1 Frozen Moonrise
The relentless winter storm devoured any sound, the once lively rustle of leaves replaced by the soft crunch of heavy snow underfoot. Through the thick flakes, a pair of grey boots pressed on, each step determined but not frantic. Damien Blackwood, caught in the midst of the tempest, clung to his jeans' pocket with a white-knuckled grip, as if the world inside it held the key to his very survival.
Damien's breath hung in the frigid air as he scanned the obscured landscape, the swirling snowflakes a curtain of white, hiding both danger and sanctuary. The urgency in his stride hinted at a sense of escape, as if he were evading an unseen pursuer, navigating a journey in defiance of winter's unyielding assault. Each step, a careful negotiation with the deep snow, revealed a man unwilling to surrender to the icy grasp of the storm.
As Damien trudged through the blinding snow, his heart raced not just from the biting cold but also the secrets he carried. The envelope in his pocket, a cryptic weight, hinted at a mystery that only deepened with every step.
The snowstorm painted a frozen tableau, slowing Damien's pace until, with reluctant surrender, he sank into the cold embrace of the ground. His eyes twitched, bloodshot and haunted, fixated on the fading sunlight obscured by the relentless snowfall. Seeking refuge, he cast his gaze towards the evergreen trees, only a few smaller pines visible before their larger brethren draped the scene in an impenetrable darkness.
Along the forest's edge, a dried-up frozen mud path traced through the snow, leading to a road that disappeared beyond the mountain's majestic silhouette. Despite the relentless snowstorm, patches of sky peeked through the ever-shifting clouds, preventing a complete whiteout. This unusual sight contradicted the typical conditions associated with heavy snow, challenging the desolation and gloom that seemed to envelop the landscape—though whether it emanated from the depths of Damien's weary psyche remained uncertain. One final glance back, and civilization seemed a distant memory, swallowed by the unforgiving storm.
Striving for a moment's respite, he closed his eyes, a futile bid to escape the turmoil churning within. Yet, an unrelenting restlessness persisted, not merely fueled by physical fatigue but by an enigmatic force, an inner essence that bestowed upon him an unnatural strength—a feral power beyond the reach of ordinary men. Indifferent to this peculiar vigor, he continued to clench the envelope in his pocket, shielding its contents from the world, steadfastly resisting the encroaching weariness.
Rising from the snowy ground, his boots gained momentum, scraping through the deep snow. The only path forward was clear, and with a determined resolve, he pressed on into the heart of the relentless storm, the secrets in his pocket echoing the mystery of the wintry night.
As the last rays of the sun illuminated the path ahead in the dim light, Damien's agitation only increased. Despite not seeing anyone within a notable five miles, he repeatedly tapped his right pocket, again and again, making sure the contents were safe. The mere thought of losing the precious secret he carried filled him with anguish, a pain that could only be soothed by gazing upon the moon's luminous face.
The crimson hue of the evening sky dwindled into the embrace of night, the wind bore the haunting cries of jackals and wolves, stirring Damien's weary imagination. The exhaustion that weighed heavily on him began to dissipate with the approaching night. There was an inexplicable rejuvenation that the night brought, consistently breathing life back into him, particularly when he fixed his gaze upon the moon.
Darkness closed in, hope of finding shelter waned with the fading rays of the evening sun. He cast his gaze downward, exhaling a visible breath in the frigid air. A nearby branch caught his eye, prompting a swift retrieval of his lighter from the front pocket of his jacket. Despite the relentless assault of wind and snow, he defied the elements, coaxing flames to dance upon the piece of lumber. A fleeting burst of warmth flickered before the branch succumbed, reduced to charred flakes by the unforgiving storm.
Tossing aside the spent branch, he muttered, "Damn, it's freezing. Need more branches for a fire and some damn shelter. Don't know how much longer I can brave this snowstorm."
As he uttered those words, he discerned a path devoid of light, invisible to ordinary eyes but not to his. With no alternative in sight, he resumed his journey, seeking illumination from the half-moon tonight—a celestial allure that defied reason, drawing him in with an almost primal attraction.
After a brief traverse through the shrubbery, a faintly glowing lamp emerged, casting hope against the darkness. Examining it more closely, he identified another nearby lamp, heightening his euphoria. Torch-lit front sides of a two-story house loomed ahead, prompting him to march eagerly toward it, guided by the flickering flames.
Approaching the building's front door, a sign hung in full view. Retrieving the aged, rectangular piece of wood, he traced the carved words, "Moon Lodge." A wry smile illuminated his face as he knocked three times on the door, his eyes glancing up at the half-moon above.
An imposing figure materialized on the opposing side of the entry, the door creaking against his keen perception. In his mid-fifties, the man possessed a slender frame, where thinness lent an added height to his otherwise modest stature. On one side of his head, a clump of grey and white hair was meticulously combed. His face, elongated and lean, harbored a thick, dark mustache flourishing beneath his nose, leaving the rest of his countenance untouched. Lapis-colored eyes conveyed a hint of sternness, lingering behind the well-defined features.
"Yes?" the man replied, his steely gaze averted. The innkeeper's voice was coarse, as expected from a thin, relatively short man of fifty. "I want a room," Damien replied.
"Hmm," the innkeeper said mutely, his tone implying that a stream of thoughts was navigating his mind at the moment.
The door swung open, the innkeeper granting entry to Damien after a moment of contemplative silence. As the innkeeper led, Damien followed, making their way toward the reception area. A short distance from the entrance, the reception desk awaited, stationed beside the stairs ascending to the second floor. The ambiance within, accentuated by a yellowish lamp casting somber hues, resonated with the solitude of the inn.
