Night Of The Beast

It all began a year ago, when Mike and his roommate decided that camping in the 'mysterious forest' sounded like the perfect weekend activity. No one was really sure why the forest had that name—maybe because of the eerie mist that always lingered there, or the strange way the trees seemed to twist toward the sky as if reaching for something unseen. But Mike had been insistent. "C’mon, it’ll be fun! What’s the worst that could happen?" he had said, grinning with his usual reckless charm.

*The worst, as it turned out, was not the rainstorm that soaked their tent, nor the raccoon that ran off with half their snacks. The worst was the fallen log. The two of them had stumbled upon it while exploring off the trail. It wasn’t just any log—it looked burned on one side, marked with carvings that glowed faintly under the moonlight. "Weird graffiti, huh?" Mike chuckled, running a hand along the surface. That was when it happened: the mark. A strange, twisting symbol etched itself onto his skin, glowing briefly before fading into nothing more than a scar-like pattern on his arm.

He brushed it off, of course. "Probably just an allergic reaction," he had said, waving it away. Nobody thought more about it afterward.

Now, one year later, it was just an ordinary night in their apartment. At least, it was supposed to be. Mike was in the laundry room, humming to himself as he sorted socks that never seemed to match. He tossed a shirt into the washing machine, muttering, "Man, I really gotta stop forgetting fabric softener..." when suddenly a sharp pang hit his head.

"Ugh, what the—?" He clutched at his temples. The pain spread down his body like a wave. His chest tightened, his back arched, and soon it wasn’t just pain—it was change. His muscles swelled beneath his skin, straining against the seams of his clothes. His teeth sharpened, catching the glint of the overhead bulb before it flickered out. Fur sprouted across his arms and chest, spreading fast.

He stumbled backward, groaning. "Oh fuck! What is... happening!?"

The apartment grew unnervingly quiet. By the time his roommate returned, the building’s usual hum of life seemed muffled, as if holding its breath. They noticed the silence immediately and began searching through the rooms. The trail led, inevitably, to the laundry door.

When the door creaked open, the room inside was dark—too dark. The air was heavy with the scent of torn fabric and something wilder, muskier.

There, sitting on the floor in the ruins of his shredded clothes, was no longer Mike the roommate, but a massive, muscular, moose-like creature. His antlers, his broad chest heaved with ragged breaths, and his once-kind eyes glowed with something half-human, half-animal. His hands—still recognizable, yet fur-covered—gripping his half-hard shaft, throbbing, some strings of cum can even be seen on his thigh and hoof.

Mike—or whatever he was now—let out a shaky laugh, low and strange. "Ha...ha..."

He look... needy. And horny.

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