Chapter 2 — Secrets Beneath the Floorboards

Alina

Morning mist clung to my worn boots as I pushed open the creaking door of our weathered cottage on the outskirts of Willow Hollow. The scent of rosemary from the patchy garden outside seeped into the cramped living room, mingling with the stale warmth of a flickering lamp that cast long, jagged shadows across the walls. My chestnut hair, damp from the dawn’s chill, hung heavy over my shoulders, and my fingers tightened around the frayed sketchbook I clutched like a lifeline. That piercing howl from the forest still echoed in my chest, a wild tremor that refused to fade, though my slumped posture betrayed the weight of questions I couldn’t voice. My green eyes darted toward the far corner where Mama sat in her old rocking chair, mending a faded quilt with hands that moved too quickly, as if stitching shut more than just fabric.

Evelyn’s graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, emphasizing the sharp lines of her face, and her blue eyes narrowed as they flicked up to meet mine. I could feel the storm brewing in the silence, her gaze heavy with something unspoken—disapproval, maybe fear. The silver crescent moon pendant at my throat felt like a cold anchor, its weight a reminder of secrets I didn’t yet understand. I shifted on my feet, the floorboards groaning beneath me, and tucked the sketchbook under my arm as if hiding the half-finished drawing of the forest could bury the ache it stirred.

“You’re late,” Mama said, her voice firm and measured, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Her fingers didn’t pause, the needle weaving through the quilt with a rhythm that felt too controlled. “Where’ve you been, Alina? Not near the woods, I hope.” Her tone carried that familiar warning, the one I’d heard since I was old enough to walk—stay away from the trees, girl, you don’t know what’s out there.

I swallowed, my throat tight, and set the sketchbook on the rickety table beside me, my fingers lingering on its worn edges. “Just… walking. Through town. The mist was thick this morning.” My voice came out softer than I meant, melodic but trembling at the edges, as if I were weighing every word. I hated how small I sounded, how easily her rules caged me. But the memory of that howl, so raw and real, pulsed in my veins, daring me to push back. “Mama, why won’t you tell me anything about the forest? I hear things… I dream things. Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

Her hands stilled for a heartbeat, the needle hovering mid-stitch, and her sharp gaze pinned me in place. “Dreams are just dreams, Alina. You’re safe here, and that’s all that matters. Stop poking at shadows.” Her words were a wall, solid and unyielding, but I caught the flicker of unease in the way her fingers tightened around the fabric. She glanced toward the shuttered window, just for a moment, as if expecting something to peer back through the smudged glass.

My chest tightened, a mix of frustration and desperation clawing at me. I took a step closer, the floor creaking again, and my voice grew bolder despite the hesitation threading through it. “What if they’re not just dreams? What if something’s calling me—like it called to someone before?” The question hung between us, heavy with the weight of everything I’d never dared ask until now. My green eyes searched hers, pleading for a crack in her armor, for any hint of the truth I felt humming beneath my skin.

Evelyn’s face hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She turned her focus back to the quilt, her movements sharp now, almost angry. “Enough,” she snapped, her tone slicing through my hope. “Some things are better left buried.” Her scarred wrist, usually hidden beneath her cardigan sleeve, flashed briefly as she adjusted the fabric—a jagged reminder of a past she refused to share. She didn’t look at me again, but her hands trembled just enough to betray her.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart pounding against my ribs. The air in the cottage felt thicker now, oppressive, like the mist outside had seeped through the walls to choke us both. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the weight of her dismissal pressed down on me, heavy as the shuttered windows that blocked out the world. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms, and I turned away before the tears burning behind my eyes could spill over. “Fine,” I muttered under my breath, my voice barely a whisper as I retreated toward my room. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find my own way.”

The narrow hallway to my room smelled of old wood and dust, the walls lined with faded quilts that seemed to absorb every sound. I shut the door behind me with a soft click, leaning against it as my breath came in shallow gasps. The dim light from a single lamp barely illuminated the cramped space—my narrow bed with its patched blanket, a small desk cluttered with pencils and half-finished sketches, the worn rug that muffled my steps. But my mind wasn’t on the familiar. It was on that howl, on the forest’s pull, on the dreams of wolves and blood-red moons that felt more real than this suffocating cottage. I couldn’t keep ignoring it. I wouldn’t.

