The Miracle Luna

PRISCILLA'S POV

I’ve always been afraid of flying.

It’s an irrational fear, I know. Statistics say I’m more likely to die in a car crash than in a plane falling out of the sky, but tell that to my palms currently slick with sweat. The cabin’s thin air doesn’t help; every breath feels shallow, too light, like it’s not enough to keep me grounded. I grip the armrests a little tighter, ignoring the irritated glance from the man sitting beside me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

He doesn’t reply, which is fine. I’m not in the mood to chat anyway. I’m too busy trying to keep my anxiety under control—and not just about the plane.

New York to Oregon. That’s a big leap for someone who’s spent her entire life surrounded by the steel and hum of the city. I’m leaving behind my overpriced studio apartment, the loud streets, the aroma of fresh bagels on every corner—all for an obscure forest town no one’s ever heard of.

Shadow Pine. Sounds like the title of a cheap horror flick, right? But for the last few months, it has become an obsession.

It all started with a story. A missing hiker—the fifth disappearance in less than a year—and nothing but dead leads. The police chalked it up to accidents, blaming wild animals and unstable terrain, but there was something in the statements, in the whispers of locals I interviewed over the phone, that didn’t sit right with me.

I live for stories like this—the ones people want to be buried.

And that’s why I’m here now, staring out the aeroplane window as the jagged peaks of the Cascades come into view. I didn’t even need to take the assignment. My editor at The Daily Monitor didn’t push me to fly cross-country to investigate a case everyone else had dismissed as wilderness mishaps. I pushed myself.

Because the truth isn’t always buried; sometimes it’s hiding in plain sight. And I have a feeling there’s something dangerous waiting in those woods—something I need to uncover.

The plane jolted, and my stomach leapt into my throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice crackled overhead, disturbingly cheerful, “we’re beginning our descent into Portland International Airport. The weather in Portland is a cool 55 degrees with light rain. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

I exhaled slowly. I’m doing this.

The rental car smells like stale coffee and cheap cologne. I threw my duffel bag into the passenger seat and pulled out of the airport parking lot, double-checking the crumpled directions I printed earlier.

Shadow Pine in Oregon isn’t even on G****e Maps. I had to dig up some backwater blogs just to find the approximate location. “Near the Cascade foothills, deep in the timberland,” one description had said, almost like a warning.

It’s a three to four hour drive through winding mountain roads, most of it surrounded by nothing but forest. Massive pine trees blur together outside my window—dark, looming shadows that block out the sunlight. Even the rain looks thicker here, turning the world into a shadowy haze.

By the time I pass the weathered wooden sign that reads Welcome to Shadow Pine, my nerves have settled into something closer to unease. The town is small, with just a few scattered buildings clinging to the edges of the road. An old gas station. A diner with flickering neon lights. A hardware store that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 60s. And then, further down the road, a motel.

I parked the car and stared at the building through the windshield. Palm Motel. A neon sign buzzed faintly, one of the letters hanging lopsided. It’s exactly as run-down as I expected. I grabbed my bag and headed inside.

The woman at the front desk looked up as I approached. Her name tag says “Brenda.” She’s older, with a nest of silver curls and shrewd eyes that flick up and down as she takes me in.

“Checking in?” she asked. Her tone suggests she doesn’t get a lot of strangers here.

“Yeah. Priscilla Hart. I called yesterday.”

Brenda pulled out a dusty-looking ledger, flipped a few pages, and nodded. “Room 12. End of the hall. Towels are clean, the water’s hot, and the locks work—but if you want a wake-up call, you’re out of luck. Phone lines don’t work when it rains too hard.”

“That’s fine.”

She slid a key across the counter—a real key, not a card—and lowered her voice slightly. “Most people don’t come here without a reason, Miss Hart. Are you hunting for something?”

Her words made me pause. I tried to play it off with a smile. “Just chasing a story.”

Brenda didn't smile back. “Careful what you chase. Some stories bite back.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, tucking the key into my pocket. Outside, the rain had picked up again, drumming against the metal awning as I headed for Room 12.

The room smells like mildew, and the carpet is a hideous shade of brownish-orange, but it’s quiet. Safe. I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my laptop, setting it up at the rickety desk by the window.

From here, I can see the treeline at the edge of town, where the forest begins to swallow everything.

I know what the locals think. I’ve read the stories—the ones about strange howls at night, claw marks on tree trunks, and shadows that move when they shouldn’t. They say it’s the wolves.

And yet, no one ever seems to see the wolves.

I’ve spent months piecing this together: the disappearances, the rumours, the way locals seem to avoid talking about the forest entirely. Like they’re afraid.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for just a second, listening to the rain.

I’m not afraid.

But as the wind picked up outside, rattling the windowpane, I couldn't shake the feeling that something out there was watching me.

Welcome to Shadow Pine, I muttered.

Let’s see what you’re hiding.