The morning sun over Millfield felt like a lie. It painted the clapboard houses and fall foliage in cheerful golds and reds, a stark, mocking contrast to the claw-marked darkness now permanently etched in Alex's mind. He'd slept in fitful bursts, chased by dreams of yellow eyes and the sound of splintering wood. His body ached with a dozen small bruises and scratches, souvenirs from his flight through the Blackwood.
The voice on the phone—Sebastian Blackwood's—haunted his waking hours. It had been calm, almost conversational, yet it carried an undeniable gravity, an implicit command. Alex replayed the brief call, analyzing the cadence, the choice of words. "For your safety, and for the safety of others." A warning wrapped in courtesy.
He spent the morning at the town's small library, a dusty, sunlit room that smelled of old paper and lemon polish. Mrs. Gable, the septuagenarian librarian, watched him with bird-like curiosity as he requested local historical archives, property maps, and anything on the Blackwood family.
"The Blackwoods?" she'd said, adjusting her spectacles. "Private folk. Don't come to town much. Their charitable foundation still maintains the old chapel and the forest access roads, though." She'd handed him a heavy, leather-bound ledger—the Millfield founding families registry. The Blackwood entry was sparse: names, dates of birth and death, a note on land holdings. The line stretched back to the 1740s. He noted the deaths: rarely from illness or old age in a conventional sense. Many were listed as "lost in the woods," "hunting accident," or simply "deceased, circumstances unknown." The pattern was a silent scream.
The current head of the family was listed simply as Sebastian Alistair Blackwood, b. 1845. Alex stared at the date. A typo, surely. Or a clerical error repeated over generations. No one lived to be nearly two hundred years old. Yet, the voice on the phone hadn't sounded like a man of that age… unless Jenkins's implications about bargains and blood held a terrible, literal truth.
He found little on the Whispering Stone Circle beyond the folk tale snippet. The library's map section, however, yielded a prize: a 1920s topographical survey map of the county. There, deep within the area marked "Blackwood Tract," was a small, handwritten notation in faded ink: "Stone grouping - local oddity." He surreptitiously took a photo with his phone.
As he left the library, he felt eyes on him. Not paranoid imagination, but the tangible weight of a small town's attention. Old Mr. Henderson, sweeping his porch, paused to give him a long, unreadable look. The barber, chatting with a customer, fell silent as he passed. News traveled fast in Millfield. The city journalist who'd gone foolishly into the woods at night and needed rescuing was now a subject of quiet scrutiny. He was no longer just the new renter; he was a variable in their fragile equation.
At precisely two o'clock, Alex guided his car down Blackwood Lane, a narrow, immaculately paved road that snaked away from town and plunged into the forest. The change was immediate and profound. The cheerful, managed woods of the town's edge gave way to the primordial density of the true Blackwood. Ancient trees formed a cathedral ceiling, blocking much of the afternoon sun. The air grew cool and still. It was the same oppressive silence from the night before, now illuminated in shades of emerald and gloom.
After two miles, the forest opened abruptly. Blackwood Manor wasn't a mere house; it was a statement in weathered stone and timber. A sprawling Victorian Gothic structure, all steep gables, intricate gingerbread trim, and tall, narrow windows that seemed to watch the approaching road. It was neither welcoming nor overtly menacing; it simply was, a fact of the landscape as immutable as the mountains themselves. A sense of profound age and seclusion clung to it.
He parked on the circular gravel drive. Before he could knock, the heavy oak door swung inward silently. A woman stood there. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with dark, chestnut hair pulled into a severe but elegant knot. She wore simple, well-tailored trousers and a cream-colored sweater. Her beauty was striking, but it was the intensity of her gaze that arrested him. Her eyes were a deep, forest-green, flecked with gold, and they held an expression of wary assessment, as if she were categorizing him as a potential threat, a curiosity, or both.
"Mr. Reed. I'm Kiera Blackwood. My father is expecting you." Her voice was low, melodic, but devoid of warmth. She stepped back to allow him entry.
The interior of the manor was a study in contrasts. The furnishings were rich and antique—oil paintings of somber landscapes, heavy velvet drapes, worn Persian rugs. But it was spotlessly clean, and the air held a faint, pleasant scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs, not the mustiness he'd expected. It felt less like a museum and more like a heavily fortified, lived-in castle.
"This way," Kiera said, leading him down a hall lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. He glimpsed titles in Latin, Greek, and languages he didn't recognize, interspersed with volumes on botany, astronomy, and medieval history.
She opened a door to a study. The room was dominated by a large stone fireplace where a low fire crackled. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, if unsettling, view of the endless forest. And there, standing before the fireplace, was Sebastian Blackwood.
He looked no more than forty. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver just beginning to thread through his dark hair at the temples. He possessed a classical, patrician handsomeness, but it was edged with a deep-seated weariness. He wore a dark sweater and trousers, and moved with a predator's unconscious grace as he turned to face them. His eyes, the same striking green as Kiera's but infinitely older, settled on Alex.
"Mr. Reed. Thank you for coming." He gestured to a pair of leather armchairs near the fire. "Please, sit. Kiera, some tea, if you would."
Kiera gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. The sound felt final.
Alex took a seat, forcing himself to meet Sebastian's gaze. "You asked to see me."
"I did," Sebastian said, settling into the opposite chair. He steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. "You had an encounter last night. In my forest."
My forest. The possessive was casual, absolute. "I heard a woman was missing. I was trying to help search."
