Hemlock Grove Novels & Stories

My grip on the wheel loosens. For the first time in hours, the vise in my chest eases. I’ve made it. Thanks to the mysterious stranger. We drive slowly, giving me enough time to scan my surroundings. On the left is the beach. To the right, narrow lots cling to the hillside. Golden lamplight spills through the windows. We pass beach homes, restaurants and wine tasting rooms, one bed and breakfast after another. So this is Redwood Grove. The edge of civilization, the final frontier of the continent. Fog drenched and chilled, more like the Pacific Northwest than the hot and sunny parts of California most people think of.

The forest surrounding Helena Moore’s cabin seemed to have a consciousness of its own, a web of secrets woven between the roots of the pine trees and the mist that never fully dissipated. That morning, the silence was so dense that Helena could hear her own heartbeat, a disjointed rhythm that echoed the unspoken words of Dante Blackwood. She stepped out onto the porch with a mug of tea, observing the line of trees. Something was different.

And still a day away from the Sacred Grove. We reached the Grove at sunset on the third day. It was precisely as ancient as its name suggested—a circular clearing surrounded by trees so old they remembered when the first werewolves walked the earth. Their branches formed a natural cathedral overhead, filtering sunlight into patterns that seemed almost sacred. In the centre stood a stone circle—thirteen pillars carved with runes that predated written language.

“They’re very real. Packless wolves turned mercenaries. No code. No loyalty. Just muscle, teeth, and blood money. Someone’s hired them. They’re in Vermont now. And they know your face, Nora.” Great. Freakin' fantastic. Ashir gave us a location—an old blood ritual site near the cliffs called Ashgrove Hollow. Said someone might be meeting there. Someone who knew what Milo found. Someone who might be able to help. Or kill us. Either way it sounded like a fun field trip. We left Iron Market just before dusk, heading west. The cliffs weren’t far, maybe a two-hour hike. The forest there was thick and full of weird noises. Birds that sounded like they were laughing at you. Branches that moved when

The spring on the Silver Moon had settled into a lush, vibrant equilibrium that felt like a living prayer. The "Ancestral Grove" was no longer just a place of memory; it was the biological furnace of the mountain, where the silver lilies grew in such dense, glowing clusters that the night never truly reached the forest floor. I stood in the center of the grove, my amethyst eyes scanning the roots of the original white cedar. My heart beat a steady, peaceful sixty beats per minute, a rhythm that was now the rhythmic standard for every living thing on this planet.

Their petals, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, seemed to dance in the gentle breeze, leading us onward. A soft hum, almost like a lullaby, began to resonate around us. It felt familiar, and comforting, drawing us closer to our destination. "Do you hear that?" I whispered, pausing to soak in the serene ambiance. Alec nodded, a look of wonder in his eyes. "It's the song of the Grove. My grandmother used to hum it to me when I was a child. She said it was a melody that bridged our world with the ancient spirits of the Haven."

It was creased and stained, but the locations marked in red ink stood out like wounds. “Hollowmere,” Evelyn murmured, pointing to a name scribbled in the margins. “That’s where we will go next.” “I’ve been digging through what little we pulled from the drive,” Mason said. “Hollowmere doesn’t show up on any official database. Not as a government site. Not even as a ghost facility.” “Which means it’s even deeper off the grid than Ashgrove,” Evelyn said. “Which makes it more dangerous.” Emily pushed herself upright slowly. “It’s colder there. I don’t know how I know, but I remember it—glass, metal, ice. Not like Ashgrove. It’s... cleaner. Sharper.”

The air grew more and more cold the farther they got, and there were faintest whispering in the air, sounds like the trees themselves were talking. Far down the bridge they could see a clearing. However, it was unlike every other they had seen in the Grove. This tree line was larger; its trees soaring up over them like ancient guardians. Other than that massive stone sculpted with symbols we would never be able to make heads out of, there was nothing more in the clearing than what lay instantly around us. The knot glowed with the same green light as it. The glow from the knot in Serakha’s hands had not yet faded. "This is it," she whispered. "The heart of the Grove."

“But I am the one it’s calling.” “You sure it’s calling you?” Vera asked. “Because this feels more like a trap.” Selene’s voice was low. “It can be both.” --- They entered the Grove just before dusk. It wasn’t a forest anymore. It was a memory of one—trees shaped by spirit energy, their bark carved with ancient names and bonds long forgotten. The grove glowed faintly blue, and every footstep echoed like they were walking through time itself. In the center stood the altar. It had once been a place of unity, where the spirit wolves choose their vessels. Now, it pulsed with dark light, sickened by corruption.

I stood by the large window of my study, fingers loosely gripping my phone, eyes fixed on the tree-lined horizon as the sun dipped beyond the ridge. The Grove: That’s where Emon had been. I had followed his scent trail from the apartment, sharp, human and a bit bitter, and it had led me there. Not many humans dared go that deep into the wild. Not unless they had a reason. And no one went to the Grove unless they were seeking someone like her. Bibi Kamwe. That perverted old hag that won't just die. A chill crawled up my spine.