Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ava
Ifeel absolutely ridiculous typing "werewolf folklore Appalachian mountains" into Google at nine o'clock on a Friday morning.
My laptop sits on the kitchen table, the cursor blinking in the search bar, waiting for me to commit to this insanity.
Around me, my rental house is a disaster of field notes, water sample analyses, and printed pages from the mysterious journal I found.
Everything points to environmental contamination, to corporate malfeasance, and to perfectly rational scientific explanations for the mutations I've been documenting.
And yet here I am, about to go down a rabbit hole of supernatural folklore because I can't shake the feeling that there's something fundamentally impossible about Willow Creek.
I hit enter.
The results are mostly what I expect. Horror movie references, fantasy novel recommendations, and werewolf romance series. I scroll past the obvious fiction and start looking for actual folklore, historical accounts, cultural mythology.
What I find is surprisingly consistent across cultures.
European legends talk about humans who could transform into wolves, often tied to full moons and curses.
Native American traditions speak of shape-shifters with reverence rather than fear.
Even ancient Greek and Roman texts mention the lycanthrope, humans cursed or blessed with the ability to take wolf form.
The common threads are interesting from an anthropological perspective. Enhanced physical abilities. Pack mentality. Territorial behavior. A connection to the wild that goes beyond normal human experience.
All things I've observed in Hunter.
I close that tab and open a new one, searching for "Willow Creek North Carolina history." The results are frustratingly sparse, but I find a few historical society pages, some genealogy sites, references in old land surveys.
One entry catches my eye. It’s a diary excerpt from a surveyor in 1847.
"The settlement at Willow Creek remains insular and unwelcoming to outsiders.
The residents claim the land as theirs by right of protection, not purchase, and will not suffer government interference in their affairs.
They patrol the boundaries with an organization that suggests military discipline, though they claim no formal governance. Most peculiar."
It sounds similar to the entries in the journal I found. And it’s the same territorial behavior I've witnessed.
I spend the next hour falling deeper into the research.
References to Willow Creek pop up occasionally in historical records, always with the same undertones.
A closed community. Suspicious of outsiders.
Protective of their land to an unusual degree.
No church records, no tax records, barely any official documentation of births or deaths despite the town existing for over a hundred and fifty years.
It's like they exist in the margins of official society, maintaining just enough presence to avoid scrutiny while keeping the modern world at arm's length.
My phone buzzes with a text from Hunter.
Still on for tomorrow?
Wouldn't miss it. What time should I be ready?
I'll pick you up at 4. Thank you for giving this a chance. It means a lot.
I stare at the message, then at my laptop screen filled with werewolf folklore and mysterious historical accounts. Tomorrow I'm going to walk into the heart of Willow Creek, surrounded by people who might be... what? Werewolves? The thought is absurd.
But no more absurd than everything else I've observed.
I need more information. Real information, not just internet speculation and historical fragments.
The bookstore in Parkerville is called The Book Worm, and it's exactly the kind of place I'd normally love.
It has floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, the smell of old paper and coffee, a fat orange cat sleeping in the front window.
Today, though, I'm here with a purpose that makes me feel slightly unhinged.
An elderly man looks up from behind the counter as I enter, lowering the newspaper he'd been reading.
He's probably in his eighties, with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a cardigan despite the mild temperature.
He has sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of gaze that suggests he doesn't miss much.
"Help you find something?" he asks, his voice gravelly but warm.
"I hope so." I approach the counter, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding crazy. "I'm doing research on local folklore and history. Specifically about Willow Creek and the surrounding area."
"You're the researcher staying out by Clearwater Creek," he says. It's not a question.
Small towns. Of course he knows who I am. "Yes. Dr. Ava Sinclair. I'm studying environmental changes in the watershed."
"I’m Mr. Wilson." He extends a gnarled hand across the counter, his grip surprisingly firm. "And you're interested in local folklore because...?"
"Because I keep running into things that don't quite make sense," I admit. "The community in Willow Creek is very closed off. There's almost no historical documentation, no online presence. And some of the stories I've heard..." I trail off, unsure how much to reveal.
Mr. Wilson studies me for a long moment, then nods toward the back of the store. "Local history section is in the rear corner. I've got a few books that might interest you. Let me pull them."
He moves slowly, using a cane to navigate between the shelves, but his mind is clearly sharp.
I follow, weaving between stacks packed with everything from bestsellers to obscure academic texts.
The local history section is small but well-curated, and Mr. Wilson pulls several volumes from the shelf with practiced ease.
"This one," he hands me a slim book bound in green cloth, "is a collection of Appalachian folklore compiled in the 1930s. And this one," a thicker volume with a worn leather cover, "is a history of land grants in the region, including the Willow Creek area."
I take the books, my pulse quickening. "You know something about Willow Creek."
"I know it's been there longer than the official records suggest. The same families have lived there for generations with remarkably little turnover.
And I can tell you that people who ask too many questions about Willow Creek tend to either get very quiet or leave the area entirely.
" He meets my eyes directly. "Which category are you planning to fall into, Dr. Sinclair? "
The question feels loaded with meaning I don't fully understand. "I'm planning to fall into the category of people who find answers."
Mr. Wilson's smile is thin. "Then you should be very careful about which answers you go looking for. Some knowledge comes with a price."
"Are you trying to scare me off?"
"I'm trying to give you context." He pulls one more book from the shelf, this one obviously old, the pages yellowed and fragile. "This is a journal kept by a doctor who practiced in the area in the 1920s. It might be of interest to you."
I open the book carefully, scanning the handwritten entries. One passage jumps out at me immediately.
Treated a young man from the Willow Creek settlement today for wounds sustained in what he claimed was a hunting accident.
The lacerations were severe, but healing at a rate I've never witnessed in my thirty years of practice.
When I expressed amazement, he became evasive, insisting it was normal for 'his kind.
' I did not press further. The residents of Willow Creek value their privacy, and I value their continued patronage.
"His kind," I murmur.
"The doctor wrote dozens of similar entries over the years," Mr. Wilson says quietly. "Patients with unusual healing rates, extraordinary strength, heightened senses. He never drew any conclusions explicitly, but reading between the lines..." He shrugs. "Well. Draw your own conclusions."
I look up from the book, my mind racing. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're going to figure it out anyway, and I'd rather you do it with good information than bad speculation.
" Mr. Wilson leans on his cane, studying me.
"And because I've known Hunter Turner since he was a boy.
He's a good man, and he's been dealt a difficult hand.
If you're in his life, you should understand what that means. "
The mention of Hunter sends a jolt through me. "You know Hunter?"
"Everyone knows Hunter. His family has been part of this area for generations. Good people, all of them. Protective of what's theirs, which sometimes means protective to a fault, but good people nonetheless."
"What are they protecting?"
Mr. Wilson's smile returns, enigmatic. "That's the question, isn't it? And it's one only they can answer for you. I can give you history and folklore, Dr. Sinclair, but I can't give you their truth. That has to come from them."
He walks back toward the front of the store, his cane tapping against the wooden floor, leaving me standing among the shelves with an armful of books that might contain answers to questions I'm not sure I should be asking.
"Promise me one thing," Mr. Wilson says when I pay at the counter.
"What's that?"
"When you learn the truth—and you will learn—approach it with an open mind and an open heart. Fear makes people do foolish things. Understanding makes them do brave things." He pats my hand where it rests on the counter. "I think you're the understanding type. Prove me right."