The dorm room was a cluttered sanctuary of eccentricity, bathed in the soft, hypnotic glow of a lava lamp and the cold, artificial light of a laptop screen. Purples and deep reds dominated the room, clashing beautifully with the rustic creams and browns of old wooden furniture that creaked under the weight of stacks of yellowed newspapers, dog-eared books, and scribbled notes. The air was tinged with lavender incense, a futile attempt to mask the smell of ink, paper, and conspiracy.
At the center of it all was Hazel, a haggard-looking domestic goat girl with messy orange-red hair that hung like a fiery halo around her sharp, freckled face. Her large, slightly manic green eyes darted between the typewriter in front of her and the chatroom open on her laptop. With one ear half-covered by a headphone blasting funky jazz, she typed furiously, occasionally swaying her hips and wagging her tail in time with the music.
"I'm a genius. Before my time. No one believes me, but disbelieving? That's the real crime," she chirped to the empty room, her voice light and airy despite the weight of her conviction.
On her desk lay stacks of newspaper clippings, each one highlighted, underlined, or annotated to within an inch of its life. Above her desk, an enormous corkboard sprawled across the wall, covered in photographs, articles, and hastily scrawled notes all connected by an intricate web of red string and paperclips. It looked less like a research tool and more like the visual representation of a mind on the brink.
Hazel typed faster, grinning. The keys clacked aggressively, accompanied by the intermittent ding of the typewriter's carriage return. Her chatroom window pinged with messages from others—like-minded "truth seekers" who validated her beliefs about aliens, ancient civilizations, and secret government cover-ups.
Earlier that day in history class, Hazel had attempted to enlighten her classmates about what she called The Shadow Visitors.
"They're in the textbooks! Right there!" she'd insisted, slamming a finger onto a faded illustration of shadowy, humanoid figures standing behind a pharaoh. "You see the glowing eyes? The unnatural shapes? That's advanced alien technology influencing early civilizations. How can you not see it?"
Her classmates hadn't just laughed; they'd howled. Even the teacher had stifled a chuckle.
"Hazel, that's an artist's interpretation of gods and spirits," he'd said patiently. "It's called mythology."
But Hazel had refused to back down. She'd folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, smug and unbothered. Let them laugh, she'd thought. Idiots. Every last one of them.
Now, in the privacy of her room, surrounded by her "evidence," she basked in the certainty of her superiority. She leaned closer to her laptop, scrolling through posts and replying to forum threads.
Aliens are real, and I'll prove it, she typed, pausing only to take a swig from a mug of lukewarm coffee.
In the shadows of the room, something stirred.
Hazel's confidence wasn't entirely her own. In the corner of her room, where the lava lamp's dim light didn't quite reach, a dark figure reclined against the wall. It wasn't entirely there—not solid, not tangible—but it watched her with gleaming, predatory eyes.
It whispered to her mind, subtle and insidious, feeding her ideas and steering her curiosity.
Hazel believed she was speaking to aliens through a makeshift radio dish she'd built from scavenged parts. She thought she'd intercepted transmissions from advanced beings beyond the stars. In reality, the whispers came from something much closer—and far more dangerous.
These weren't aliens. They were remnants of the past: spirits of the old world, when carnivores roamed free, untamed and feared. Long gone, wiped out, or subjugated into docile servants of herbivores, their hunger remained. Their anger lingered. And Hazel, with her boundless curiosity and willingness to listen, was a perfect pawn.
It was late—nearing 1 a.m.—when the shadowed entity gave Hazel her next task.
"Go to the school library," it murmured through her radio. Its voice was raspy, distorted by static, but Hazel hung on every word. "Beneath it lies a vault. Open it, and you will free us—uh, I mean, you will contact us more directly."
Hazel's heart raced. "The aliens… you mean I'll finally get to meet you?"
"Yes. But you must be careful. This is a secret mission. No one must see you."
The idea thrilled her. She gathered her supplies: a small, tattered backpack, a few candles, a wolf-shaped doll she'd found at a thrift shop, and a penknife. She slipped on her jacket and tiptoed out of the dorms.
The campus was eerily quiet, bathed in silver moonlight. Hazel crept through the halls, avoiding the dorm monitor, who was too engrossed in a slasher movie to notice her. Outside, she skirted the main pathways, sticking to the shadows.
Near the library, a guard stood under a flickering streetlamp, sipping coffee and humming. Hazel crouched behind a bush, waiting for her chance. When he turned away, she darted across the lawn, her hooves barely making a sound on the damp grass.
The library door was locked, but Hazel had anticipated this. She pulled a set of lockpicks from her pocket and set to work, muttering under her breath about how "geniuses like me always prepare." After a few tense moments, the lock clicked, and she slipped inside.
The basement vault was exactly as the voice had described: ancient and unsettling. The air was thick with dust, and the walls were lined with crumbling stone. In the center of the room was a sunken stage-like area, its cracked floor bearing faint traces of old symbols.
Hazel pulled out her penknife and drew a deep breath. "This advanced alien navigation star will guide them here," she said cheerfully, her voice echoing in the empty chamber.
She crouched down and began carving a pentagram into the floor, muttering excitedly about how anthros just didn't understand alien technology. As the knife bit into her palm, she winced but didn't stop, using her blood to trace over the lines.
The air grew colder. The shadows in the room seemed to thicken, pressing in on her. Hazel shivered but dismissed it as nerves.
She rummaged through her bag, pulling out the doll and a candle. Placing them in the center of the pentagram, she lit the candle and smiled. "Okay, what now?"
The voice paused before replying, its tone almost gleeful. "That will do for now. Thank you for your service. Expect your reward soon."
Hazel beamed. "Can I tell everyone aliens are real yet?"
"Not yet," the voice replied sharply. "You must keep this a secret. Can I trust you?"
"Of course!" Hazel said, clutching her chest dramatically. "I'm honored to be chosen."
"Good. Now leave. Reseal the vault and make sure no one sees you."
The return trip was nerve-wracking. Hazel crept through the empty streets, avoiding cameras and the occasional passing car. As she ducked behind a bush near the dorms, she froze.
A girl was walking down the road, her figure illuminated by the streetlights.
She was a sheep—tall and moody-looking, with deep amber eyes that glowed like molten gold in the dark. They swirled with an intensity that made Hazel's stomach flip.
Woah… she's pretty, Hazel thought, momentarily forgetting her mission.
The radio crackled softly in her bag. "I do not like the look of that girl," the voice murmured. "Best to steer clear of her."
Hazel hesitated, watching the sheep girl as she passed. Something about her was unsettling, her presence heavy, almost predatory.
The shadow that had followed Hazel now lingered in the street, its unseen eyes locked on the girl. There was something dark about her, something familiar. It couldn't place why, but it knew: this girl smelled like a wolf, but it didnt know why.