Phantom Hollow Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire

He squinted as a shadow started to form.  To speak.  Running through a list of wolves Mal had met, the only ones that shared similar color and possibly stature were those with accents.  Though at this point the voices from the coast were hazy from time and morphed by memory, he was left with only one choice as long as the wolf wasn't lying.  He could remember the blood without too much difficulty, the sounds of the fight.  But why had it come to haunt him here where he had previously been safe?  Maybe these woods were tricking him, but he wasn't going to take that chance.

The dead walk, and they walked far from their seaside home for whatever bizarre reason.  But what do you do when faced by ghosts or other undead?  Especially ones that in life proved to be violent.  Not let them haunt you, obviously.  His fur bristled and his lips parted in a toothy snarl -- but he took a couple of steps backwards.  The rest of his body language was a confused mess, mixed messages of both threat and defense, defiant and strong but not wanting to stay.  But if Mal left then that might bring him after him.  No words.