Lies Beneath The Moon

Chapter 6: Facing Destiny Head On

The feeling of being watched was a constant, cold pressure throughout the night, yet it was not the sleepless terror I expected. I woke up utterly rested, a baffling discovery after two years dominated by crushing night terrors and violent flashbacks. My body had finally betrayed its programming, granting me a peace I thought I'd lost forever. It was a security so absolute it was chilling, making me wonder whether that presence outside was not a threat at all, but a silent guardian—one that, against all logic, reminded my soul of Alex.

I pushed the covers off, the mattress groaning faintly beneath me, and quickly moved through my morning ritual. A long shower helped wash away the lingering tension and the metallic scent of fear, followed by a meticulous shave that momentarily disguised the weariness in my eyes.

Once the routine was complete, I returned to the bedroom. I didn't reach for my usual casual clothes. Instead, I consciously chose an outfit that projected competence and focus: crisp jeans, a dark, fitted t-shirt, and a functional leather jacket. It was a deliberate decision; I was dressing for the fight ahead.

Standing by the window, I finally allowed myself to face the chaos. I pulled out my small notebook, the one I usually reserved for technical camera settings, and began to chart the day. The simple act of writing provided a necessary anchor.

The oppressive silence of the house, broken only by the frantic beat of my own heart, was unbearable. I stood over the note on the coffee table, reading the last lines again and again. My uncle, the rationalist, was gone, pursuing a lead on my parents' twenty-year-old murder case. The cafe m******e had done more than just restart the killer's clock; it had forced my uncle to confront a truth we had long ignored.

His note outlined a shocking surrender to the inexplicable and led me to discover that the cafe victim, Maya Sharma, was the daughter of a missing local healer. The killer's target wasn't random, but I also felt that he wasn't solely aiming for the occult. The focus on the occult fit a convenient narrative, but it didn't align with the killer's original motivation. After all, why would he have gone after me and Alex two years ago if his focus was purely on the occult? It wouldn't make sense. But this new occult connection would be what the police and Detective Ote would now pursue, and that might buy me some precious time without having to worry about crossing paths with Ote for a while at least.

I felt the woolen jacket, the one Officer Net had left me, still draped over the back of my desk chair. It was a faint, physical comfort, but also a symbol of the dangerous hope I clung to. I folded it carefully and tucked it deep inside a closet, a desperate attempt to protect the one fragile ally I had. As I closed the closet door, I caught the slightest, sharp tang of cedar—a scent not of the closet's wood, but like a recent, momentary presence. I dismissed it as paranoia.

The decision to visit a healer was a complete surrender of my identity as Danny Bowen, the pragmatic photographer who dealt in verifiable light and shadow. I had spent two years fighting Ote with facts and legal maneuvering; now I was preparing to walk willingly into a world of superstition and sacrifice. I was trading legal briefs for folklore.

I paused at the front door, running a mental checklist. The house was triple-locked. The blinds were drawn. My car was unremarkable, blending into the city's camouflage. I had no weapon, only my phone and the desperate conviction that this killer has to be caught before he kills again, or before I become the scapegoat, just like they want.

I slipped out and moved quickly toward my car. The street was quiet, but every shadow felt pregnant with threat. I scanned the parked vehicles, half-expecting to see Ote's dark cruiser idling nearby, but saw nothing. The silence felt worse than active pursuit; it suggested I was being watched by something far more subtle and patient than a beat cop. It wasn't just surveillance; it felt unnervingly personal, like being scrutinized by someone who knew my weak spots.

I drove cautiously, sticking to back roads, winding toward the industrial park near my office. The healer's clinic, "The Juniper Hearth," was located in a small, anonymous unit tucked between a constantly steaming laundromat and a darkened dry cleaner. It was the kind of place you would miss if you weren't looking for it—a perfect sanctuary for secrets.

As I got closer, the atmosphere changed. The usual city noise—the distant grind of traffic, the blare of a horn—began to fade, replaced by a strange tranquility. The smell of exhaust gave way to a faint, dry scent—like burning leaves and old cedar. The familiar scent of the jacket I had just folded away suddenly permeated the air outside, confirming my earlier fleeting sensation. It was as if the clinic's essence was bleeding out into the street, or as if that scent—the cedar scent—was purposefully drawing me in.

I pulled the car over two blocks away, needing to approach on foot. My photographer's instinct took over, demanding I maintain absolute stealth. The street was quiet, filled with the low, repetitive hum of distant ventilation fans.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to anchor myself in the cold reality of the asphalt. This was it. No backing out. I was trading my camera for a crystal ball, trading a logical framework for a chaotic destiny. I was walking toward the one person who could potentially explain why my life had become a pawn in a supernatural game.

I approached the narrow doorway, where a faded wooden sign marked the healer's clinic. The curtains in the window were thick, dark velvet, ensuring the room inside was completely private. I reached for the handle, its brass cold and heavy under my palm. I could feel the residual warmth radiating from the small, secluded building.

I was about to walk into the darkness. I was about to ask someone to explain the price of the rekindled ritual that had destroyed my life once and was threatening to consume it again. Whatever was waiting inside, I knew it would be worse than Ote. But it was the only direction left to run.