Moonbound: The Curse of Ashfall

The rain hadn't stopped since they passed the crooked "Welcome to Ashfall" sign, half-swallowed by moss and shadow. The road ahead curved sharply into the woods, slick with mud and the scent of pine and something older-something that lingered behind the trees like breath waiting to be exhaled.

Lyra Hale pressed her forehead to the car window, her breath fogging the glass. She watched the trees blur by, thick and tangled like the thoughts that hadn't left her since the funeral.

Don't cry again, she told herself. Not in front of Aunt Miriam. Not today.

Beside her, Aunt Miriam drove with both hands gripped tight on the wheel, her mouth a straight line. She hadn't said much since picking Lyra up from the train station an hour ago. But then again, what could you say to a girl who'd lost her mother, her home, and her future all in the span of a week?

"You'll like it here," Aunt Miriam finally said, though her tone wasn't convincing. "It's quiet. Safe."

Lyra didn't answer. She didn't want quiet. She wanted the sound of her mother's voice, the scent of rosemary and jasmine that always clung to her scarves. She wanted the creak of their apartment floors in Portland, the click of her mother's typing late into the night.

But all that was gone.

Now there was only Ashfall.

As the car rounded a bend, the trees parted to reveal the town in the valley below-nestled in fog, its rooftops black as crows' wings, its church steeple rising like a dagger through mist. The place looked like it had been carved out of time, untouched by modern life. No billboards. No fast food joints. Just crooked stone buildings, narrow streets, and an overwhelming sense of stillness.

"Charming," Lyra muttered.

Aunt Miriam didn't react. She pulled into a narrow gravel driveway at the edge of town, leading up to a weathered Victorian house that leaned slightly to one side. Paint peeled from its siding like molting skin, and ivy clawed its way up the porch columns.

"This is it," Miriam said, killing the engine.

Lyra stared at the house. "It looks haunted."

Miriam gave her a look-something between amusement and sadness. "It's just old. Like everything else around here."

They got out in silence, the rain soft now, misting rather than falling. The house loomed above them, the kind of place that had stories in its walls and secrets in its floorboards. A single light glowed in an upstairs window, though Miriam said no one had lived there since Lyra's grandparents died years ago.

As they stepped inside, the scent of dust and aged wood wrapped around Lyra like a shroud. The furniture was covered in sheets, and the air felt thick-almost watchful. She could hear the slow ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall, though she never saw one.

"This was your mother's room," Miriam said, opening a door near the back.

Lyra hesitated before entering. The room was small, with faded floral wallpaper and a wrought-iron bedframe. A window overlooked the woods behind the house. Something about it made her skin prickle.

"I'll give you time to unpack," Miriam said. "Dinner's at six."

When she left, Lyra sat on the bed, her suitcase unopened. The silence in the room was oppressive, almost too heavy to breathe. Then-barely audible-a sound.

A whisper. No, a rustle.

She turned toward the window, but saw only trees. Still, her heart beat faster.

You're just tired. Jet-lagged. Grieving.

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. But as she drifted into uneasy sleep, she thought she heard it again:

A howl. Distant. Low. And impossibly sad.

⋆⋆⋆

The next morning, the town greeted her like a forgotten photograph-sepia-toned and faded at the edges. Ashfall High stood at the end of a long road, its brick facade draped in ivy and shadow. Students moved in quiet clusters, their voices low, their eyes flicking to Lyra as she stepped from Miriam's car.

She felt like a foreign object in a place that had long ago stopped changing.

Inside, the halls smelled of old books and rain-soaked wood. She kept her head down as she navigated to the office, got her schedule, and tried not to feel like the new animal dropped into a tight, closed ecosystem.

The only class that didn't feel suffocating was her last: local history.

The room was lined with faded maps and black-and-white photos of the town. A tall man with steel-gray hair and a tired expression stood at the front-Mr. Redgrave, according to the name on the board.

"We're starting our unit on Ashfall's founding myths," he said, without preamble. "I know most of you have heard them since childhood. But for those who are new-" his eyes flicked to Lyra "-you'll find this town thrives on stories."

A girl in the back raised her hand. "Are we talking about the howler legends?"

Mr. Redgrave nodded. "Among others."

"Howlers?" Lyra asked the girl next to her, a petite blonde with dark nail polish.

The girl smirked. "Local boogeymen. Wolves that walk like men. They say they live in the forest. People vanish every few years. No one talks about it, but... yeah."

Lyra blinked. "And that's normal?"

"This is Ashfall," the girl said with a shrug. "Normal doesn't mean safe."

⋆⋆⋆

That night, Lyra sat in the attic, unpacking a box of her mother's things Miriam had brought up. Most were books, old photos, and a leather journal wrapped in ribbon. She untied it slowly, her fingers trembling.

Inside, the pages were yellowed but legible. Her mother's handwriting curled across the lines like vines:

They think the curse is broken, but I know better. The blood sings louder near the woods. And the moon... the moon watches everything.

Lyra stared. A cold wind whispered through the eaves.

Suddenly, a sound outside-near the trees.

She stood and moved to the attic window. The woods loomed beyond the backyard, black and still. But then-movement.

A shape. Too tall for a wolf. Too fast for a man.

It disappeared before she could register what she saw.

But her heart already knew.

Ashfall was not what it seemed.

And neither, perhaps, was she.