Chapter 2: The Gathering Storm
The next morning, Clara awoke to the muffled silence of snow pressing against her windows. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming—the bookstore's upstairs loft, with its slanted ceiling and faded floral wallpaper, felt like a page torn from someone else's life. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering. The heater had sputtered out sometime in the night, leaving the room bitingly cold.
She rolled out of bed and peeked through the frosted glass. Outside, the town looked like a postcard, draped in fresh powder. Smoke curled from chimneys, the snow on the rooftops glittered faintly in the pale sun, and a few bundled figures trudged along the street. It would have been beautiful, if not for the memory of Elias Thorn's gray eyes lingering in her thoughts like smoke that refused to disperse.
Clara shook herself. "You're being dramatic," she muttered. "He's just a guy. A weird guy with a knack for spooky entrances."
Downstairs, she fumbled with the ancient coffee pot she'd found in a cupboard. It groaned like a dying animal but eventually produced something vaguely drinkable. She was halfway through her first mug when a frantic pounding rattled the bookstore door.
Clara nearly spilled her coffee. "Seriously? People here don't knock politely, huh?"
She opened the door to find Jonah Briggs standing there, cheeks flushed red from the cold, a snow shovel slung over one shoulder. His jacket was dusted white, and he looked like he'd already been up for hours.
"Morning, city girl!" Jonah said, grinning. "You alive in there? No one's seen you since last night. Figured maybe the drafty old bookstore swallowed you whole."
"I'm fine," Clara said, eyeing him. "Do you normally check on all your neighbors with a shovel in hand?"
Jonah glanced at the shovel. "This? Oh, this is just my emotional support snow-removal device. Works wonders for stress." He gave her a wink, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Also, storms are coming. The kind that knocks out power and keeps folks locked up for days. Just wanted to make sure you're stocked up. Food, candles, maybe a crossbow."
Clara laughed nervously. "A crossbow?"
"Hey, I'm just saying." Jonah's grin faded for a moment, his expression more serious. "Weird noises out in the woods last night. Some of the locals are already whispering."
"Whispering about what?" Clara asked, though she had a gnawing suspicion she already knew.
Jonah shifted the shovel on his shoulder. "About the Hollow. About the howls. Some folks swear they heard scratching at their doors. I mean, it's probably just the wind, but…" He trailed off.
The memory of the book Clara had found—The Curse of Ashwood Hollow—rose in her mind. Blood calls to blood. She shivered, even with her mug steaming in her hands.
Jonah cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. "Anyway, the town's having a little meeting tonight at the tavern. You should come. Meet the rest of the weirdos, swap conspiracy theories, drink something that tastes like motor oil but warms you up real nice."
Clara smiled despite herself. "You make it sound irresistible."
"Good. Be there at seven. Or else I'll drag you there myself." Jonah gave a mock salute before tromping back into the snow, whistling some off-key tune.
---
That evening, Clara bundled herself in her thickest coat and braved the snow-covered streets. The Silver Fang Tavern glowed like a beacon at the end of Main Street, its windows fogged, the sound of laughter and clinking mugs spilling into the night. Inside, the heat and noise hit her like a wave.
The tavern was packed with townsfolk. Farmers in heavy coats, shopkeepers, a couple of teenagers hunched in the corner pretending not to eavesdrop. The bar was lined with taxidermy wolf heads, their glass eyes glinting under the dim lights. Clara tried not to stare too long at them.
Jonah spotted her instantly and waved her over to a table near the fire. "Clara Winters! Brave enough to face the Hollow's finest, huh?"
Before she could answer, a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue plunked herself down at the table. "So this is the newcomer," she said. "Figures you'd pick the bookstore. That place has bad luck stitched into its wallpaper."
Clara blinked. "I'm sorry, and you are?"
"Marjorie Kettle," the woman said briskly. "Town council, local gossip dispenser, unofficial wolf expert."
"Wolf expert?" Clara echoed.
"Oh, you'll hear soon enough," Jonah muttered, rubbing his temples.
Marjorie leaned forward. "Strange things have been happening, Miss Winters. Animals torn apart in the woods. Livestock missing. Howls at night that don't sound like any wolf I've ever heard. And now you show up. Coincidence?"
Clara bristled. "I didn't realize moving here required a background check."
Marjorie smirked. "Everyone's background matters in Ashwood Hollow."
The tavern door slammed open then, cutting the tension. Every head turned. Elias Thorn entered, his black coat shedding snowflakes as he strode across the room. Conversation dipped to murmurs. His presence was like a shadow stretching across the tavern floor.
Clara's pulse jumped. She hadn't expected to see him again so soon, but here he was, every line of his face etched with something both tragic and magnetic.
He ordered nothing, spoke to no one, only leaned against the far wall, eyes scanning the room. And then, slowly, his gaze settled on her.
Clara felt rooted to her chair, her breath caught. Something unspoken passed between them—an intensity that both unsettled and thrilled her. Jonah shifted uncomfortably beside her, clearly noticing.
Marjorie clucked her tongue. "Careful, girl. Thorn's not a man you want to tangle with."
Clara forced herself to look away, focusing on the crackling fire. But the image of Elias lingered, sharp as glass in her mind.
The townsfolk began their meeting in earnest, voices rising in fear and speculation. Some blamed wolves, others whispered about curses, and a few muttered about werewolves under their breath. Clara sat listening, her heart pounding with each word.
Because for the first time, she wasn't sure if the legends were just stories. And if they weren't—if something truly prowled the snowy woods at night—then Ashwood Hollow was far more dangerous than she had bargained for.
And she couldn't shake the feeling that Elias Thorn knew exactly what it was.