"A noble, if reckless, impulse," Sebastian replied, his tone neutral. "But the Blackwood is not a place for… untrained searches. It has its own rules, its own dangers. Dangers that are not all of a natural kind."
Here it was. The opening. Alex decided to test the waters. "Thomas Jenkins mentioned something about a 'Beast.' He implied your family had an… understanding with it."
A faint, humorless smile touched Sebastian's lips. "Thomas is a keeper of old stories. Some contain kernels of truth, obscured by generations of fear." He leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting moving shadows on his face. "Let me be plain, Mr. Reed. What you saw, what you fled from, is real. It is a curse that has blighted this land and my family for generations. We do not control it. We contain it. We manage it. At great personal cost."
Alex's heart was pounding. To hear it stated so frankly, in this elegant room, was disorienting. "You're talking about lycanthropy. Werewolves."
"A crude, sensationalist word for a profound biological and spiritual affliction," Sebastian said, a flash of pain in his eyes. "Yes. The curse is in our blood. It is a heredity of moonlight and rage. On certain nights, dictated by cycles older than this manor, the change takes some of us. We retreat here, to the estate, to the deep woods, to ride out the storm where we can harm no one."
"And when you can't?" Alex pressed, thinking of the carved names. "When someone gets hurt?"
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "The forest is vast. The curse is… unpredictable. Not all of us are equally strong-willed. And sometimes, outsiders wander too deep, stir up the ancient places." He held Alex's gaze. "Like Lily Greene. She was a sweet girl, but inquisitive. She had been asking questions about the old stones, about forest herbs that can… alter perception. She ventured into a part of the woods that is forbidden for a reason, on a night when the veil was thin."
"You're saying her disappearance is her own fault?" Alex couldn't keep the edge from his voice.
"I am saying it is a tragedy born of ignorance," Sebastian corrected, his voice hardening slightly. "One we strive to prevent. My family's purpose, Mr. Reed, is not to haunt these woods as monsters, but to serve as its guardians. We keep the worst of the curse locked within our bloodline and these trees. We maintain the barriers."
"Barriers?"
"The stones. The old rituals. The knowledge passed down." He waved a hand, as if it were too complex to explain. "The point is, your investigation, your very presence here asking questions, threatens that delicate balance. You frighten the townsfolk, who prefer their comfortable ignorance. You risk drawing the attention of the curse, making it restless. And you could draw a far more dangerous kind of attention."
Alex's mind raced. "What kind?"
Before Sebastian could answer, the door opened and Kiera entered with a tea tray. She set it down on a low table between them, her movements efficient. As she leaned over to pour, her sleeve rode up slightly. On her wrist, Alex saw a mark—not a tattoo, but a scar, intricate and silvery, like a brand of interlocking leaves and thorns. She caught him looking and swiftly pulled her sleeve down, her green eyes flashing a warning.
Sebastian continued as if the interruption hadn't occurred. "There are those in the wider world who would see our condition not as a curse, but as a resource. A weapon to be dissected, replicated, controlled. They hunt for legends, Mr. Reed. Your articles, your inquiries, could be a beacon for them."
The New Crescent Covenant. The name popped into Alex's head, though he didn't speak it. Was this what Jenkins had alluded to? A threat from outside?
"So what are you asking me to do?" Alex said, accepting a cup of tea from Kiera, their fingers not touching.
"Leave it be," Sebastian said, his voice dropping to a compelling, almost hypnotic murmur. "Grieve for Lily, as we all do. But accept that some mysteries are bottomless pits. Write your quiet novel. Live your quiet life. The forest will keep its secrets, as it always has. This is for your safety. Poke the hornet's nest, and you will get stung. The hornets here are… considerable."
It was a threat, velvet-gloved but undeniable. Alex sipped his tea, buying time. The offer was seductive in its simplicity: walk away, preserve the peace, save his own skin. The rational choice.
But then he saw Lily's smile from the flower shop. He saw the carved name Greene, 1998. He felt the phantom heat of the creature's breath. He looked at Kiera, standing rigidly by the fireplace, a beautiful prison guard in her own home. He thought of the fear in the town's silence.
He set his cup down. "And if I can't do that? If I believe Lily might still be alive out there?"
A profound sadness filled Sebastian's ancient eyes. Kiera went very still.
"Then, Mr. Reed," Sebastian said softly, standing up, signaling the audience was over, "you will learn the true price of curiosity. The forest does not give up what it claims. And neither do we." He walked to the window, his back to them, a silhouette against the endless green. "Kiera will see you out."
The dismissal was absolute. Alex stood. Kiera moved to the door, holding it open. As he passed her in the hallway, away from her father's immediate presence, she spoke, her voice so low he almost missed it.
"The archives. Town hall basement. Look for the box labeled '1847 Settlement Survey.'" She didn't look at him, her face a mask. "Then decide if you want to see what's at the bottom of the pit."
She led him to the front door and opened it. The afternoon light felt alien. "Goodbye, Mr. Reed."
The heavy door closed behind him with a solid, echoing thud. He stood on the gravel drive, the immense silence of the Blackwood pressing in. He had been given a choice: comfortable ignorance or perilous truth. And a key, slipped to him in a whisper.
He got into his car, his hands steady on the wheel. The fear was still there, cold in his gut. But beneath it, the journalist's engine, once silenced, now turned over with a potent, furious roar.
He wouldn't write a quiet novel. He would uncover the story. And his next stop would be the Millfield town hall basement.