Robyn Michaels
I never gave much thought to the question. It was one of those silly icebreakers they make you answer at work events or on dating profiles. “What’s your favourite animal?” It always felt pointless. A way to force people to talk about themselves without saying anything meaningful.
For years, I’d always answered the same way: dolphins. They’re clever, social, and seem to have fun with life. But it wasn’t a real answer. Just the kind of thing you say when you don’t care enough to think too hard.
It started with a survey.
I was sitting on the train, my phone in one hand, coffee in the other, scrolling aimlessly. An ad popped up: “Take Our Personality Quiz! Find Out Your True Self Through Your Favourite Animal.” I rolled my eyes but clicked it anyway. That’s what boredom does to you.
The questions were strange. Not the usual “Which colour do you like best?” Instead, it asked things like:
- If you had claws, how would you use them?
- Do you prefer running with others or hunting alone?
- Imagine tasting blood. How does it make you feel?
I frowned but kept going. The quiz had this hypnotic pull, each question stranger than the last. By the end, I wasn’t sure whether it was some avant-garde art piece or just a poorly coded joke.
Finally, the results screen appeared. A bold question flashed across the screen: What is your real favourite animal? Below it, a single empty text box.
I stared at it, hesitating. The question felt heavier than it should have, like it was pressing on something deep in my chest. I started to type “dolphin,” but my fingers froze. Instead, a single word escaped me, almost involuntarily:
“Wolf.”
The moment I hit enter, my phone screen glitched. The app crashed, and the whole device rebooted. I sighed, muttering under my breath, and went back to scrolling.
That night, I had the dream.
I was running.
Not in the way people run in dreams—clumsy, sluggish, legs like lead. No, this was different. My body was electric, muscles coiled and bursting with energy. I could feel the earth beneath me, each step deliberate and powerful. The air was cold and sharp, filling my lungs with a delicious burn.
And I wasn’t alone.
There were others beside me, silent shadows darting through the trees. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them—close, familiar, bound to me by something primal. We were chasing something. My heart pounded with the thrill of the hunt.
Then I woke up, breathless, my bedsheets tangled around me like restraints.
Over the next few days, the dream came back. Every night, I was running. Every night, the pack was with me. At first, I found it exhilarating, like a private adventure I didn’t want to wake from. But then the details started to shift.
The shadows weren’t just beside me anymore—they were watching me. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark, and their presence grew heavier, almost oppressive. One night, I finally turned my head to look at them.
They weren’t wolves. Not entirely. Their forms shifted in the darkness, parts of them dissolving and reforming like ink in water. Their eyes—oh, their eyes—weren’t animal at all. They burned with intelligence, something vast and ancient and utterly alien.
When I woke up that time, I wasn’t exhilarated. I was terrified.
I tried to shake it off. It was just stress, I told myself. Work had been piling up, and I hadn’t been sleeping well. But the dreams weren’t the only thing. I started noticing… changes.
It was subtle at first. My senses sharpened. I could hear conversations from across the room, pick up faint scents in the air, sense things before they happened. Once, I caught a coffee cup mid-fall without thinking, my hand darting out with a speed I didn’t know I had.
Then there was the anger.
I’d never been a particularly aggressive person, but suddenly, little things set me off. A coworker cutting in line. A stranger brushing past me on the sidewalk. My pulse would spike, and my vision would narrow. I wanted to bare my teeth, to lash out. I didn’t, of course. But the urge was there, just under the surface, waiting.
The breaking point came at the office.
It was a normal day, or so I thought. I was at my desk, minding my own business, when I heard a low, guttural growl. My head snapped up. The sound was unmistakable, primal. But no one else seemed to notice. People carried on typing, chatting, sipping their coffee.
Then I realised: the sound was coming from me.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, horrified. My coworkers looked up, startled. “Are you okay?” someone asked. I muttered something about not feeling well and bolted.
That evening, I went for a walk, desperate to clear my head. The city felt oppressive, the lights too bright, the noises too sharp. I ended up at the park, where the air was cooler and the shadows softer. It was quiet. Peaceful.
And then I saw them.
The pack.
They stood at the tree line, half-hidden by the darkness. There were five of them, their shapes flickering like they couldn’t quite stay solid. They didn’t move, but I knew they were waiting. For me.
I should have run. I should have screamed. But something in me stirred—a deep, undeniable pull. Without thinking, I took a step forward.
The largest of them stepped out of the shadows. It was taller than the others, its form more defined. A strange, impossible hybrid of wolf and something else entirely. Its eyes locked onto mine, and in that moment, I understood.
They weren’t just animals. They weren’t even from this world.
And somehow, they’d chosen me.
The leader stepped closer, its movements deliberate and unnervingly graceful. It stopped a few feet away, lowering its massive head until we were eye level. My heart pounded, but not with fear. There was something… familiar about it.
Then it spoke.
Not with words, but with thoughts—images, sensations, emotions flooding my mind all at once. It showed me their world, their endless hunt through the stars. Predators, yes, but not mindless. They were ancient beings, travelling across dimensions, searching for new kin.
And now, I was one of them.
“What do you want from me?” I managed to whisper, my voice trembling.
The answer came, not in words but in an overwhelming wave of purpose. They didn’t want to harm me. They wanted to transform me. To awaken something within me that had always been there, buried deep beneath my human skin.
I stumbled back, shaking my head. “No. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
The leader tilted its head, almost pitying. Then it turned, melting back into the shadows. The others followed, their glowing eyes lingering on me for a moment before disappearing.
I thought that was the end of it. I wanted to believe it was. But the changes didn’t stop. They accelerated. My senses became sharper. My strength grew. And the anger… the anger was harder to contain.
One night, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My pupils were wrong—elongated, feral. My teeth had sharpened, my canines almost too large for my mouth. I smashed the mirror and sank to the floor, shaking.
The next day, I got a text.
It was from an unknown number, but the message was simple:
What’s your favourite animal?
My blood ran cold. I didn’t reply. Instead, I threw my phone across the room and locked all the doors. But deep down, I knew it didn’t matter. They didn’t need a phone to find me.
That night, I dreamt of the hunt again. Only this time, I wasn’t running with the pack.
I was leading it.
Endless Horizons 