Naperville

Naperville

No one talks about Naperville, Arkansas for long.

They mention it… then they stop.

Like something in that town listens.

We didn’t believe any of that.

There were four of us—research scientists, sent to investigate reports of unusual behavior, missing persons, and what locals called “night changes.” Nothing we hadn’t heard before. Small-town rumors always sound bigger in the dark.

We arrived just before sunset.

The town looked normal.

Too normal.

Quiet streets. Old buildings. People who stared just a little too long.

We checked into the only hotel. The clerk didn’t smile, didn’t greet us—just slid the key across the counter like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Be inside before midnight,” he said.

That was it.

We laughed it off and went to the diner down the road.

That’s when things started to feel… off.

Everyone inside was dressed like they stepped out of the 1800s. Long dresses. Suspenders. Worn boots. No phones. No music. Just the sound of forks scraping plates and low murmuring.

But no one really talked to each other.

They just… watched us.

We ordered anyway.

Four steaks.

When the food came, it looked normal. Smelled normal.

But the taste—

It was wrong.

Too rich. Too heavy. Like it didn’t belong on a plate.

No one finished their meal.

Outside, the air had changed.

Thicker. Colder.

We walked through the town, pretending we weren’t unsettled. Old buildings lined the streets, most of them dark. No cars. No movement.

That’s when the woman appeared.

She stepped out of the shadows like she’d been waiting.

Old. Pale. Eyes wide.

“You need to go inside,” she said. “Before midnight.”

“Why?” one of us asked.

But she didn’t answer.

She just… faded back into the dark.

We should’ve listened.

By the time we headed back to the hotel, the moon was high.

Full.

Bright enough to turn the whole town silver.

That’s when we heard it.

A low growl.

Then another.

Closer.

From everywhere.

We stopped walking.

And that’s when they stepped out.

Tall. Twisted. Covered in dark fur that moved like it was alive on its own. Their claws scraped the ground. Their eyes locked onto us like we were already theirs.

Werewolves.

Not stories.

Not myths.

Real.

We ran.

Didn’t matter.

They were faster.

Stronger.

We didn’t even make it halfway back.

We weren’t killed.

That would’ve been mercy.

They kept us.

Days blurred together in darkness. Chains. Cold stone. The sound of others crying somewhere we couldn’t see.

We weren’t the first.

Then came feeding time.

They took us one by one.

Dragging people away.

Screams that didn’t last long.

Silence would fall for a moment… then the sounds began.

At first, it was mechanical.

A sharp, dragging noise—like metal teeth grinding through bone.

Back and forth. Slow. Deliberate.

Like a butcher at work.

Then came something worse.

Wet tearing.

Flesh being pulled apart.

Teeth crushing through something that used to be alive.

The sounds didn’t rush.

They took their time.

You could hear everything.

Every cut.

Every rip.

Every piece being separated like it meant nothing.

And the smell—

It didn’t stay outside.

It crept in.

Thick. Rotting. Heavy enough to sit in your throat and refuse to leave.

Breathing made it worse.

You didn’t want to inhale… but you had to.

And every breath reminded you exactly what was happening just beyond the walls.

We stopped talking after that.

Stopped asking questions.

Because deep down—

We already knew.

I was last.

As they pulled me through the same streets we walked before, I saw the diner again.

Lights on.

Doors open.

People inside… eating.

And that’s when it hit me.

The smell.

The taste.

We hadn’t questioned it.

Didn’t want to.

But now I know.

That wasn’t steak.

And in Naperville…

You don’t visit.

You get served.