The drive back from Blackwood Manor felt like crossing a border. The oppressive, watchful silence of the forest yielded to the ordinary afternoon sounds of Millfield—a lawnmower buzzing, children's distant laughter, the chime of the hardware store door. Yet, the ordinariness now felt like a thin veneer, a collective performance Alex was no longer fully buying into. Sebastian Blackwood's words echoed, a mix of confession and threat. We contain it. At great personal cost.
And Kiera's whisper, a lifeline of rebellion tossed in the dark: "The archives. Town hall basement."
The Town Hall was a squat, brick building next to the white-steepled church, the civic heart of Millfield. Its clock tower, perpetually five minutes slow, overlooked the town square. Alex pushed through the heavy front doors into a lobby of polished linoleum and the smell of floor wax. A plaque on the wall listed mayors going back to 1801. The last name, Richard A. Vance, had a small, gold star next to it, denoting "Current."
A woman in her sixties with a helmet of grey hair and rhinestone-studded glasses sat behind a reception window labeled "Clerk." She looked up from a crossword puzzle, her expression politely inquisitive.
"Afternoon. Can I help you?"
Alex summoned his most harmless, slightly academic smile. "Hi, yes. I'm Alex Reed, new in town. I'm doing some research on local history—thinking of writing a piece on the founding families. I was told the old archives might be down in the basement?"
The clerk, whose nameplate read "Mabel," scrutinized him. The town grapevine was efficient; he saw recognition flicker in her eyes. The one who went into the woods. "The archives? My, we don't get many folks asking for those. They're a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. Not really organized for public viewing."
"That's perfectly alright," Alex said, leaning casually on the counter. "I enjoy the hunt. Just looking for some old property maps, early settlement records. Get a feel for the place."
Mabel hesitated, her sense of bureaucratic duty warring with a innate small-town caution. "Well… I suppose it's all public record. The basement door is down the hall to the left, past the boiler room. Key's on the hook here." She gestured to a board behind her laden with labelled keys. "You'll need this one for the main archive room. Lights are on a pull string. Just make sure you lock up and bring the key back when you're done."
"Absolutely. Thank you, Mabel. I appreciate it."
The key was cold and heavy in his hand. The hallway was dim, the cheerful noise from the lobby fading with each step. He passed the boiler room, its metallic rumble a familiar urban sound that felt out of place. At the end of the hall was an unmarked, heavy wooden door. It opened with a groan of protest, revealing a steep flight of concrete stairs descending into gloom.
The air that wafted up was cold and carried the unmistakable scent of damp concrete, dust, and slow decay. He found the light switch at the top; a single, bare bulb at the bottom of the stairs flickered to life, casting a weak, jaundiced glow.
The Millfield archives were less a room and more a catacomb. Rows of mismatched metal shelving units were crammed with cardboard boxes, their sides bulging, labels faded or missing entirely. Stacks of ledgers and bound minutes of town meetings formed precarious towers on the floor. In one corner, an ancient roll-top desk sat buried under a snowdrift of loose papers.
Needle. Haystack. Kiera's instruction was precise, a small mercy. '1847 Settlement Survey.'
He started working methodically, row by row, squinting at labels in the poor light. *Tax Assessments 1910-1925. Water Board Minutes 1955-1970. Voting Registers.* The history of the town was here, meticulously recorded and utterly forgotten.
He found the box in the third row, on a low shelf where dampness had warped the bottom. The label, written in a beautiful, spidery cursive, read: "Survey & Land Grants – Blackwood Tract & Environs – 1847."
His heart kicked against his ribs. He lifted the box; it was lighter than he expected. Setting it on a clear patch of concrete floor, he opened the flaps.
Inside were not the expected dry surveyor's charts. On top lay a sheaf of letters, bound with a disintegrating black ribbon. Beneath them was a single, large parchment map, folded into quarters. He carefully lifted the map out first.
It was a beautifully detailed hand-drawn map of the Millfield area as it existed in the mid-19th century. The town was a tiny clutch of buildings. The Blackwood Forest dominated the parchment, a vast, swirling mass of drawn trees. And there, in its heart, clearly marked, was the "Whispering Stone Circle." A path, now surely overgrown, was indicated leading from the edge of the Blackwood property towards it. More chillingly, around the perimeter of the forest, small, 'X' marks were dotted at regular intervals. Next to one, near the old trapper's cabin, was a tiny notation: "Ward Post – Iron & Salt."
Wards. Barriers. Sebastian hadn't been speaking metaphorically.
He set the map aside and turned to the letters. The ribbon crumbled at his touch. The top letter was addressed to "Elias Blackwood, Esq." from "The Committee for the Safety of Millfield." The date was October 12, 1847. The script was formal, the tone fraught.
