Chapter 3 — Shadows on Yellowed Pages

Alina

Dawn’s pale light barely breached the heavy mist as I slipped out of Mama’s cottage, the weight of our earlier clash still pressing against my chest like a stone. The morning clung to me—damp on my worn boots, curling into my chestnut hair—as I pulled my earthy sweater tighter around myself. My fingers brushed the silver crescent moon pendant at my throat, a familiar comfort that now felt heavier, laced with secrets I couldn’t untangle. Those words from her hidden journal—“the blood of the moon”—looped through my mind, a taunting riddle I couldn’t shake. Each step away from the shuttered windows of home felt like a small rebellion, a quiet defiance against the cage of her silence.

Willow Hollow Library loomed ahead, a squat brick building tucked into a forgotten corner of town, its warped windows staring blankly into the fog. I pushed through the creaking door, the musty scent of aging paper and ink enveloping me like an old friend. Dim light filtered through dusty panes, casting long, jagged shadows across sagging shelves stuffed with leather-bound tomes and yellowed newspapers. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of untold stories, and the faint creak of floorboards beneath my boots punctuated the oppressive hush. I murmured to myself, my voice soft and hesitant, “If Mama won’t tell me, I’ll find it myself.” The words felt like a vow, though my heart thudded with uncertainty, mirroring the restless churn inside me.

I wandered deeper into the labyrinth of shelves, my fingers trailing over cracked spines, the titles barely legible under layers of dust. My sketchbook, tucked under my arm, felt like an anchor, a reminder of the forest’s silhouette I’d drawn at dawn, of the howl that still echoed in my bones. I needed answers—something to connect the fragments of Mama’s journal to the dreams that haunted me, wolves and blood-red moons seeping into my waking hours. A faded map pinned to the wall caught my eye, its edges frayed, the Appalachian peaks curling around Willow Hollow like a predator’s claws. Beyond the town’s scribbled border, the Forbidden Forest sprawled in ominous blankness, as if even cartographers feared to name its depths. My breath hitched, a shiver tracing my spine. What was I tied to?

Settling at a scarred wooden table near the back, I pulled a stack of brittle texts closer, the pages whispering as I turned them. My green eyes scanned lines of dense, archaic script, hunting for anything that might echo Mama’s cryptic warnings. My pendant rested cool against my skin, a silent tether to whatever legacy she’d buried. Then, buried in a passage about old settler lore, I found it—a reference scrawled in spidery ink: “moon blood rites, bound by lineage, awaken under crimson light.” My pulse quickened, the words striking like a match against the tinder of my memory. It was too close to her journal’s phrase, too real. I whispered to myself, my voice trembling, pausing as fear wrestled with curiosity, “It’s real… it has to be. What am I tied to?”

I flipped frantically through more pages, each crackle of paper sounding louder in the library’s suffocating stillness. Another book, its cover nearly crumbling, mentioned “rites of the lunar kin,” tied to ancient pacts in the forest’s heart. My mind spun, stitching these fragments to the spirals and crescents I’d seen in Mama’s handwriting, to the dreams that felt more like memories. But every text cut off abruptly, as if someone had torn out the crucial pages, leaving only hints of a truth the town wanted forgotten. Frustration clawed at me, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table. Why was everything hidden? Why did Willow Hollow guard its secrets as fiercely as Mama did?

Driven by a restless need, I approached the librarian’s desk, a hulking antique near the entrance, hoping for a key to deeper archives. A locked drawer stared back at me, its brass handle tarnished, unyielding under my tentative tug. I bit my lip, the barrier feeling personal, a symbol of the walls everyone kept raising around me. My gaze darted around, landing on a sagging panel at the back wall, its edges slightly ajar as if begging to be pried open. Heart hammering, I slipped behind a shelf, out of sight, and pressed my fingers against the wood. It gave with a faint groan, revealing a narrow alcove, the air inside sharp with the scent of old iron—bitter, metallic, like blood dried on stone. My breath caught, a shiver rippling through me. What had been hidden here? What did this town bury alongside its fears?

I reached in, half-expecting to find a forgotten relic, but my fingers brushed only dust and cobwebs, the space empty save for that haunting smell. Disappointment stung, but so did a spark of dread—what had left such a trace? I stepped back, the panel snapping shut behind me, and my eyes flicked nervously toward the librarian. She stood at her desk now, a wiry woman with gray streaks in her hair, her gaze narrowing as it met mine across the room. Her stare pierced through me, heavy with unspoken judgment, making my skin prickle with the sense of being caught, an intruder in a place meant to guard its truths. She didn’t speak at first, just watched, her lips thinning. Then, in a curt tone that sliced through the silence, she said, “Library closes soon.” The words carried a warning beyond time, a reminder of Willow Hollow’s suffocating control.

I nodded, ducking my head, but defiance flickered hotter in my chest. I wouldn’t be deterred—not by her, not by Mama, not by locked drawers or empty alcoves. Returning to the table, I rifled through the maps again, my hands trembling with urgency. Tucked beneath a pile of useless charts, I found a fragment—torn, faded, but marked with a jagged line leading from the town’s edge into the forest’s depths. A scribbled note in the margin read, “sacred grove, lunar rites.” My breath hitched, a thrill of exhilaration mixing with dread. This was it—a clue, a path, something tangible to chase the whispers of my dreams. But taking it meant crossing a line, breaking rules I’d only ever bent before.

I glanced at the librarian again, her back turned as she sorted papers. My heart thudded against my ribs, loud in the library’s hush, as I folded the fragment with shaking hands and slipped it into the pocket of my sweater. The rough edges pressed against my skin, a secret promise, a weight as heavy as the pendant around my neck. Guilt gnawed at me—I wasn’t a thief, not really—but the sting of Mama’s betrayal, the town’s suppression, overpowered it. I needed this. I needed to know. My fingers brushed the crescent moon at my throat, grounding myself as I stood, my chair scraping softly against the floor. Every step toward the door felt like a gamble, the librarian’s gaze burning into my back even as I avoided looking at her.

Outside, dusk was creeping in, the mist thinning to reveal the town’s hunched clapboard houses under a graying sky. I quickened my pace, the map fragment a quiet rebellion tucked close, its presence urging me onward despite the shiver of fear tracing my spine. My green eyes darted nervously toward the library’s windows, half-expecting to see that wiry figure watching me still, her suspicion a silent accusation. But I didn’t falter, my steps carrying me toward the town’s edge where the Forbidden Forest loomed, its silhouette darkening under the fading light. The pines seemed to whisper, a sibilant call curling through the evening air, tugging at something primal in my chest.

I gripped my pendant tighter, its cool edges biting into my palm as if anchoring me to an unnamed truth. My voice came out in a trembling murmur, soft but resolute, “I can’t turn back now.” The words hung in the air, a fragile vow against the gathering shadows, as the forest’s pull intensified, promising danger and revelation in equal measure. Whatever lay beyond that tree line—whatever tied me to the moon, to the blood, to the howls in my dreams—I was ready to face it, even if every instinct screamed to run.