Beloved by The Moon

Chapter 3

The next morning, Morgan found herself standing at the edge of the woods, the dense line of trees stretching out before her like a wall of shadow. The townspeople had been reluctant to talk about the forest, so much so that they refused to name it and what little she'd heard was cloaked in vague warnings and superstitions. But if there was any truth to the rumors, the answers she needed lay somewhere beyond those towering pines.

With the case file tucked into her jacket and her boots crunching softly over the undergrowth, she ventured deeper into the forest. The light dimmed as the trees grew denser, the branches overhead weaving together like a canopy, casting everything in a muted, eerie gloom. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth, and the deeper she went, the quieter the world seemed to become. No birds, no wind. Just total silence.

She had been walking for nearly an hour when she spotted movement in her peripheral vision. A figure—draped in the worn clothes of a local—appeared from between the trees. He was an older man, with weathered skin and a cautious look in his eyes, as though he wasn't sure whether to approach her or not.

"You're not from around here," the man said, his voice low, as if the woods themselves were listening. He glanced over her shoulder, scanning the path behind her. "You shouldn't be out here alone young lady."

Morgan stopped in her tracks, adjusting her stance. "I'm looking for someone," she replied. "Heard there might be a stranger living out this way."

The man's face tightened at her words, his eyes darting toward the shadows. "You mean him," he muttered, shaking his head.

"If you're smart, you'll turn back now. No good ever comes from visiting that house."

Morgan crossed her arms, undeterred. "I didn't come all this way to turn back. Where is this house?"

The man hesitated, his brow furrowed in thought. "You follow this trail up the hill," he finally said, pointing into the deeper part of the forest.

"There's an old stone house near the clearing, built long before any of us were born. He's there. But I'm warning you, he's... not like us. You go in there, you might not like what you find."

Without waiting for a response, the man turned and disappeared into the woods, leaving Morgan standing at the edge of the faint path he'd pointed out. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and continued forward. She squared her shoulders, stepping further and further into the shadows, the cold barrel of a gun on her thigh was a steady reminder that she could protect herself. Whatever awaited her in the depths of the forests, she was ready to face it head-on.

The trail wound up a steep incline, the trees pressing in closer as she ascended. After another half hour of walking, the path opened into a small clearing, revealing a charming cottage. Its sizable structure combined modern lines with vintage touches: large, paned windows framed in weathered wood, a sturdy stone facade entwined with ivy, and a slate roof that had clearly withstood the test of time.

Though the windows were dark, the cottage exuded a sense of warmth, as if it were a living entity, silently watching her approach.
Morgan made her way to the front door, her hand hovering over the handle before she knocked, the sound echoing dully through the house. After a long moment, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a dimly lit interior.

"Who are you?" It was an old lady who opened the door and she did so by opening a tiny crack, perhaps unsure of Morgan's unannounced arrival.
"I'm Morgan Montgomery, a private investigator. I'm here regarding the disappearance of Mara Greenway."

The lady disappeared for a moment before opening the door for her. Stepping inside, Morgan was immediately struck by the air—cold, with an undercurrent of something metallic, like blood. The furnishings were elegantly modern, yet classically inspired: sleek lines paired with rich fabrics, and an exquisite blend of leather and polished wood. The walls were adorned with subtle artwork, while heavy curtains framed the windows, filtering the light with a soft glow.