Chapter 1: The Town of Ashwood Hollow
Snow fell in thick, lazy spirals, painting the lonely road white as Clara Winters' old sedan rattled along the mountain pass. Her breath fogged the windshield, even with the heater hissing on high. She wasn't used to this kind of winter; back in her coastal hometown, winters were more about rain and damp air than walls of snow. But Ashwood Hollow was different—isolated, hidden by endless forest, with a sky that seemed permanently bruised by clouds. It was the kind of place her friends warned her about: too small, too strange, too many stories.
And that was exactly why she had come.
Clara had always been the kind of person who chased the uncanny, who wanted to believe that behind every odd legend was a sliver of truth. When the ad for a run-down bookstore in Ashwood Hollow went up online—"cheap, fixer-upper, comes with history"—she packed her car and left her comfortable, predictable life behind.
The town sign emerged from the swirling snow like something out of a fairy tale: WELCOME TO ASHWOOD HOLLOW – Population ???. Someone had scratched out the number. Below it, in a different hand, someone had scrawled: Leave while you can.
Clara gave a nervous laugh. "Charming."
The main street was nearly deserted when she arrived. Houses crouched under the snow like old men with heavy coats, chimneys puffing smoke into the gray air. Strings of half-broken Christmas lights still dangled from porches even though the holiday had passed weeks ago. A pub at the corner still had its neon sign buzzing weakly: The Silver Fang Tavern.
She parked in front of her new home—the bookstore, a sagging two-story building with boarded-up windows and a hand-painted sign that read Moonlight Books. The paint had peeled so badly the word looked more like Moonlit Boo. Clara pulled her scarf tighter and stepped out, her boots crunching on the snow.
She had barely gotten the key in the lock when a voice called out behind her. "You lost, city girl?"
Clara spun. A man in a thick ranger's jacket leaned casually against a lamppost, his breath clouding the air. He had floppy dark hair that looked like it had never seen a brush, and his smile was the kind that hovered somewhere between charming and annoying.
"I'm not lost," Clara said, standing straighter. "I own this place now." She nodded at the bookstore.
The ranger whistled. "Bold choice. Most folks who move here last about, oh, three weeks. Then they start hearing things at night and—poof—gone."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "And you? Still here?"
"Jonah Briggs," he said, striding forward with a hand out. "Forest ranger, professional snow-shoveler, part-time therapist for panicked townsfolk."
Clara shook his hand, finding his grip warm despite the cold. "Clara Winters. And I don't scare that easily."
Jonah grinned. "Good. You'll need that attitude."
Before she could ask what he meant, a shadow moved across the street. Clara's gaze snapped toward it. A man was standing near the tavern, half-hidden by the falling snow. He was tall, his coat black against the white world, and even from here she felt the strange weight of his stare. His face was sharp, pale, his hair falling in dark strands that caught the dim light.
Jonah followed her gaze and muttered, "Elias Thorn."
The man didn't move closer, didn't wave, didn't speak. He only looked at Clara like she was something he hadn't expected to find here. Then, as silently as he appeared, he turned and disappeared down the side street.
Clara blinked, unsettled. "Who was that?"
Jonah's grin faltered. "Depends who you ask. Some folks say he's a recluse. Others say he's cursed. I say…" He hesitated, then smirked again. "I say don't go wandering alone after dark."
Clara tried to laugh it off, but the image of Elias lingered. There had been something in his eyes—something too intense, too knowing. She wasn't sure if it thrilled her or terrified her.
Inside the bookstore, the smell of dust and old wood wrapped around her like a blanket. Shelves leaned against the walls, sagging under the weight of forgotten books. The floor creaked under every step. In the corner, a single armchair sat like a loyal dog waiting for its owner. Clara brushed her fingers along the spines, reading faded titles about folklore, local history, and—ironically—wolves.
She pulled one book down at random. The cover showed a full moon over a forest, with a shadowy beast in the trees. The title read: The Curse of Ashwood Hollow.
Her pulse quickened as she opened it. A passage caught her eye:
When the moon rises full, the Hollow awakens. Blood calls to blood, and no lock can keep out the beast that wears the skin of a man.
Clara closed the book with a shaky laugh. "Perfect bedtime reading."
The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters. For a moment, she thought she heard something else beneath it—a long, low sound that could have been the creak of wood, or the echo of a howl carried on the snow. She stood very still, her hand tightening on the book.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Her heart leapt. She turned, but the glass panes were too frosted to make out the figure outside. Slowly, she crossed the room and opened it.
Elias Thorn stood on the threshold.
Up close, he was even more striking—his eyes an unsettling gray, his features sharp as though carved from the cold itself. Snow clung to his dark hair and shoulders, and his expression was unreadable.
"Welcome to Ashwood Hollow," he said softly, his voice low and steady. "I'd be careful what books you choose to read here."
Clara swallowed, suddenly aware of how quiet the town had become, how heavy the air felt. "Why's that?" she asked, forcing her voice not to shake.
Elias held her gaze for a long moment, and then, without answering, he turned and disappeared into the snow once more.
Clara stood in the doorway, shivering—not from the cold, but from the certainty that whatever she had stumbled into, it was far more dangerous, and far more fascinating, than she had ever imagined.