The Ancient Moon

POV Beatrice I had always loved the quiet. Not the kind of silence that follows arguments or lingers after the loss of someone you love. I’m talking about real quiet — the kind that breathes with the wind, that lives between the trees, that listens to your thoughts without judging them. That's why, when I stepped off the bus into the sleepy town of Northvale, Montana, with nothing but a duffel bag and my mother's locket, I felt... like maybe, finally, I could breathe. The air here was different. Fresher. Sharper. It had that wild scent — pine needles, something earthy, and something I couldn’t name. Like the moment before a storm. The college was small, almost tucked into the side of the mountain. Not exactly the Ivy League experience my father had once bragged I’d get into, but I didn’t care. This place was mine. My decision. My escape. “Beatrice Moore?” the woman behind the counter asked, flipping through some papers. “Just Bea,” I corrected automatically, shifting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. She gave a tight smile and handed me a key. “Room 108. You’ve got a single.” Score. I spent the rest of the day unpacking and organizing, placing my tiny plant — Basil the Third — on the windowsill and sticking my books on the narrow shelf. Psychology, mythology, a worn copy of ‘The Body Keeps the Score’, and one book I refused to let go of: Werewolves in American Folklore — purely for research, I told myself. The first night, I didn’t sleep well. Not because the mattress was too firm, or the unfamiliar sounds of an old building settling. It was that damn dream again. I'm walking through a forest. Barefoot. The moon is full, too big and too low. I hear howling, not threatening — more like a song. I follow it. My heart pounds, but I’m not scared. Just… drawn. Like I’m supposed to be there. Then I see the eyes. Amber. Not human. Not angry either. Just watching me. I always wake up at that moment. Every time. Heart racing. Palms sweating. Moonlight on my floor. I thought moving here would make it stop. It didn’t. — Orientation was forgettable. People seemed nice, if a little boring. I made polite small talk, laughed at the right moments, nodded when the professor talked about “campus responsibility” like it actually mattered. But I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not really. Until the forest called. It started on the third day. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to walk. Northvale was surrounded by trees, and just past the edge of campus was a trail. Unofficial, probably not campus-approved, but clearly well-used. Something about it felt familiar. I pulled on a hoodie, laced up my sneakers, and slipped into the night. The path twisted and dipped, roots like hands grabbing at my shoes. The moon peeked between the branches, lighting patches of forest floor. My breath puffed white in the cold air. That’s when I heard it. A rustle. No... footsteps. I froze. Another step. Heavier. Closer. “Hello?” I called, instantly regretting it. Nothing. I turned — and there he was. Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark coat. Eyes like polished obsidian. He wasn’t a student — I could tell. Too confident. Too... still. Like the trees held their breath around him. “Are you lost?” he asked. His voice was low. Rough velvet. No real emotion in it. I swallowed. “No. Just walking.” “This trail isn’t safe at night.” I tried to hold his gaze, but something about him made my skin buzz. “Thanks for the warning, but I’m not exactly helpless.” He took a step closer. Just one. And I swear — the forest shifted with him. “Didn’t say you were,” he said. “But this place... it’s not what it looks like.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. He didn’t answer. Just looked at me, head tilted slightly. Like I was... something puzzling. Or dangerous. Or both. “You’re not from here,” he said. “Nope.” He nodded once, like that explained something. Then, without another word, he turned and vanished into the trees. Like that. I stood there for a full minute, heart slamming, before my legs started working again. I made it back to my room, locked the door, and stood in front of the mirror. My cheeks were flushed. My lips parted like I’d been running. But it wasn’t fear I felt. It was electricity. Like something inside me had been struck. — The next morning, there was a note slid under my door. No name. No signature. Just six words, in tight black ink: "Stay out of the forest. – D." I should’ve been scared. I wasn’t. I wanted back in. I kept the note. Not because I was afraid — I wasn’t. Not exactly. But because there was something about the handwriting. Sharp, deliberate. Like every letter had been carved, not written. Something told me the man in the forest had written it. D. D for danger. D for don’t go. D for… who the hell are you? I should’ve listened. Instead, I went back. The next night, I waited until my roommate's door down the hall clicked shut, until the dorm quieted and the world held its breath again. Then I pulled on a jacket and walked the same path, heart thudding. Stupid? Maybe. But I needed to know what that moment was. That feeling. Maybe I’d dreamt it all. Maybe my brain was desperate to find drama in a boring town. But the forest was real. And it was waiting. This time, I brought a flashlight. The trail was darker tonight. