When The Moon Rises, I Want You

The Millers’ house smelled like dust and old paper and weak coffee that had been sitting on a burner since 6 AM. Third foster home in two years. Third school. I stopped counting after the second time I had to pack a trash bag at 11 PM because “it wasn’t working out.” The words never changed. Just the faces saying them. Mrs. Miller stood in the doorway of my room, wringing her hands like that would make this feel less transactional. She was trying. I gave her that. Most didn’t. “We thought you’d like the quiet,” she said, nodding toward the hallway. “The library’s attached. Used to belong to the Ashford family. Big place. Quiet. No one goes in there much anymore.” She meant it like a selling point. I heard it as: nowhere to run if you snap. I nodded. It was easier than explaining that quiet made the noise louder. My room was on the second floor. Small, with peeling floral wallpaper and a window that faced the woods behind the property. The glass was cold even in late September. Floorboards creaked when I walked, and not from my weight. I’m 5’4”, 110 soaking wet. Not supposed to dent steel doorframe when I’m mad. Not supposed to heal a sprained ankle in three hours. Not supposed to hear a mouse in the walls two rooms over. I didn’t unpack. What was the point? The trash bag in the closet was already half full. I didn’t sleep. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant blood. It had been three months since the last time, but my body remembered. It always remembered. At 2:17 AM, the scratching started. It came from the basement. Slow, deliberate. Like fingernails on wood. Pause. Scratch. Pause. Scratch. Human wouldn’t make that sound. Too even. Too patient. Too calculated. I sat up, fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. My pulse was too fast. Too strong. I could hear it in my ears, drowning out everything else. If I let go, I could punch through the wall. I knew that the way I knew my own name. I’d done it once, at twelve, when Mr. Calloway got too close and said he was just trying to help. The doorframe had splintered. His face had gone white. I’d been gone by morning. Don’t look outside. Don’t go down there. The words weren't mine. They felt like they were being pressed into my skull from the outside. Like a memory that wasn't mine, but fit too well. Ryan Blackthorne didn’t know me yet. We’d never met. But his text from 2 years in the future was already burning in my head. I’d seen it in a dream three nights ago. A name I didn’t know, a face I didn’t remember, telling me to stay inside. I didn’t go down. Instead, I pressed my forehead to the cold window and watched the woods. The moon was full. It always felt brighter here. Like it was pulling at something under my skin. Something watched back. I couldn’t see it. But I felt it. A weight in the trees, patient and waiting. The same weight that made the scratching in the basement stop when I stood up. I didn’t move for an hour. When the scratching started again, it was softer. Like it was listening to me breathing. Morning came with weak sunlight and the smell of burnt toast. Mrs. Miller knocked twice before opening the door. “Aria? Breakfast. First day’s important.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She never did. I stood. My legs didn’t shake. That was new. Last placement, I’d had to hold the wall just to walk for a week after a bad night. Whatever was happening here, it was making me stronger. Or more dangerous. Probably both. I followed her downstairs. The library door was at the end of the hall. Old oak, iron handle, cold to the touch. There was a symbol carved into it. I didn’t know what it meant, but my fingers itched to trace it. “Don’t go in there alone,” Mrs. Miller said suddenly, her voice tight. “Mr. Miller’s going to board it up this weekend. Too old. Not safe.” I nodded. Didn’t ask why she looked scared. Breakfast was silent. Mr. Miller didn’t look up from his paper. Their son, Tyler, was at college. The house felt too big for two people and one foster kid they didn’t want. The school bus came at 7:10. Ashford High looked like every other high school I’d been to. Brick, too many windows, too many people who’d already decided who you were before you opened your mouth. I kept my head down. Hood up. Hands in pockets. It didn’t work. “New girl,” someone said as I walked through the doors. “Foster kid,” someone else added. “Rumors say she broke a kid’s arm in Cedar Falls.” I didn’t. But arguing never helped. I made it to homeroom without incident. Sat in the back. Watched the exits. That’s when I felt it. Eyes on me. Not the curious, gossipy kind. The assessing kind. Like I was being measured for a fight. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. Whoever it was, they stopped looking after thirty seconds. The bell rang. First period was English. Second was Algebra. I got through both by keeping quiet and letting my eyes do the work. Memorize faces. Memorize routes. Memorize who moved like they were dangerous and who just thought they were. At lunch, I sat alone under the bleachers. “Hey.” I didn’t flinch. I was proud of that. A boy slid down next to me. Brown hair, too much energy, eyes that didn’t look scared of me. “Jace Morales. You’re the new foster kid. Aria Chen, right? I checked the roster.” I didn’t answer. He grinned. “Cool. I’m not scared of you. Most people are. You’ve got that ‘I could break your face’ vibe.” “Then why are you here?” “Because everyone else is boring.” He offered me half his sandwich. “Also, I heard the scratching in the old library last week. You hear it too?” I froze. Jace noticed. “s**t. Sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying, the place is weird. My uncle used to work maintenance there. Quit after a week. Said the basement doors move on their own.” I took the sandwich. “Thanks.” “That’s it? No ‘stay away from me’ speech?” I chewed. Swallowed. “You seem nice. I’d hate to ruin that.” He laughed. It was loud and real and for a second, I almost felt normal. Then the hallway went quiet. I knew before I looked up. He stood at the top of the stairs. Tall, broad shoulders, black hoodie despite the heat. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that looked like they’d seen things they shouldn't have at eighteen. Ryan Blackthorne. Alpha heir. Son of the man who ran this town. Promised to Seraphina Voss since birth. He wasn't looking at anyone else. He was looking at me. The air got heavy. Like before a storm. My skin prickled. My pulse spiked. Not fear. Something else. Something that made my teeth ache and my vision sharpen. Jace felt it too. He went still. “Okay. That’s the guy everyone’s scared of.” I didn’t answer. Ryan’s eyes narrowed. Not angry. Calculating. He took one step down. The bell rang. He stopped. For a second, something almost human flashed across his face. Frustration. Regret. Then it was gone. He turned and walked away. Jace exhaled. “Dude. What was that?” I didn’t know. But my hands were shaking, and it had nothing to do with fear. That night, the scratching started at 2:17 AM again. But this time, it was joined by something else. A whisper. Low, guttural. Not English. It said my name. Aria. I sat up, heart pounding. The window was open a c***k. The woods were dark. And something was standing at the edge of them. I couldn’t see it clearly. Just a shape. Tall. Too still. It didn’t move when I moved. It didn’t blink. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. One text. Stay inside. Don’t look outside. Don’t go down there. I looked up. The shape was gone. But the whisper wasn’t. Aria. Come home. I didn’t sleep. The Millers’ house was quiet. Too quiet. Like it was holding its breath. I sat by the window until dawn. When the sun came up, the whisper stopped. But the scratching didn’t. It was waiting. And so was I.