Chapter 7: Whispers in the Fog
Chapter 7: Whispers in the Fog
Black Hollow lay under a heavy fog the next morning, its buildings little more than ghostly silhouettes in the pale, white mist. The air was damp and chill, muffling every sound like a wet blanket draped over the town. Clara hated it immediately.
It was the kind of fog where people vanished.
She kept one hand tight on the folded note found on the windshield. You’re getting too close. The red ink had smudged slightly where Liam touched it, but the threat was still clear. Someone knew what they were doing and didn’t like it.
Liam hadn’t said much since they returned from Harold Bell’s cabin. He sat in the church basement now, the ledger open in his lap, eyes scanning every line like he might find salvation buried in ink.
“We need to go to the sheriff,” Clara said quietly. “Show him the ledger. Warn him.”
Liam didn’t look up. “You think he doesn’t already know?”
She blinked. “What?”
“He’s been here for years. He grew up in Black Hollow. He’s not blind.” He turned a page, his jaw set. “Either he’s part of the silence… or he’s afraid.”
Clara crossed her arms, uneasy. “Then what do we do?”
Liam finally looked at her. “We find the next piece. The curse moves, right? Then someone had to be chosen after Dale Rourke died. Someone who was in the right place, at the right time… or the wrong one.”
Clara sat beside him. “Do we have records of who was there when Rourke died?”
Liam tapped the edge of the ledger. “That’s what I’m trying to find.”
He turned another page, then paused. His eyes narrowed.
“What?” Clara asked.
“This,” he said, pointing to an entry dated 2008.
“Rourke’s body found near Hollow Creek. No signs of struggle. Full moon. Local paramedic first on scene M. Greaves.”
Clara frowned. “M. Greaves?”
Liam looked up. “Margot Greaves. She still works in the clinic. Quiet. Keeps to herself. No family.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. “You think she ?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if the curse passed on at death, and she was the first one there…”
Clara stood. “Then we need to talk to her. Now.”
The clinic was nearly empty when they arrived.
A sleepy receptionist greeted them, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ms. Greaves is in the back,” she said. “Room three.”
Margot Greaves was tall and thin, her silver hair pulled into a tight braid. She stood over a file cabinet, organizing records with a clinical efficiency that reminded Clara of someone used to silence. Used to shadows.
When she saw them enter, she didn’t smile.
“You’re not here for a checkup,” she said. Her voice was smooth, but cool.
Clara stepped forward. “We need to ask you about the night Sheriff Rourke died.”
Margot’s eyes flickered just for a second.
“Why?” she asked.
“We know what he was,” Liam said. “We know the curse passes on.”
She was quiet. Too quiet.
“I was there,” Margot said finally. “Yes. I found him.”
“Did anything happen?” Clara pressed. “Anything strange?”
Margot’s eyes met hers. Cold. Measured. “Strange is normal here.”
A beat of silence.
Then she turned away. “There was something, yes. When I found the body, I felt… something pass through me. Like a wave of heat, then cold. It made me sick. Delirious for days.”
Liam took a step forward. “You were cursed.”
Margot laughed, but it was hollow. “If I was, then it didn’t take. I’ve been the same for years. No blackouts. No blood on my hands. You want a monster, look elsewhere.”
Clara studied her. “Then who did it pass to?”
Margot looked at her for a long moment. Then she reached into the drawer of her desk and pulled out an envelope.
She handed it to Clara.
“I don’t know who the next host is,” she said. “But your father left something for Liam. Years ago. Said to give it to him if the killing started again.”
Clara handed it to Liam. His hands shook slightly as he opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. In Jonathan Thorne’s handwriting, scrawled and uneven.
“If you're reading this, then the curse has returned. You must finish what I could not. The ledger will guide you. The bloodlines are the key. It doesn’t pass at random. It chooses family. Always family.”
Clara inhaled sharply. “Bloodlines?”
Liam stared at the note. “The host... is always someone related to the last.”
“Then the current werewolf could be a relative of Rourke,” Clara whispered.
Margot nodded slowly. “The Rourkes didn’t have kids. But his younger brother stayed in town. Had a son. Raised him quiet. Kid works in town now.”
Clara’s stomach twisted. “Who?”
“Evan Rourke,” Margot said. “Your deputy.”
They left the clinic in stunned silence.
Fog still clung to the ground like a second skin. Clara gripped Liam’s hand, her thoughts spinning.
Deputy Evan.
He’d been polite. Kind, even. Helped her move into her rental. Gave her a free coffee at the diner when she lost her wallet. Always there when something bad happened.
Too conveniently.
“Do we confront him?” Liam asked, voice tight.
Clara shook her head. “No. Not yet. If he’s the host, we need proof. And we need to catch him off guard.”
“What do you have in mind?”
She looked down the foggy street toward the woods.
“We set a trap.”