"Esteemed Mr. Blackwood,
*The recent… incident… at the Miller homestead has impressed upon the Committee the grave and ongoing nature of our shared predicament. The terms of the Compact of 1743 are hereby reaffirmed. The town pledges its continued discretion and provision of specified materials (as per Schedule A) in exchange for your family's assurance of containment within the agreed-upon boundaries of the Tract, particularly during the perilous phases of the moon.*
We recognize the burden your lineage bears as the anchor of the Ward. The alternative—panic, inquiry from outside authorities, and the potential for greater unleashing of the Forest's malevolence—is unacceptable to all.
In light of Abigail Miller, we must also reiterate the necessity of identifying and managing the… 'strains'… of the affliction that may arise beyond your direct kin. The 'Moon-Touched' who are not of your blood but fall to the forest's call are especially volatile. The Committee stands ready to assist in their location and… pacification.
We remain, in solemn trust,
The Millfield Safety Committee"
Alex's breath fogged in the cold air. His hands were trembling. This was it. The smoking gun. Not a myth, but a contract. The town's founders hadn't just known about the werewolves; they had made a business arrangement with them. Discretion in exchange for containment. The "specified materials" – food? Supplies? Livestock? And "pacification" of the "Moon-Touched" – those who contracted the curse outside the Blackwood line. Like Michael Greene in 1998? Like… Lily?
He dug further. Beneath the formal correspondence were other, more ragged pieces of paper. Lists of names. Dates. Next to some were sums of money. Next to others, single words: "Relocated." "Lost in woods." "Treated."
One name leapt out: *"Jedidiah Carter, 1851. Agitation re: missing livestock. Spoke of 'devil-beasts.' Treated."* The word "Treated" was underlined twice.
A cold fury began to mix with his shock. This was a system. A centuries-old conspiracy of silence maintained by fear and complicity. The Blackwoods were the wardens, but the town council, the "Safety Committee," was the enabling government. They paid a tithe, turned a blind eye, and helped clean up the mess when the containment failed or when a curious outsider got too close.
He carefully photographed the map and several key letters with his phone, the flash stark in the dusty gloom. He was replacing the papers when a smaller, folded note, tucked into the seam of the box, fluttered out. It was more recent, the paper less brittle. The handwriting was different—tight, modern, and urgent.
"E—
Jenkins is right. The Covenant isn't just sniffing around. They're here. Made contact. Offered 'permanent solutions,' medical breakthroughs. They know about the Strains. They want samples. They asked about the '47 maps. I've stalled, but they're persistent. If they find the Ward posts…
This goes beyond the old Compact. This is an infection of a different kind. We may have to consider more direct action. The town cannot know. The panic would be worse than the Beast.
—R"
The initials. E. Elias? A descendant? And R. Richard? Richard A. Vance, the current mayor with the star on the plaque upstairs?
The pieces were locking together with a terrible, grinding finality. The secret wasn't just ancient history; it was a live wire running through the present. The New Crescent Covenant had infiltrated Millfield's old pact. They were hunting for the very thing the town and the Blackwoods had hidden for centuries, and they were doing it with the cold efficiency of science, not superstition.
He heard a noise above—a door closing in the hallway. Footsteps on the linoleum. His time was up.
He hurriedly repacked the box, placing it exactly as he found it. He folded the modern note and slipped it into his pocket. A piece of evidence too current, too dangerous to leave.
As he climbed the stairs, the single bulb casting his long, distorted shadow on the wall behind him, he felt the weight of the town pressing down. Millfield wasn't just a place with a secret. It was a living organism built upon a lie, and its immune system—from Mabel the clerk to Mayor Vance to the Blackwoods in their manor—was designed to reject intruders like him.
He returned the key to Mabel with a smile and a thanks. "Find what you needed?" she asked, her eyes sharp behind her glittering glasses.
"Enough to get started," Alex said, his voice even. "It's a fascinating history. Deeper than I imagined."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "It usually is. You have a good day now, Mr. Reed."
Back in his cottage, with the door locked, he uploaded the photos to a secure cloud drive, then studied the modern note again. "They asked about the '47 maps." The Covenant knew about the archives. Were they watching? Had his request to Mabel already been noted?
He needed an ally. Someone outside the town's rotten core. Thomas Jenkins was a possibility, but he was part of the old system, however grudgingly. Elena Walker? The sheriff seemed straight, but her duty was to the town. Could she be part of it?
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"The pit has eyes. You're stirring the mud. Be at the old mill on River Road at 10 PM. Come alone. Tell no one. —K"
Kiera. The rebellion within the fortress was making contact.
Alex stared at the message, then out his window at the gathering dusk. The safe choice was to pack his car and leave, now. Drive back to a world where monsters were fiction and conspiracies were for the internet fringe.
He looked at the photos on his screen—the archaic map, the damning letters. He thought of Lily's empty flower shop, of the terror in the forest, of the haunted resignation in Sebastian's eyes and the branded scar on Kiera's wrist.
He was in the story now. And a journalist never walks away from the source.
He typed a reply: "I'll be there."