The silver moon's curse

's

teering wheel so tightly my knuckles looked bleached, as if the color had drained from me along with everything else I had

point. Maybe Moonva

hrough the pines. It smelled like damp moss and wet leaves, the air heavy and sharp, like it had just rained eve

ere, Mo

f I could even

in so tightly it felt like driving through a tunnel of bark and shadow. I'd expected that, had even braced for it. My aunt Celes

en, I'd

wasn't

t was alive, in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The fog crept around my legs, twining lik

eight to it. A thickness

nder my breath. My voice felt too lou

ust the whisper of win

ince the funeral. I still couldn't. Everything I loved fits into that box now: my mother's favorite mug, my

med the trunk shut a litt

loped roofs and darkened windows, wrapped in ivy and age. The trees were everywhere, towering and ancient, their roots curling over the cra

o Moonval

ation

lin

atched out, just question marks in its place. Probably v

seemed to thicken as I went, swallowing up the world behind me. It clung to the houses and sto

ke that, I was at

d a little too far forward, like they were eavesdropping. An old post office. A general store. A diner with a flickering neon sign that re

Aunt Celeste's house was up on Pine Hollow Road, a mile or so past the

e, Is

grieving,

that weird pressure in the air again

't see

rians or lights

e evening, but it looke

the sky. My headlights barely cut through the fog, and the road narrowed to a dirt

with a moon-shaped

ak that went straight through me. Beyon

s my mother never looked at. Now it stood in front of me like something out of a gothic novel: tall and narrow, its roof slo

ed, home,

opened before I

a voice. "Yo

and silver-haired, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of storm clouds

d, my voice

stepped aside. "Come in.

d wood, like it had been frozen in time. Everything was dim and antique, the wallpaper faded but intric

e door with a fin

t, we just

er voice was formal, almost cold. "Your mother was

ed. "T

d say. Anything els

ed on her heel. "Your room is upstairs. Second on

. Her footsteps echoed up the

p at the massive chandelier above m

d and made my

was surprisingly clean, if a little dusty, and the bed had been made with stiff white sheet

s al

y and utt

m, exactly, but in the air. In the silence. Like the h

chi

case. Unpacked clothes into drawers. Set my

fog pressed against the

thought I saw a figure standing at the ed

ked again, the

st and

as nothing. My ner

curtains closed an

up to my chin. The wind outside howled through the trees, a

Not this. Not the creaks and groans of an old house shifting. Not

wouldn

I heard somethin

, not in any l

from the

gh the fog, calling

e wanted