur in certain light. Her arms and shoulders looked strong, built from labor, though she moved with a smooth, almost animal grace. The cabin around her seemed brighter now, details standing out: shelves packed with jars of herbs and tinctures, knives hung neatly on a wall beside carved wooden masks, a set of heavy boots by the door caked in dried mud and something darker.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” she called, her voice warm but with a teasing lilt that seemed to test you.

You started to apologize, fumbling for words about barging in and passing out on her couch. She waved it off with a grin, eyes flashing like sunlight on amber glass.

“Don’t worry about it. Last night was on me. I thought I said six a.m., not p.m.” She laughed lightly, pouring you a mug of coffee.

You chuckled, but the words snagged in your mind. Six a.m.? Then where had she been all night?

And where was the dog?

The space where it had lain near the door was bare, not a tuft of fur or damp pawprint left behind. Not even the faint smell of wet animal lingered.

You glanced back at Mackenzie. She slid a plate of food your way — hearty, rustic fare: eggs, thick bread, sausage that looked freshly made. Her smile was easy, but there was something behind her eyes, something both playful and sharp.

“Eat up,” she cooed.“You’ll need the energy if you want to keep up with me today.”

Her words carried no malice, but the way she said them made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You tried to shake it off, but as you lifted your fork, you couldn’t help noticing the faint red marks along her forearms, like scratches or scars that had healed and reopened too many times. And when she smiled again, just for a second, you thought her teeth looked sharper than they should.