Chapter 1 — Arrival in the Shadows

Massie

The car jolts over a pothole, pulling me out of my half-asleep daze. My head thuds against the window, and I wince, glaring at the endless stretch of misty road ahead. Dark Falls looms somewhere in the distance, hidden beneath a low, oppressive sky that presses down on the treetops. The towering evergreens on either side claw at the clouds like skeletal fingers, their dark silhouettes menacing against the gray haze.

“Almost there,” Dad says, his voice chipper in a way that feels wildly out of place.

I glance at my mom in the passenger seat. She’s flipping through a worn guidebook about Dark Falls, her lips pressed into a thin line—the kind of look she gets when she’s trying to convince herself this is all perfectly fine.

I’m not convinced. This place feels wrong. Like the kind of place that belongs in ghost stories, not real life.

Shifting in my seat, I tug at the chain of my necklace, the tiny charm cool against my skin. The steady motion helps—a small tether to normalcy—until the first flicker of the town emerges through the haze.

Dark Falls creeps into view like a ghost rising from the fog, its weathered stone buildings huddled together as if for warmth, narrow streets twisting like veins through the center. The air grows heavier, pressing against my chest. The car slows as we pass a warped and splintered sign that reads, “Welcome to Dark Falls.” Someone’s scrawled what looks like claw marks across the faded wood.

“Charming,” I mutter, low enough that it’s almost lost under the hum of the engine.

“What was that, honey?” Mom glances up briefly, her voice tight with the effort of being upbeat.

“Nothing,” I reply, pulling my hoodie tighter around me as we drive past rows of sagging houses. Many have wild, overgrown yards, shutters hanging limp, or windows thick with drawn curtains. Others show faint signs of life—porch lights glowing dimly, shadows flickering behind glass—but the whole place seems steeped in decay, like it’s been forgotten by time.

When we finally pull up to our new house, a modest two-story with peeling white paint and a porch that lists slightly to the left, the forest feels too close. The shadows stretching between the trees are darker and deeper than they should be, as if they’re alive. The air is sharp and damp, carrying the scent of pine and something metallic—like rusted iron, faint but unsettling.

“Home sweet home,” Dad says, hefting a box from the trunk. His tone is breezy, oblivious to the way the house seems to loom over us, its cracked windows staring like dead eyes.

“Sure,” I mutter under my breath. Grabbing a box, I trudge toward the porch, my boots crunching against the gravel driveway.

My reflection flickers in the cracked windowpane: wavy chestnut-brown hair tangled from the drive, hazel eyes sharper than I feel. There’s a faint gold sheen in them that catches the light, but it feels more like an intrusion than a feature. I look tired. Out of place. Like an interloper stepping into a story that doesn’t belong to her.

Inside, the house smells damp and old, the kind of musty scent that clings to abandoned places. The floors creak loudly under every step, and the living room is a jumble of heavy, outdated furniture shoved haphazardly into place. The walls are painted a dull beige, as if someone tried to cheer the space up and gave up halfway.

“Why don’t you check out your room?” Mom suggests, already unpacking a box of kitchen supplies with the brisk efficiency of someone desperate to distract herself. Her movements are too quick, her focus too sharp.

I don’t argue. Lugging my box upstairs, I nudge open the door to my new room with my foot. It’s small but better than I expected. A single window overlooks the forest, thick branches pressing against the glass like they’re trying to get in. Shadows shift between the trees, and for a moment, it’s impossible to tell where the woods end and the dusk begins.

Dropping the box by the bed, I flop onto the mattress and stare at the cracked ceiling. We’ve moved plenty of times for Dad’s job, but this place feels worse somehow—heavier. Like Dark Falls itself is watching, waiting for something.

A shiver runs through me, and I sit up, glancing out the window again. The forest looks darker now, absorbing what little light filters through the overcast sky. My eyes catch movement—a flicker of red-brown fur darting between the trees.

I blink, leaning closer to the glass, my pulse quickening. But whatever I thought I saw is gone, swallowed by shadows too thick for twilight. Just my imagination, I tell myself. And yet, the hair on my arms stands on end, and that faint metallic scent sharpens, twisting my stomach.

Shaking it off, I head downstairs to grab the rest of my things. The sooner I make this room feel like mine, the better. Something tells me I’ll need the small comfort of familiarity.

---

Monday comes too quickly, dragging me into the fluorescent-lit halls of Dark Falls High. The building is massive, its gothic stone façade draped in ivy and cloaked in a damp chill. Inside, the air smells faintly of mildew and cleaning supplies, as though the school is trapped in an endless battle to mask its age.

I tug at the hem of my hoodie, weaving through the crowded hallways and dodging clusters of students who barely glance at me. Being the new girl is nothing new, but this place feels different. There’s a tension in the air, a weight that clings to my skin. Whispers follow me as I pass—quiet, clipped words I can’t quite make out but don’t need to.

And then I see them.

The Cult Boys.

They move through the hallway like a tide, effortlessly parting the sea of students. There are four of them, each commanding attention in their own way—sharp, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

At the center is Christian Wolfe.

His icy-blue eyes cut through the crowd, locking onto mine with a force that pins me in place. He’s taller than I realized, all lean muscle and quiet confidence. His dark brown hair falls in effortless disarray, but it’s his gaze that stops me cold—intense, unreadable, and far too knowing.

Something flickers there—recognition, maybe, or surprise. It’s gone too quickly for me to be sure, leaving behind a faint knot of unease in my chest. His lips press into a thin line, and then he turns away, leading his group down the hall as though nothing happened.

The moment shatters, and I force myself to move, pretending my pulse isn’t hammering in my ears.

---

By lunchtime, I’ve learned two things: First, the food here is somehow both soggy and burned at the same time. Second, the Cult Boys are the undisputed rulers of this place.

They sit at the far end of the cafeteria, their table an island in a sea of whispers and stolen glances. No one approaches them, but everyone watches, like they’re some kind of untouchable royalty.

I pick at my food, trying to ignore the nagging pull of curiosity. But my gaze drifts to them anyway, snapping back only when a voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Don’t bother.”

I glance up to see a girl with curly red hair plop down across from me, her tray heaped with fries. Her sharp green eyes scan me like she’s already piecing me together.

“Excuse me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“The Cult Boys,” she says, nodding toward their table. “Save yourself the trouble. They’re not worth it.”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

She snorts, unconvinced. “Sure you weren’t. Look, every new girl gets curious. But trust me, they’re not just trouble—they’re dangerous.”

Her words gnaw at me, sharp and cryptic. “Dangerous how?”

She hesitates, her expression flickering between caution and something else—fear, maybe. “Just stay clear of Wolfe. People who get too close to him…they don’t come back the same.”

A shiver runs down my spine, but I plaster on a smirk. “Good thing I’m not interested, then.”

Her skeptical look lingers, but she doesn’t push.

I glance back at their table one last time, catching Christian’s gaze again. His expression is unreadable, his intensity coiled and quiet.

Trouble or not, something tells me I won’t be able to stay away.