The Journal That Shouldn't Exist
Elara Whitmore had learned two things during her seven years as an archivist.
First - history never stayed dead.
Second - anything sealed, hidden, or f*******n was never meant to be found by accident.
Yet here she was, standing alone in the restricted archives long after closing hours, staring at a leather-bound journal that did not exist on any record.
The lights above flickered once, as if the building itself disapproved.
“Elara,” she muttered to herself, “you should not be touching this.”
The journal lay inside a false compartment behind a crumbling oak shelf no catalog number, no accession tag, no preservation notes. Just dark leather worn smooth by time and a strange symbol pressed into its cover: a crescent moon split by claw marks.
The moment her fingers brushed the leather, a sharp heat surged through her palm.
She gasped and pulled back but it was too late.
The world tilted.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs, breath hitching as images flooded her mind.
A forest bathed in silver moonlight.
Blood staining snow.
A man kneeling, eyes glowing gold, his voice breaking as he whispered her name.
“Elara.”
She staggered back, knocking into the desk behind her.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered, pulse roaring in her ears.
The journal sat innocently where it was, as though it hadn’t just reached inside her and touched something old… something buried.
Her rational mind scrambled for explanations stress, exhaustion, imagination.. but her hands were trembling, and a strange ache bloomed low in her chest. Not pain. Longing.
She swallowed hard and opened the book.
The pages were yellowed, the ink dark and deliberate.
If you are reading this, then time has failed me.
My name is Rowan Blackthorn.
I was Alpha of the Northwood Pack, and I was cursed for loving the woman fate bound to me.
Elara’s breath caught.
She flipped the page.
They will erase me from records.
They will hunt my bloodline.
They will swear I died in the winter of 1823.
But wolves do not die so easily.
A cold chill crawled up her spine.
1823??
She knew that year.
She had written her postgraduate thesis on unexplained disappearances in that exact region.
Rowan Blackthorn had been a footnote a name without a grave, a man who vanished without explanation.
Her name appeared again on the next page.
Not Whitmore.
Just Elara.
Her knees weakened, and she sank into the chair behind her.
“This isn’t possible,” she whispered.
The air in the archive grew heavy, thick with the scent of rain and something darker iron, earth, wilderness. The lights dimmed. Somewhere deep in the building, wood creaked as if footsteps passed through halls long abandoned.
She turned another page with shaking fingers.
If you have returned, then I have waited long enough.
They will come for you as they once did.
Trust no one.
Especially the ones who smile while holding knives.
A sound echoed down the corridor.
Footsteps.
Elara froze.
The archive door creaked open.
“Hello?” a male voice called, low and unfamiliar. “Anyone still here?”
Her heart hammered violently. She snapped the journal shut and shoved it into her bag, standing too quickly.
“I’m here,” she called, forcing calm into her voice.
The footsteps drew closer. Then he appeared between the shelves.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark clothes that seemed too modern for the ancient place. His presence filled the narrow aisle like a storm cloud quiet, dangerous, undeniable.
Their eyes met.
Something snapped.
The ache in her chest flared into fire.
His gaze darkened, jaw tightening as if he were holding himself together by sheer will.
“Elara,” he said softly.
Her breath left her lungs.
“I… how do you know my name?”
He stepped closer, and the air between them crackled with tension she couldn’t explain.
“I’ve known it,” he said, voice rough with something dangerously close to grief, “for over two hundred years.”
The lights went out.
And somewhere deep within her, something ancient woke up and remembered how to bleed.
