Chapter One: Shadows of the Past
My grandmother always told me to stay away from the woods after dark. It was one of her rules, along with never leaving candles unattended and never, under any circumstances, opening the attic door at night. These rules weren’t suggestions. They were non-negotiable decrees, passed down like heirlooms from generations of women who lived—and died—by them.
“Seraphina,” she’d say, with her weathered hands clutching her mug of tea, “the shadows don’t follow the same rules we do. Respect them, or they’ll swallow you whole.”
Tonight, I didn’t care about her rules.
The forest called to me. It always had. Its dark, tangled arms reached out, promising secrets, danger, and something else I couldn’t quite name. I stood at the edge of the woods, staring into the black abyss between the trees. The moon hung low, a pale crescent that barely lit the path ahead. The cold bit through my jacket, and my breath fogged in the air, but I didn’t move.
Something moved first.
A low rustle came from the trees, like the wind, but wrong. Too deliberate. I tensed, my fingers curling into fists. The sensible thing would’ve been to turn back, to retreat to the safety of my grandmother’s house with its creaky floors and stale lavender smell. But I didn’t move. Not because I wasn’t afraid—I was—but because fear had always been second nature to me. You can’t grow up in a town like Blackthorn Hollow and not carry fear like a second skin.
The sound came again, closer this time, and my instincts screamed at me to run. Instead, I took a step forward. Then another. The dry leaves crunched beneath my boots, loud in the silence, until I was just inside the tree line. The air here felt heavier, thicker, like stepping into another world.
I told myself I wasn’t running toward danger. I was chasing answers.
For as long as I could remember, the town had whispered about my family. The Vale women were cursed, they said, tainted by something dark. My mother had only cemented those rumors when she disappeared seventeen years ago under a blood moon, leaving me behind as a baby and my father a shell of the man he used to be. She was the town’s favorite ghost story, the cautionary tale parents told their children to keep them in line.
But I didn’t remember her as a story. I didn’t remember her at all.
“Seraphina,” a voice hissed from behind me, sharp and cutting like a blade. I froze, every muscle locking into place as my heart hammered in my chest. The voice wasn’t familiar, but it felt like it should’ve been. Cold fingers seemed to brush the back of my neck, and I turned sharply, scanning the darkness behind me.
There was no one there.
“Get a grip,” I muttered under my breath, but the words felt hollow. I took a shaky breath, forcing my feet to move forward. My grandmother would kill me if she knew I was out here. She’d probably say I deserved whatever was coming to me.
The voice came again, this time softer. “Seraphina…”
It came from deeper in the woods.
I hesitated. Every logical part of me screamed to turn back, but curiosity—it was always my downfall—urged me forward. If someone was calling my name, it meant they knew me. And if they knew me, they might know my mother.
I followed the sound, weaving between the trees as the darkness grew thicker. The forest floor seemed to shift beneath me, roots reaching up like hands to catch my feet. I stumbled once, scraping my palms on a rock, but I pushed forward.
Finally, I came to a clearing, bathed in the faintest glow of moonlight. The air here was colder, sharp enough to sting my lungs, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. At first, I thought I was alone, but then I saw it.
A figure stood at the center of the clearing, draped in shadows. I couldn’t see their face, only the silhouette of a long cloak that seemed to blend into the darkness around them. They were still, too still, like they weren’t entirely human.
“Who are you?” I called out, my voice steadier than I felt. “How do you know my name?”
The figure didn’t answer. Instead, they tilted their head, as if studying me. Then they raised a hand, a pale, bony finger pointing directly at me.
A wave of cold washed over me, so intense it knocked the breath from my lungs. I staggered back, clutching at my chest as something dark and heavy coiled around my ribs.
“Seraphina Vale,” the figure said, their voice like dry leaves on a grave. “The blood moon rises.”
I blinked, and they were gone.
I didn’t remember how I got home. One moment I was standing in the clearing, and the next I was stumbling through my front door, gasping for air. My grandmother sat in her armchair by the fire, knitting as if nothing was wrong. She glanced up when I entered, her sharp eyes narrowing.
“You smell like the woods,” she said, her voice cutting through the fog in my head. “I told you not to go there.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My hands were still shaking, and my heart hadn’t slowed since the clearing.
“Sit down,” she ordered, gesturing to the couch. When I didn’t move, she sighed and set her knitting aside. “Seraphina.”
Her tone left no room for argument. I dropped onto the couch, and she was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room with surprising speed for someone her age. She grabbed my hands, inspecting them with a critical eye.
“What happened?” she demanded, her voice low and urgent.
“There was someone in the woods,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “They knew my name.”
Her grip tightened, and for the first time, I saw fear in her eyes. Real, raw fear.
“What did they say?”
“The blood moon rises.”
Her face went pale, and she let go of my hands as if I’d burned her. She turned away, pacing the room with her hands wringing in front of her.
“You weren’t supposed to be out there,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “Not yet. It’s too soon.”
“Too soon for what?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.
“Grandma, what’s going on?” I pressed, standing. “Who was that in the woods? What does the blood moon have to do with me?”
She stopped pacing and turned to face me, her expression hard. “You don’t need to know.”
“The hell I don’t!” I snapped, surprising even myself. “Someone just threatened me, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal. What aren’t you telling me?”
She sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever she was carrying. For a moment, I thought she might actually tell me the truth. But then she shook her head.
“Go to bed, Seraphina.”
“Are you serious?!” I exploded. “You—”
“Go to bed,” she repeated, her voice firm. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
I wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the look in her eyes stopped me. It wasn’t just fear. It was desperation.
So I turned and went upstairs, slamming my door behind me.
Sleep didn’t come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the figure in the clearing, their bony finger pointing at me. I heard their voice, cold and final: “The blood moon rises.”
When I finally drifted off, it wasn’t restful.
I dreamed of the woods, of twisting shadows and glowing red eyes. I dreamed of my mother, standing at the edge of a cliff with her arms outstretched, the blood moon glowing behind her. She turned to me, her face pale and drawn, and whispered, “Run.”
When I woke, my room was freezing. My breath puffed in the air, and frost coated the inside of my window. I sat up, shivering, and realized the door to my attic was open.
And someone was standing in the doorway.
