Moonlit Desires

(Chloe’s POV)

I should’ve known something was off the moment I drove into Blackthorn Ridge. The town looked like it had been plucked straight from the set of a horror movie—gray clouds permanently hovered in the sky, and the only gas station attendant I’d met so far looked like he belonged in a Stephen King novel.

The road into Blackthorn Ridge felt like it was leading me to the edge of the world. The deeper I drove, the more it seemed like civilization was being swallowed by the thick woods that lined either side of the narrow two-lane road. The trees pressed in close, their branches intertwining overhead, creating a canopy that blocked out the afternoon sun.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. 4:37 p.m. Not too late, but somehow the dim light made it feel like it was midnight. Maybe it was the oppressive, brooding forest that loomed on either side of the road like it was waiting to swallow me whole. Perfect. Exactly what I needed—some creepy, backwoods mystery town to launch my journalism career.

The fading autumn light turned everything a dull gold, casting long, eerie shadows across the road. The leaves, which should have been bright oranges and reds, seemed muted somehow, as if the forest itself was trying to hide. Everything here felt dense, heavy. It was like stepping into a different world, a place forgotten by time.

I rolled down the window a crack, letting in the crisp October air. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the Jeep, reminding me of hikes I’d taken as a kid with my family in the Adirondacks. But those forests had felt alive, warm, and welcoming. This one? This one was silent. Watchful.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, leaning forward as if that might somehow help me navigate this oppressive place. My GPS had given up about twenty miles back, the screen showing a constant searching for signal. Great. I wasn’t sure if I was more irritated by the loss of technology or the growing feeling that I was driving straight into some horror movie cliché.

"Small-town mystery, they said," I muttered to myself, glancing at the rearview mirror where nothing but the empty, desolate road stretched behind me. "It’ll be a great experience for your career, they said."

Yeah, sure. Because driving into a town that looked like it had been plucked out of a creepy ghost story was exactly how I envisioned my journalism breakthrough.

I flicked the radio on, more for the company than anything else, but all I got was static. I twisted the dial, hoping for at least one station, but it was all white noise, the eerie kind that sent a shiver up your spine, like something might be lurking just beneath the surface. With a sigh, I turned it off. The silence pressed in again, heavier than before.

My mind wandered back to the files I’d received before I came here—reports of strange animal attacks, bodies found near the forest, half-devoured but... not entirely. No one had said the word werewolf out loud, of course, but the whispers were there, buried between the lines of official reports. The locals were tight-lipped, but there had been rumors. The kind of rumors that had the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

Focus, Chloe. There’s no such thing as werewolves.

Still, the strange patterns, the full-moon connections, the unease in the town’s voice when I’d called ahead to make my reservations—everything seemed... off. Not just in a "there’s a wolf problem" kind of way, but in a way that made my stomach knot with an excitement I hadn’t felt in years.

The kind of excitement that makes you want to dig, to uncover what’s hidden just beneath the surface. I had a nose for this kind of stuff—mysteries, hidden truths. And Blackthorn Ridge felt like a town built on them.

Finally, the faded sign for Blackthorn Ridge came into view, leaning at an awkward angle as if it was barely clinging to the idea of being a welcoming gesture. The sign was old, the wood splintered and the paint cracked, but what caught my attention was the graffiti. Someone had scratched out the population number and drawn a jagged question mark over it, like even the locals weren’t sure how many people still called this place home.

I pushed my sunglasses back onto my head, flicking a look at the shabby "Welcome to Blackthorn Ridge" sign as I passed. I muttered to myself, "Welcome to the middle of nowhere, Chloe. Try not to get murdered."

Not that I was actually expecting to get murdered, but this assignment wasn’t my first choice. I could’ve been in New York, writing for a big-name magazine. Instead, I was here. A dusty, forgotten town nobody’s ever heard of, with nothing to do except unravel the mystery of some animal attacks. Great. This was my big break?

I slowed down, turning into the main street, which was little more than a stretch of road lined with old brick buildings. The town wasn’t what I’d call deserted, but it was eerily quiet for a late afternoon. A few people drifted along the sidewalks, heads down, hands shoved into the pockets of their jackets, not one of them meeting my gaze as I passed.

I caught the eye of an elderly man sitting on a bench outside what looked like the general store. He was smoking a pipe, the plume of smoke swirling lazily around his head as he stared at me with such intensity that it made me squirm. His eyes followed my Jeep as I rolled by, the same way a predator might watch prey that’s wandered too close.

“Friendly bunch,” I muttered, pulling the Jeep up to the curb in front of the Blackthorn Inn.

