Chapter 6:Night Tales
Rowan sank into the worn chair by the inn's hearth, the fire's heat brushing his face but doing little to thaw the cold that had settled into his bones since the attack. His shoulder pulsed under the bandage, the scar itching like a splinter he couldn't reach, and he hunched over his notebook, sketching the jagged claw marks from the deer carcass. The graphite smudged under his fingers, a messy echo of the questions piling up in his mind. The common room buzzed with the low hum of voices as evening crept in, the air thick with the scent of peat smoke, stale ale, and damp wool. He kept his head down, pretending to focus on his work, but his ears caught every word, every nervous glance.
The door creaked open, letting in a gust of mist, and the locals shuffled closer to the fire, their faces etched with the hard lines of a life spent battling the elements.
Elara moved among them, her dark hair catching the firelight as she carried trays with a quiet grace that stood out against the room's jittery energy. She refilled mugs with a steady hand, her calm a stark contrast to the tension rippling through the villagers. Rowan found himself watching her again, her measured steps, the way she met their fears with a nod or a soft word. There was something about her, a depth that pulled at him, though he couldn't say why.
Tam settled near the hearth, his gnarled hands cradling a dented pint glass, the ale sloshing slightly as he leaned forward. The room fell silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound until his raspy voice broke through. "Long ago," he began, his tone carrying the weight of forgotten years, "men here struck a pact with the wild. The Silent Moon rose, blood-red and silent, and some turned…. bones snappin' like dry twigs, skin rippin' like cloth. They became wolves, led by the alphas, huntin' under that cursed sky. It's a blood curse, passed down, wakin' when the moon calls its own."
Mara nodded, her shawl drawn tight around her thin frame, her fingers twisting the fabric. "My uncle saw it with his own eyes," she whispered, her voice trembling like leaves in a storm. "A man he'd known since boyhood, gone feral one night. Eyes like burnin' coals, teeth bared. Killed a sheep, tore it to pieces, then vanished into the mist. Never came back human…. folks found tracks leadin' to the cliffs, but nobody."
A younger man, his face pale and unshaven, shifted uneasily. "My dad said the same. I heard howls last month, close to our farm. The next day, a calf was gone, nothin' left but blood and fur. He swore it was a man he'd seen at the market, changed under that red moon."
The room grew heavy, the fire's light casting long shadows that danced like specters on the walls. Rowan scribbled notes, his pen scratching the paper, but his skepticism clashed with the vividness of their words. He looked up, keeping his voice steady. "And proof? Something I can track down, check for myself?"
Tam leaned closer, his breath sour with ale, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "Proof's in the earth, lad, in the unmarked graves we don't speak of. Buried deep where the pack claimed 'em. But ye won't find it with that gun or yer scribblin'. Ye'll only wake the alphas, and they don't take kindly to strangers pokin' around."
Mara crossed herself, her lips moving in a silent prayer, and the others murmured agreement, their stares boring into Rowan. He felt the weight of their judgment, a prickling heat creeping up his neck. His shoulder burned, the scar flaring as if in response, and a howl sliced through the night outside, sharp and wild, raising goosebumps on his arms. He shifted in his seat, the gun's weight against his hip a small comfort, but the sound lingered, too close for his liking.
Elara paused by the counter, her gaze flicking to him, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was concern there, deeper than politeness, a flicker of something personal that made his chest tighten. She broke the look, turning to refill a mug, but the connection stayed with him, a thread he couldn't ignore. He forced his attention back to Tam, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Graves don't prove much without bodies. I need tracks, signs and something I can measure."
The old man chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "Tracks vanish, lad, swallowed by the mist. But ye've felt it, haven't ye? That itch, that pull? The moon's already got its claws in ye."
Rowan's hand instinctively went to his shoulder, the bandage crinkling under his touch. The ache was sharper now, spreading like a slow burn, and he hated the doubt creeping in. "I've been scratched by worse," he said, more to convince himself than Tam. "It's healing, that's all."
Mara leaned forward, her voice low. "Healin' too fast, isn't it? My cousin had a mark like that ….. gone wild under the next full moon. You should leave, stranger, 'fore it's too late."
The room grew quieter, the fire popping as the tension thickened. Rowan felt their eyes on him, a mix of pity and fear, and it grated against his pride. He closed his
notebook, standing abruptly. "I'm not running from a story. I'll find the truth my way."
He nodded at Elara as he passed, her expression unreadable but her glance lingering a beat longer than necessary. Upstairs, he paced the small room, the howl echoing in his ears, the scar's itch unbearable. The villagers' tales of men turning to wolves, alphas leading the pack clashed with his training, but the footage, the claw marks, the healing wound, they didn't fit his science either. He splashed water on his face from the basin, staring into the cracked mirror. His reflection looked tired, haunted, and for a moment, he thought his eyes flickered, a hint of amber in the brown.
Shaking his head, he sat on the bed, the notebook open but blank. The forest called to him, a pull he couldn't explain, and Elara's calm hid something's unknown knowledge, maybe, or a secret. The howl came again, deeper, insistent, and he gripped the gun, his breath uneven. He'd come to debunk a myth, but the myth was sinking its teeth into him, and he wasn't sure how long he could fight it off.