This time, he would catch her.

If he wished for this torment to end, there was no other choice.

She was the cause of his misery, and he had no doubt she would be the end of it, too.

And how desperately he wanted — needed  — it to end.

As it was deep into nightfall, the once forbidden northern territory known as the Woodlands was illuminated only by the light of the half-moon. As winter was close to its end, the snow on the ground was scarce. The only sound to be heard inside the wooded area was the crunch of his own footsteps and his steady breathing, as there were no creatures left to stir.

None other than him. And her.

The Woodlands was not a roaming ground for him nor his kind, and, therefore, should have been unfamiliar and difficult to navigate. Yet every twist and turn, every bend around every corner, and every tree from its crown down to its trunk, he remembered. The path towards her was always certain, remembering it an easy feat for someone who had dreamed the same dream for countless nights.

So, he knew when he passed by a certain tree with four names he did not recognize carved into its trunk, he was minutes away from a clearing in the woods. Just as he knew when those minutes ticked by and he arrived at the edge of that clearing, a familiar cabin would await his arrival. And when he broke free from the shelter of the woods and headed towards the cabin, he knew just how many steps he would take before he was forced to a halt.

Forty-one.

So, when he took that forty-first step, he anticipated what would come next. Something that chilled him to his core every time he heard it.

The whisper of his name.

Michael.

Because it came from behind, he turned — as he always did — but the whisper evolved into an echo of his name, bouncing off the barren trees encircling the perimeter of the cabin. As it circled, he did, too, until he faced the cabin once more.

Michael.

Again, the whisper of his name emerged from behind, but that time when he turned, the hooded figure he sought out each and every time stood at the edge of the clearing. She was far enough to be cloaked by the darkness of the woods, and would have been were it not for the blood red cloak she was wearing.

Odd, he thought. The cloak had always been black. But there was no time to dwell on such things.

Forty-one feet apart was too great of a distance to make out her face, but it did not matter. It never mattered. Her presence inside of this damned dream meant one thing, and one thing only: the hunt was on.

Usually at this point, she would slip back into the darkness of the woods, and he would break out into a run and chase after her. It would take seven seconds for him to make it into the woods. Three for him to scan the area and realize she was nowhere to be found amongst the cluster of trees. One for him to stop running and realize he was the mouse, and she, the cat. But he was determined to have the events of this reoccurring dream turn out differently. This time, he would be the predator, and she, the prey.

It took far too long for him to realize his mistake, but he had. Every time he had dreamed this dream, the mistake he always made was not the act of chasing after her, but the desperation he allowed to consume his thoughts and propel him towards a desolate destination. By holding onto it so tightly, it allowed control to slip through his clutches. If he wanted to find her — to end her and this dream — he had to stop being controlled, to, instead, be in control.

Michael.

This time, instead of going after her, he turned his back to her, set his sights on the cabin, and, for the first time ever, walked towards it. Once he arrived at the base of the wooden steps, he took a deep breath before he climbed them, then crossed the couple of feet between the top step and the cabin door. Slowly, he reached for the handle, and after a brief pause, turned it and pushed the door open.

The darkness that greeted him did not deter his feet from moving of their own accord. After a short trek and single turn to the right, they led him to what appeared — thanks to the bit of moonlight peeking into the room — to be the living area. From what he could make out, there was not much that filled the room other than a fireplace to the right, and a large window to the left with its curtains half drawn.

He crossed over to the window, and just as he lifted a hand to draw open the curtains, the dark room suddenly lit up. Through the reflection of the window, he saw the hooded figure behind him, back turned, standing in front of the now lit fire place, flames dancing on either side of her.

He turned, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire spread throughout his body. Again, his feet moved by their own will and carried him in her direction. The realization that he had never gotten that close to her before made him reach out as he approached — not so much to touch her but to confirm whether or not she was really there or a mere figment of his imagination — only to notice his hand was covered in blood.

He stopped, lifted his other hand and found that it, too, was covered in blood. His eyes widened at the sight. He had not sustained any injury, nor had he touched anything. Where had the blood come from?

Suddenly, the sound of a howling wolf erupted from outside the cabin. Where the earlier whispers of his name had only sent a piercing chill throughout his body, the wolf's howl had done much worse: it woke the wolf within him. It called upon it to shift, forcing every bone in his body to break in order to unleash the beast and cage the man.

He yelled out in pain as he tried to fight it — fight against his very nature — but his efforts were futile. Forced onto his knees, the only thing he could do was look up at the hooded figure still standing in front of the fire place, unbothered by the torment he was enduring behind her.

As best as he could, he tried crawling towards her. Reached out to her, as if she could relieve his pain and end his suffering. That was all he wanted. For it to stop. He just wanted it all to stop. And when he managed to close the distance between them and grab hold of the hem of her red cloak, it all stopped.

**

Michael's body shot up from his bed. He clutched at his chest while his eyes scanned over his moonlit room. They repeatedly bounced from one end to the other, not looking for anything in particular, but to remind himself of who and where he was. It was only when he settled them on the large window directly across from him that both his heart and breathing returned to a steadier rhythm.

Normally, it was the sight of the moon that grounded him whenever he woke in the middle of the night from the dream, but it was hidden behind a cluster of clouds. This time, the view of the Woodlands had done the job. No matter how much he feared it — in his dream and in reality — an odd sense of comfort washed over him whenever he looked over the massive territory that stretched north as far as his eyes could see.

The dream he had been determined to put an end to had evolved into a nightmare. The control he thought he had grasped onto proved to be nothing more than an illusion. The red cloak. The bloody hands. The howling wolf. None of it made sense, and, therefore, he did not know what to make of it.

Something had caused the dream to change, and whatever that something was, he knew — believed — could only be found in the very place he swore he would never set foot inside of again. But he could no longer put up with this never-ending nightly torment.

Michael swung his legs over the edge of his bed, slipped down onto the floor, and walked over to the window.

He did not know who the hooded figure was, what she wanted, or why she haunted his dreams. He did not know why his mind had conjured her to begin with. But, as he stared out into the night, he realized if he truly wanted it all to stop, then he had no other choice but to go into the Woodlands and kill her once and for all.