Page 1 of When the Woods Go Silent

CHAPTER ONE

ROSE

Is it really a lie, when I’m trying so hard to make it come true?

“I’m so excited, Ru. Our store is going to be amazing. Now, take the time you deserve and enjoy the damn book conference. Meet all the people, buy all the books, and no more worrying about me! I’m getting so much done here. Totally loving the quiet,” I assure my nervous best friend before ending our call. That last part isn’t a lie, either. Not really.

I do enjoy quiet, and books are better than most people any day.

But this cavernous, old Victorian home we suddenly share now and the dense, dark woods around it are not the sort of quiet I’m used to. And no matter how much I love Ruby’s plan to restore this bookstore together, I still feel like I’m trying to fit myself into someone else’s dream. It’s beautiful here, and I want it to be amazing for both of us, but it just doesn’t feel like my life yet.

The shop on the main floor is a dreamy maze of quiet, dusty shelves and worn hardwood floors that creak in a way my boxy city apartment never did. Branches scrape the leaded-glass windows like skeleton bones, and the gusts of wind rattling the panes demand my attention much more than anything in the sterile downtown area I lived in for the past few years.

And the darkness.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be completely at ease with the velvety black that surrounds our new home at night. Streetlamps are sparse here at the end of this street, and the moonlight barely reaches our back balcony through the old-growth forest of pines and red maple trees.

For now, at least, there aren’t any late-night car horns or soft echoes of conversations from passersby. No slamming of distant doors or bounce of basketballs on a nearby empty lot, so common in the city.

Now, still a few weeks from tourist season, it’s just the great expanse of shadowy woods and a misty sky speckled with stars.

Clearwater is enchanting, but it’s made for daylight and summer crowds. In mid-April near midnight, our street of stores feels abandoned, as though I’m the only person alive out here.

I tuck my phone back in my sweatpants pocket, check the new alarm system, and touch the sturdy new locks on the bookstore’s front doors. Again. But I don’t turn off the lights or go upstairs to our living area yet - Ruby comes back from the New York City book conference soon, and I’m determined to make real progress here, too.

Reviving this neglected old bookstore and turning it into a travel-worthy viral sensation is everything Ruby’s always wanted. I’m along for the ride because it means I get a permanent seat next to my favorite person - my best friend is the only one who’s ever been a constant in my life.

So I’m happy to throw myself deep into her dream. I don’t care much about what I’m doing in life, as long as I’m doing it with people I love.

I push my glasses up my nose and get back to work, cleaning up the mess the workers left earlier after installing new double doors and replacing the worst of the cracked, drafty windows.

We’ve only had the keys to this black and forest green Gothic beauty for two weeks, and our to-do list is a mile long, but we’ve been focusing on the high-ceilinged front room, with its turreted curve of windows and long wall of built-in shelves.

Before Ruby left for the conference, we emptied all those shelves along the walls, scrubbing decades of dust from everything. But she hasn’t seen my paint job - deep green walls stenciled with lacy ferns - or the rose pink and ruby paint I’ve carefully mixed and added to each shelf in a smooth ombre. The pretty colors gleam in the soft light of the stained-glass tulip lights I thrifted locally. An area rug patterned with roses and vines will be delivered this week, and I’m on the hunt for a perfect pair of wingback chairs for either side of the fireplace.

My vision was enchanted garden, and I’m amazed at how well I pulled it off.

The sight of all those empty, waiting bookshelves, coupled with Ruby wielding our new company bank card at a book conference, feels like the night before Christmas. Everything is full of promise and excitement, and that’s a new feeling for me.

I’ve spent the afternoon rolling up and dragging away all the faded, worn area rugs and ragged-edged remnants, but the job isn’t quite done.

“You can take a hot bath as soon as this is done,” I mutter. “With wine, and the good snacks.” My arms aching, I redo my messy bundle of long red hair and push myself to keep moving.

Humming a catchy pop song and shaking my ass to the beat, I vacuum my way across the dusty hardwood to the back rooms of the main floor. Following the twisted, winding layout of the rest of the old shop feels like being lost in a labyrinth of stories, all waiting to be discovered and swept off their shelves.

This part is easy to love, no lies needed.

Already imagining slipping neck-deep into steamy water, I turn off the vacuum and crack my neck - just in time to hearglass shattering at the front of the store. My lips pop open, air lodging in my throat.

What the hell was that?

Fear surges through me at the thought of an intruder. Anger follows right behind, eclipsing any instinct to run. Ruby and I have worked damn hard for this, and whoever has come to ruin it will meet the business end of my... vacuum.

Glaring down at the only tool I have in reach, I detach the main pole and stalk silently toward the front room, holding the metal tube like a baseball bat. An owl screams outside, and the eerie sound is closer than it should be, now that double-paned glass isn’t protecting me from the shadowy woods.

As I reach the final corner, I slow my pace even more and creep around the door frame, scanning the front room for the criminal I’m about to fuck up.

The forest might spook me, but I’m not afraid of people. As I wait and watch, though, I realize the store is silent.

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