My gaze dropped to the floor, to the loose floorboard near the corner of my bed. I’d noticed it weeks ago, the way it shifted underfoot, but I’d never dared to look closer. Now, though, with Mama’s words echoing in my head—some things are better left buried—a reckless need surged through me. “I shouldn’t…” I murmured to myself, my voice a fragile thread in the quiet, “but she’s leaving me no choice. I have to know.” My hands shook as I knelt, the cold wood pressing against my knees, and I pried at the board with trembling fingers. It gave with a reluctant groan, revealing a shallow hollow beneath.

My breath caught as I saw it—a small, leather-bound journal, its edges frayed and stained with age, tucked into the shadows like a forbidden relic. Dust coated its surface, and my heart raced as I lifted it out, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. I sat back on my heels, the board forgotten, and opened the cover with a reverence that bordered on fear. The pages were brittle, yellowed, filled with Mama’s tight, slanted handwriting and strange symbols that mirrored the shapes haunting my dreams—spirals, crescents, jagged lines like claw marks. My eyes skimmed the words, each one sinking into me like a stone.

“…the blood of the moon cannot be denied… it calls, always calls, through the veins of the marked… beware the forest’s hunger…” The cryptic phrases sent a shiver down my spine, my fingers tightening on the fragile paper. Blood of the moon. The words pulsed in my mind, echoing the visions of altars and wolves that woke me gasping in the night. What did it mean? And why had Mama hidden this from me? My green eyes widened, a mix of awe and betrayal twisting in my chest as I realized the enormity of her secrecy. This wasn’t just a journal. It was proof—proof that the forest, my dreams, all of it, was tied to something real. Something she refused to acknowledge.

I flipped another page, my breath hitching as I saw a rough sketch of a pendant, eerily similar to the silver crescent moon hanging at my throat. Beneath it, scrawled in a hurried hand, were the words, “…a key, a tether, a curse…” My fingers instinctively rose to touch the heirloom, its cool metal biting against my skin. A key to what? A curse? The questions burned in me, each one stoking the fire of rebellion that had flickered to life during our argument. Mama knew. She’d always known. And she’d kept me in the dark, caged by her fear while something ancient stirred in my blood.

A faint creak from the hallway snapped me out of my thoughts, my heart lurching as I scrambled to hide the journal beneath my mattress. My hands were clumsy, panic threading through my movements, but I smoothed the blanket over it just as the door remained still. False alarm. Still, the guilt gnawed at me—I’d invaded her privacy, crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. But the betrayal stung deeper. How could she keep this from me? How could she let me stumble through life, haunted by dreams, without a single word of truth?

I stood, pacing the small room, my boots scuffing against the rug as my mind raced. Outside, the wind howled through the garden, stirring the wilted herbs in a restless dance. A strange, faint hum seemed to rise with it, barely perceptible, like a whisper from beneath the earth. I didn’t notice it then, too consumed by the weight of what I’d uncovered, but it lingered in the air, an eerie undercurrent to the turmoil brewing inside me. My fingers traced the pendant again, its edges pressing into my skin as if urging me forward. I couldn’t stay here, trapped by Mama’s silence. I couldn’t keep pretending those dreams were nothing, that the forest’s call was just imagination.

My gaze hardened, green eyes reflecting a resolve I hadn’t felt before as I stared at the shuttered window, beyond which the world waited—dangerous, unknown, but mine to claim. “I can’t stop now,” I whispered to myself, my voice soft yet unyielding, a vow etched into the quiet of my room. “Whatever she’s hiding, I’ll find it—forest or no forest.” The words felt like a tether snapping, a cage door creaking open, though the guilt still lingered in the furrow of my brow. I didn’t know where this path would lead, but for the first time, I was ready to walk it, no matter the cost.