Page 17 of Blood Moon
I got up to leave then. I was on the hunt for answers after all the chaos that had occurred.
First, it was the glowing eyes in the woods. They were faint, but they were there, and they weren’t human. My gut told me it was more than a wild animal, something I should be wary of.
Second, Julian. Everything about him infuriated me. He wanted me to leave, and he didn’t have a reason why, at least not one he offered to share with me. The biggest issue I had now was that Rena felt similarly to Julian in regard to my safety, making this whole ordeal feel like more than a coincidence. What were the odds?
Third, RenaknewI was attending Lakeland University. A realization that made me wonder if maybe she was the reason I’d been accepted to LLU. If she’d applied on my behalf, it would mean Bobby hadn’t, but even if that were true, what were her intentions for me being here?
Still, her message came with what seemed like multiple ciphers:I can’t come now. The world isn’t as it seems. Be safe. Wear this necklace.
But it was what she signed off with that reminded me of the old book locked behind a glass case in the Sutton Art Museum.
Amor vincit omnia.
When I arrived at the Bowman Art Building, the sun was arched in the sky, barely floating above the west horizon. As I passed one end, I could see an evening class taking place through the long windows. I entered through the back, where the museum was located, and pulled open the heavy glass doors.
Cold air and faint jazz music welcomed me. The front desk was empty. I approached it, pressing down on the small bell while I looked at the screen mounted to the wall behind the desk. It flashed through different events that would be taking place during the fall.
I heard a clacking against the floor before I saw anything. Then, rounding the corner was Abba. Today her gray and brown ringlets rested on her shoulders, and her lips were a tint of mauve, a color that reminded me of a wine stain.
She dressed similarly to a flight attendant, with her black blazer, pencil skirt, and scarf tied to the side of her neck.
“Oh, hello.” She squinted her eyes. “Did we meet recently?”
“Yes, I was here on tour the other day. It was brief.”
She looked pleased. “I’m always hoping to leave a good impression.” She straightened her skirt. “Did you need assistance with anything?”
I glanced behind the desk, to the museum. Although it was further away, I could see the folklore section. I took a step in that direction. “I was actually curious as to what you know about the legends of Timber Plains.”
Her mouth pulled into a slight smile. “You’re interested in bedtime stories and fairytales?”
I shrugged absentmindedly. “What can I say? I love our town.”
As we walked toward the folklore section, I inspected the replicas of artifacts that were believed to have been around during the medieval times.
“You know,” Abba started, following close beside me, her voice very serene. “When broken down, folklore is simply the beliefs, customs, and stories of a community passed down from person to person—oral storytelling, if you will. It’s often the main reason why some stories get mixed up on the way down. We try to preserve the originality of those stories, try to keep them as pure as possible, but humanity comes with slight imperfection, I suppose.”
I nodded, walking past Abba to the glass case, where I found myself staring at the illustration of the man known to be Aadan, transforming into a werewolf.
“Do you think there’s any truth to the stories?” I asked, remembering how she’d mentioned them the other day before Em pulled me away.
“I reckon it would be senseless to think it was all make-believe, don’t you?” She looked at the case with me. “It means a long time ago, someone here in Kansas believed they witnessed a man transform into a wolf to bring peace and help clear any threats in the area. Not only that, but when they told the story to someone else, that person believed it, and it lived on and on. It’s likely that Aadan was a real person, but the history of werewolves is a bit flighty, depending on who you ask.”
“But it’swerewolves.These creatures were all made up by Hollywood, right? There’s proof of that,” I said, peering harder as I questioned the lore. Sure, I’d read stories and seen movies with the paranormal, but I knew it wasn’t real. It was harder to wrap my head around the idea that there were adults in this town who still believed werewolves existed.
“Depends on who you ask,” she said. “A handful of folks might disagree with you.”
“But why are they so keen on these bedtime stories? It was just something that was made up, something to scare the kids and keep them all inside. Unless there’s actual proof, it seems sort of … I don’t know … silly, don’t you think?”
She raised a single brow, looking at me with this lazy smile on her face, and I wondered if she, too, were one of the people that thought werewolves existed. She couldn’t be serious.
My throat warmed, and I felt that warmth spread to my face before I took another breath.
Before I could question her, Abba turned to walk away. She retrieved a long, brass-plated skeleton key from her desk, and when she returned, she opened a wooden drawer beneath the case. Dust particles gleamed beneath the bright lights, and there, on the glass, she placed a book that seemed older than life itself. It was well-preserved and leather-bound:The Tragical History of the Mythical Nosferatu and Lycans of Kansas City.
With a glove, she opened the book and gently shifted through the pages. The paper was so thin, I could faintly make out the page underneath. It was a collection of articles, documents, and images of a creature that looked like a wolf, but not entirely. In glimpses, I noted that there was a sequence of attacks spanning a fifty-mile radius of the new town. Each one detailed a ferocious beast that had stalked French fur traders up and down the Missouri River as they built cabins.
Abba closed the book and measured me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable, and I wondered if I had offended her with my comment earlier. “See,” she said, returning the book to its drawer and locking it, but I wasn’t finished. I wanted to take in every word of that book, savor it. “Those records are some of the last documents we have … very real, unexplainable tragedies.” As Abba returned the key to her desk, I remembered the reason I came by.