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the cold bit deeper. Every crunch of leaves underfoot echoed. Every shadow moved just a little too much. I kept walking, deeper than before, past where I’d seen him. No sign of D. No sign of anything. I stopped. Closed my eyes. Listened. My ears caught something — soft, like breath, like whispering leaves — and then— Snap. A twig, just behind me. I spun, light flaring in every direction. “Okay, if you’re trying to scare me, it’s working!” I called, voice higher than I’d like. Silence. Then — something low. A growl? No. Not quite. More like... a vibration. Something moved between the trees. I stepped back. And then — eyes. Not human. Not glowing like in movies. But steady. Watching. I dropped the flashlight. My heart stuttered. It stepped forward — four legs, black fur, a shape too big to be anything but wrong. Not a bear. Not a wolf. Something between. Muscles rippled beneath its coat, and its eyes — amber, like fire behind glass — locked on mine. I froze. My legs wanted to move, but my body wouldn’t listen. The creature sniffed the air. Head tilted. Then — and I swear on every rational thought I had left — it bowed. Just slightly. As if I were... Important. And in the next blink — it was gone. Vanished between trees like it had melted into the shadows. I stood there, shaking, chest heaving, palms clammy. What the hell just happened? I bent to grab my flashlight — and nearly screamed. Boots. Not mine. Right next to where I dropped it. I stumbled back, flashlight aimed up. He was there. D. No coat this time — just a black shirt, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, shadows playing across sharp cheekbones. His eyes weren’t amber. They were almost black. But they held the same silence as the beast’s. “What did you see?” he asked, voice quieter this time. “I—” My lips didn’t work right away. “I don’t… I don’t know.” “Yes, you do.” My breath caught. “What was that?” I asked, trying to stay upright. He looked past me, into the trees. “A mistake.” Then he turned and walked away again. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone. And I was left alone with my fear, my racing thoughts — and a truth I didn’t understand yet. The next morning, I woke to find a bruise on my wrist. Like someone had gripped me in my sleep. Like a warning. — Classes started, but I wasn’t really there. I sat through lectures, scribbled notes, nodded at classmates — but my head was in that forest. I searched online: Northvale strange sightings. Wolves in Montana. Black animals myths. Half the stories were nonsense. Some were creepypasta level garbage. But one caught my attention. A “man-wolf” seen near Northvale, early 2000s. Locals blamed it on a prank. Hunter went missing three days later. Body never found. I read it twice. Then again. And then I searched something else: “Beatrice Moore birthmark moon shape.” Because I had one. Between my shoulder blades. It wasn’t big. Most people never saw it. But the moment that wolf-thing bowed to me, something had… burned. Right there. Like fire under my skin. I clicked through pages. Old legends. Shamanic symbols. Pack myths. One phrase stood out, in a nearly forgotten language: “Marked by Luna — neither prey nor predator.” What the hell did that mean? I didn’t tell anyone. Not even the girl in my Lit class who seemed vaguely normal. I couldn’t. They’d think I was insane. Maybe I was. But everything changed that night. Again. I was walking back from the library — late, headphones in, hoodie up — when I felt it. That pressure. That weight. Like someone watching. No, not someone. Something. I pulled one bud out. Turned my head. He was across the street. Just standing there. Watching. Same height. Same build. D. I stepped back. He crossed the road like a shadow, silent and fast. “You need to leave this town,” he said before I could speak. My jaw locked. “What is wrong with you?” “You don’t belong here.” “Because I went into your forest?” His eyes darkened. “It’s not mine. And it’s not yours either.” My anger flared. “Then stop following me.” He didn’t move. “I’m trying to keep you alive.” I scoffed. “By stalking me? That’s your big protective move?” He stepped closer, until I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes. “You saw something you weren’t supposed to see,” he said, quiet but intense. “And others felt it. They're watching now. You're not safe.” “Who’s watching?” He hesitated. And that silence told me more than his words ever could. “You’re not human,” I whispered. His jaw clenched. But he didn’t deny it. “What are you?” I asked. His voice dropped to a near growl. “Danger.” He turned again. Started to walk. Then paused. “Stay out of the woods,” he said without looking back. “And whatever you think you are… you’re wrong.” I stared at him until he disappeared into the dark. My heart hammered. Not from fear. From the deep, impossible need to know more. Who he was. What he was. And why — when he looked at me — I felt like I'd just been claimed.