The inn looked like it had been plucked straight out of a Victorian ghost story—tall and narrow, with peeling white paint and ivy creeping up the sides. The porch sagged under its own weight, and the windows, dark and streaked with grime, gave the building an ominous, neglected look. If there was ever a place destined for a haunting, this was it.

I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and stepped out, glancing around. The air was crisp and cold, the smell of wet leaves and wood smoke curling in the breeze. The shadows were growing longer as the sun sank lower behind the trees, casting the town in a dusky, golden light that somehow only made the place feel even more isolated.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Alright, Chloe. You’ve handled worse. Just check in, get settled, and figure out what the hell is going on here.”

With that pep talk in mind, I headed up the creaky wooden steps and pushed open the door to the inn. A bell above the door jingled weakly, and I was greeted by the smell of musty wood and... something else. Something faint, but metallic. Like old blood. I wrinkled my nose as I stepped inside, scanning the dimly lit lobby.

A large, dusty chandelier hung overhead, casting weak, flickering light over the cracked wooden floor. The furniture looked like it hadn’t been updated in decades—heavy, dark pieces that seemed out of place in the small, cramped space. There was a reception desk near the back of the room, but no one stood behind it. The woman looked like she hadn't smiled since the Clinton administration.

“Hello?” I called, setting my bag down and walking toward the desk. The old wood creaked under my feet, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I turned slowly, scanning the shadows near the stairwell, half-expecting someone—or something—to be lurking there.

Nothing. Just empty space.

I was about to call out again when a woman appeared from a back room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was tall and gaunt, with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and sharp, hawk-like eyes that assessed me with a cool indifference. Her face was expressionless, her lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.

“You must be the journalist,” she said, her voice flat and emotionless.

For a moment, I was taken aback. How did she know who I was? I hadn’t introduced myself yet, and the town wasn’t exactly buzzing with activity.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, trying to sound casual as I moved toward the desk. “Chloe Reynolds. I’m here for a room.”

The woman gave a short nod and turned to the wall of keys behind her. She didn’t ask for ID, didn’t check a computer or a ledger. She simply plucked a key from the wall and set it on the counter between us.

“Room 4. Top of the stairs, last on the left,” she said, her voice still devoid of any warmth.

I hesitated, glancing at the key before reaching for it. “Thanks,” I said. “Anything I should know about the town? Seems... quiet.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a split second, something flickered behind them. Something dark. “Quiet’s good,” she said, her tone even more clipped than before. “People who come looking for noise don’t last long.”

I raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond. Before I could think of something witty—or at least less awkward—she spoke again. “Don’t leave your window open at night. The wind here is... unpredictable.”

I blinked. “Unpredictable? It’s wind.”

Her lips twitched, though it didn’t come close to a smile. “You’ll see.”

And with that cryptic remark, she turned and disappeared into the back room, leaving me standing in the empty lobby with nothing but a brass key and a growing sense of unease.

Great. Wind. That’s what I need to be worried about. Not the fact that I’m clearly in the set of some supernatural thriller where I’m the only one who didn’t get the script.

My room, as promised, was at the top of the creaky staircase, last door on the left. The door itself was old, the wood splintered in places, and the brass knob felt cold and worn under my fingers. I unlocked it, pushing it open with a low groan from the hinges.

The room was... well, quaint was a generous word. Small bed, a nightstand, and a window that looked out over the darkening town. The wallpaper was peeling in some spots, and the floorboards creaked ominously underfoot, but it was clean. That was something, I supposed.

I dumped my stuff on the bed, and flopped down next to it with a groan. “Why am I doing this?” I mumbled into the pillow.

My phone buzzed, and I half-heartedly fumbled for it in my bag. It was a text from my best friend, Sarah.

Sarah: Did you die yet?

Me: Nope, but this town smells like it might. Seriously, it’s like a Tim Burton fever dream.

Sarah: Sounds sexy. Maybe you’ll meet some brooding guy with a dark secret.

I snorted. Yeah, right. If the guys in this town were anything like the gas station clerk, the only dark secret I’d find was their extensive collection of roadkill.

With a sigh, I tossed my phone aside and stood up, glancing out the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and sprawling, its edges blending with the shadows that had already begun to claim the town. The sun had nearly set, casting everything in a deep, amber glow, and as I watched, a low mist began to roll in from the woods, curling along the ground like fingers stretching out toward the town.

I shivered, though the room wasn’t cold. Something about this place... something wasn’t right. I could feel it.

The forest was closer than I’d realized, stretching out endlessly beyond the town. It was beautiful in a way—wild, dark, mysterious. Like it held something ancient, just waiting for someone dumb enough to find it.

And I guess I was that someone.

I turned away from the window, pulling my laptop from my bag and setting it on the small desk near the bed. Time to do some digging.