Chapter 3 #2
Silence stretched between us. It wasn’t awkward—more like we were both remembering something. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“What kind of research, if I may ask?”
I hesitated. Saying it out loud felt dangerous. “The Crater.”
His expression shattered in an instant. His back stiffened, and he leaned forward, eyes hard.
I raised my hand instinctively. “I know, Weeny Man.”
“No, Sanora. You don’t know anything. You think everything you read about The Crater in those books is true?”
“I know they aren’t. That’s why I—”
“No. Stay away from it. The Crater is more dangerous than you think.”
I stared at him, his words heavy and loud in my head. “Someone once told me not to let danger stop me from getting the knowledge my heart demands.”
His mouth tightened and he shook his head slowly, recalling his own words. “This knowledge will kill you.”
I gave a weak smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t die. Six expert fortune tellers said so.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t believe those things.”
I scoffed. “You sound like my mother.”
His face changed. He pulled back, scratching his beard as silence folded over us again.
I let my eyes wander. Something on the shelf caught my attention—a familiar symbol on a worn spine. I stood and walked over, my fingers hovering as I pulled out the book.
I gasped.
“The Volume Two of The Moon’s Wrath.” My voice trembled with disbelief as my eyes swept to him. “There was volume two?”
He shook his head slowly.
I frowned, flipping it open. Every page was blank. Every. Page. Fourteen hundred of them.
“Why is it here if it’s empty?”
Of course I knew why. No one knew the continuation.
No one knew the rest of the story. No one knew what became of the man who lost his soul to the moon’s wrath.
After the curse, the story just…stopped.
It was the version Weeny Man used to tell us as kids.
The cursed man. The soulless one. Some said he killed himself.
Others claimed he still wandered the earth, slaying people in their sleep.
My mother hated history, truth or myth. She said they were emotional escapism, but even she had an odd curiosity about him. He was the monster of every child’s tale.
The Soulless Man will take you away if you don’t eat.
The Soulless Man will eat you alive if you go there.
The Soulless Man will take your soul if you disobey.
The Soulless Man will haunt your dreams if you don’t eat your vegetables.
But my mother never used him to scare me.
Maybe that was why I pitied instead of feared him.
Still, I believed he was dead. No one could walk this world for over fourteen centuries.
Surely, the moon had pardoned him. The blank pages were proof—no one knew what happened to him after the curse.
Every book written about him was just human speculation.
Before Weeny Man could answer, the bell jingled as another customer entered.
I stepped away, wandering deeper into the shelves.
I spotted strange books wrapped in translucent cloth, some etched with moon-shaped glyphs.
One cover pulsed faintly like it was breathing.
Another was made entirely of bark, whispering when I ran my fingers over it.
All of them hummed with the lore I had grown up loving.
There were books I’d never heard of before: The Wound of the Wind, How the River Lied, Echoes of the First Moonlight, The Map of Lost Names, The Hollow-Eyed Bride of Crystmoor.
Most were thick and bound in leather. Some had handwritten tags tied to them, notes like: “Unfinished, read with care,” or “Not for the faint of heart.” Some had symbols I’d seen in storybooks, and runes that didn’t belong to any known language.
I saw a faded portrait of a girl with white eyes, a cracked orb, and a rusted knife labelled Mouth Opener.
Eventually, my stomach’s angry protests grew too loud to ignore. I picked a few books, promised Weeny Man I’d return them, and left.
By the time I got home, the sky had paled into a soft, golden grey.
The sun was just beginning its retreat, casting long shadows across the hills in the distance.
I’d bought some groceries, thick curtains, cleaning supplies, and a couple of fluffy socks I didn’t need but couldn’t resist. I spent the next hour putting things in place, scrubbing off the scent and dirt from the counters.
After setting up the curtains, I peeked outside to make sure no creepy silhouette was hovering at my window. I glanced between the trees, just in case, then headed downstairs to cook something quick.
After eating, I showered, dragged the box from under my bed and curled up on the floor in front of it—the one that held the medallion—with damp hair and a towel wrapped around me.
I’d forgotten to tell Weeny Man how it burned my hand last night.
I stared at the bag like it might hiss or grow claws. Then, carefully, I reached in.
The medallion was cool.
Not cold. Not hot. Just...room temperature.
Had I imagined the heat?
No. I hadn’t. I knew what I felt. It had scorched me last night. It had made me almost drop the fucking camera.
I pulled out the DSLR and pressed the power button, ignoring the anxious pinch in my stomach. The screen lit up and I flipped through the pictures.
Hills. Forest. Street. Street. Street.
But there was no picture of a figure.
What the hell?
Everything was here, but not the one where that—that...thing had stood, staring up at me with no shadow beneath its feet.
I checked again. I scrolled back, forward, and back again. Rechecked every photo. A third time. A fifth. Nothing.
My stomach twisted.
I hadn’t imagined it. I knew what I saw. The photo was there. The medallion burned me. I had seen the shape of something tall and inhuman, craning its neck like it had smelled me.
I wasn’t losing my mind.
I wasn’t. Right?
Right?
My hand trembled as I set the camera aside. I stared at the bag. At the medallion. It was sitting calmly like it hadn’t been tied to whatever the hell I saw outside my window.
“What the fuck,” I whispered.
I stood up, heart hammering, and bolted down the stairs, flicking on the lights and checking every lock and window. All the windows were locked. Nothing broken, and there was no sign of forced entry. Back upstairs, I even checked behind the shower curtain like some horror movie rookie.
In the room, I yanked the curtains apart, my breath fogging the glass. The street was empty, washed in yellow light from the lamps.
That thing had been real.
And now the photo was gone.
Pulling the curtains shut again, I wrapped the DSLR cord around it and shoved it under my bed, then returned to the bag and zipped it shut.
My fingers hesitated over the books I borrowed, then I grabbed the top one—The Hollow-Eyed Bride of Crystmoor—and crawled into bed with it like it was a weapon.
I wasn’t going to doubt. I refused to doubt. Doubt made you stupid. Doubt made you weak. Doubt made you the crazy girl in the horror movies that no one listened to until she ended up gutted in a forest.
I knew what I saw. I knew what I felt. I wasn’t wrong.
Curling deeper into the covers, I opened the book.
I stared at it for a while, not really reading. The words blurred together. But I forced myself. I had to. I couldn’t let this fear crawl into my bones.
And as I flipped through the first few pages, one word jumped out at me.
Vel’Tharun.
The name of the river spirit who granted wishes to the dead in exchange for their most loved possession.