Chapter 3: Whispers in the Snow
By late afternoon, the sky over Ashwood Hollow had turned the color of slate. Clouds stacked on each other like heavy stones, and the first hints of the storm Jonah warned her about were already sweeping in—sharp winds that rattled the bookstore's windows and carried flurries sideways through the street.
Clara had spent the day clearing dust, rearranging shelves, and convincing herself she hadn't moved into a haunted building. She kept telling herself it was just old wood and loose shutters that creaked and moaned. But as the shadows stretched longer, she noticed something she couldn't explain.
Behind the store, the snow lay unbroken except for a trail of prints pressed deep into the white. They weren't boot prints, not exactly. Too long, too wide, as if something had padded on all fours. Clara crouched by the back door, her breath fogging as she traced the edges of the prints. They led up to the stoop and stopped at the door itself.
Her stomach dropped. Just above the handle, carved deep into the wood, were four parallel grooves.
Claw marks.
Clara forced a laugh, though it sounded brittle in the cold air. "Okay, raccoon on steroids. Or some local prankster with sharp gardening tools. Totally normal."
She backed inside quickly, bolted the door, and made a note to herself: buy stronger locks.
---
The bell over the front door jingled a few minutes later, making her jump so hard she nearly dropped the stack of books in her arms.
A man in a thick wool coat stomped the snow off his boots and doffed a cap, revealing a mop of unruly ginger hair. His round face split into a grin when he spotted her.
"You must be the new book lady! I'm Harvey Pike, proud owner of the Hollow's only plumbing business, self-taught accordion player, and sometimes professional loudmouth."
Clara blinked. "That's… quite the résumé."
"Impressive, right?" Harvey strutted between the shelves, glancing at titles like he was browsing old friends. "Word travels fast in a town this size. By now, everyone knows you bought the cursed bookstore."
Clara stiffened. "Cursed?"
Harvey waved his hand. "Oh, don't look so spooked. Folks exaggerate. Some say the last owner heard voices in the walls. Others claim a wolf stalked her for weeks. Me? I think she just didn't like shoveling snow."
Clara tried to smile, though the claw marks at the back door flashed in her mind. "That's… comforting."
Harvey plucked a battered romance novel off the shelf and flipped through it. "You'll fit in fine, though. We like newcomers. Gives us fresh gossip. Don't mind Marjorie if she corners you again. She's got more suspicion in her veins than blood."
"She already did," Clara said dryly.
Harvey laughed, a booming sound that filled the shop. "Course she did. Still, if you hear anything strange tonight, don't panic. These storms mess with your head. You'll think you hear wolves scratching at your window when it's just branches."
"Right," Clara murmured.
Harvey tucked the book under his arm and pulled out a few crumpled bills. "Keep the change. Consider it my welcome-to-town donation. And hey—if your pipes start singing at midnight, don't call the priest, call me."
By the time he left, the storm was in full swing. Snow hurled itself at the windows, and the wind screamed down the chimney. Clara tried to read by the fire, but every sound seemed amplified—the groan of the floorboards, the tap of sleet against the glass, the distant wail of something that wasn't quite the wind.
---
It was past midnight when she heard it.
At first, she thought it was the storm again. But then the sound came again—deliberate, steady.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Clara sat up in bed, her heart racing. The sound was coming from the wall near the window, just a few feet from where she slept. She strained to listen, every nerve on edge.
Scratch.
She leapt out of bed and grabbed the flashlight she'd kept on the nightstand. With shaking hands, she clicked it on and swept the beam toward the window. Snow plastered the outside glass, but in the beam's reflection, she swore she saw a shape move—large, hulking, gone in a blink.
Her throat tightened. "Just a tree branch. Just the wind," she whispered to herself.
But branches didn't leave claw marks on doors.
And then came the howl.
It wasn't far away. It wasn't even at the edge of the forest. It was close—so close it vibrated through the glass, a long, mournful cry that sent goosebumps prickling across her arms.
Clara backed away from the window, clutching the flashlight like a weapon. The howl faded into silence, leaving only the pounding of her heart. She didn't know what she expected—a crash, an attack—but instead there came a knock at her door.
Three sharp raps.
She froze. Who in their right mind would be out in this storm?
Slowly, she crept down the stairs, every step creaking in protest. The knock came again, louder this time. She reached the door, hesitated, then unlocked it just enough to crack it open.
Elias Thorn stood there, snow clinging to his coat and hair, his gray eyes burning even in the storm's chaos.
"You shouldn't be alone tonight," he said. His voice was calm, but there was urgency under it, like a warning wrapped in velvet.
Clara's grip tightened on the door. "Were you—were you out there howling at my window?"
For a moment, something flickered across his face. Not anger, not amusement, but something unreadable. "No. But something was. And it's not safe for you here."
The words should have terrified her. Instead, they sent a strange thrill racing through her veins, like the storm had carried lightning right into her chest.
"What do you mean, not safe?" she whispered.
Elias's jaw tightened. He glanced over his shoulder at the snow-choked street, then back at her. "Lock your doors. Don't open them again tonight. No matter what you hear."
Before she could ask more, he turned and vanished into the storm, swallowed by snow and shadow.
Clara shut the door, bolting it with trembling hands. Her pulse thudded in her ears. The storm howled louder, and outside the window, something moved again—a fleeting shadow across the whiteness.
This time, she didn't tell herself it was the wind.