Upon inspecting the holding board, the innkeeper retrieved an old, semi-rusted key, placing it on the table. While most would struggle to discern details in the dim lighting, Damien possessed exceptional vision—some might even call it unnaturally acute. Clear as day, he saw that the key was affixed to a weathered leather holder bearing the number "2."
"Upstairs, left at the second door," the innkeeper directed, gesturing casually toward the left end of the hall. "Anything you need, I'm in the room downstairs."
Damien nodded absentmindedly; his gaze captivated by the moonlit scene beyond the window. The ethereal glow of the moon stirred something profound within him.
"It's five pounds per night," the innkeeper stated. Extracting a small billfold from his jacket, Damien handed over a five-pound note. The innkeeper accepted the money, unveiling a velvet-covered register nearly two feet long. With a keen interest in Damien's response, he inquired, "Your name for the lodge's registry, sir?"
"James Hunter," responded Damien, his eyes never leaving the moon for long.
With Damien's response, the innkeeper shifted from a stern gaze to a menacing glare, the lamplight casting an eerie shadow over him. Quick to notice, the innkeeper's eyes homed in on Damien's right hand, tightly clasping his jeans' pocket. Attention then turned to Damien's upper body, particularly the suede jacket with a pocket on the lower left abdomen, the innkeeper's gaze searching for something, creating an uneasy scrutiny that demanded Damien's full attention.
As the jacket unzipped, revealing a light grey shirt underneath, the innkeeper noted the snug fit of Damien's upper attire. Focused on Damien's right hand gripping the pocket of his jeans, the innkeeper's scrutiny intensified.
Damien, sensing the examination, concealed his lower body movements by tucking his hands behind the table's inner ledge. Staring blankly at the innkeeper, his forearms tensing as his hands secured something in place. A sly grin crept across the innkeeper's lips, accompanied by an eerie glow in his eyes. Now fully focused on the innkeeper and no longer distracted by the moonlight, the scent of gunpowder invaded Damien's senses. It wasn't that the smell hadn't been there before; rather, he only now realized what he had been smelling, but by then, it was too late.
Abruptly, the innkeeper aimed the barrel of a pump-action shotgun at Damien's face. "Seems like you've grown tired of being dead," he remarked. Within moments, Damien's complexion paled as he struggled to catch his breath in the freezing air.
The innkeeper said as he slowly emerged from behind the reception, keeping his barrel squarely pointed towards Damien. "Hold your hands in the air, and don't move suddenly. Or I'll have to stay up all night mopping you off the floor." The frigid wind swept into the lodge, carrying flurries of snow that clung to Damien's hair and clothes.
"I don't want any trouble. I'll just leave," Damien muttered, his voice trembling in the cold air, his palms shaking. Each thump of the innkeeper's heart echoed in Damien's ears, as if he were listening through a stethoscope. Simultaneously, his keen nose detected the pungent smell of gunpowder, its intensity heightened as the shotgun bore down directly on his face.
"Well, Mr. James Hunter, I'm sure you noticed the rope just outside the box you entered through. So, I suggest you slowly walk towards the door and open it," the innkeeper instructed, pointing at it with the shotgun barrel. Damien complied, moving cautiously towards the door with the innkeeper following. Stepping outside into the blizzard, Damien saw a cube-shaped crate covered in fresh snow beside the innkeeper's doorstep.
A gentle wave of the innkeeper's shotgun barrel directed Damien to the crate. Atop it, a pristine piece of rope lay over a pile of ragged newspapers. "Just grab the rope and help yourself," the innkeeper ordered, his words cutting through the howling wind.
Damien's eyes traced the right edge of the topmost newspaper, where a faint column ran down. The faded ink, nearly illegible from the snow's intrusion, prompted a derisive click of his tongue. 'Should've chosen a different name; I was too careless, stupidly letting it slip after glimpsing it earlier,' he berated himself as he scanned the headline - 'Mr. James Hunter was last seen leaving his Shell Street home on the afternoon of August 4, 1984.' Shifting his gaze slightly upwards, he continued reading, 'Unexplained disappearance. Landowner presumed dead!' Damien cursed himself silently, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.
The innkeeper's piercing gaze bore into him. The name Damien thought would offer refuge now threatened to ensnare him. In that moment of reckoning, he understood the gravity of his mistake. This wasn't just about distraction; it was a perilous gamble that had backfired. As the innkeeper's eyes narrowed, Damien recognized the imminent danger slowly wrapping around his neck.
In the biting cold, the innkeeper's demand sliced through the wind, almost lost amidst the howling gale. "The rope! Give it to me!" he growled, his voice a sinister undertone. The gusts carried the rope to him, and with a swift, practiced motion, he snapped it in the air. "Turn around, face the ground, and put your hands behind your back," he commanded, his breath visible in the frigid air.
Damien, shivering in the snow, muttered in a desperate, half-audible voice, "I won't trouble you. Just let me leave." His heightened senses caught the innkeeper's quickened breathing and racing heart, amplifying the tension in the freezing night.
"Take one step more than I have told you, and it's going to be goodnight for you." The threat hung heavy in the air as Damien obediently laid down, placing his hands behind his back. The innkeeper expertly bound his hands, the knots tight and unforgiving. Though Damien struggled initially, he gradually calmed, focusing his senses on the cold wilderness around him.
As the innkeeper approached, his words were a sinister whisper, "If you'll excuse me." Damien knew resistance was futile. The innkeeper methodically searched each pocket, feeling for hidden secrets. He found a green envelope and after vaguely glancing at it he tossed aside uninterested.
Moving on to the left pocket, the innkeeper meticulously explored down to Damien's ankles, squeezing through the fabric. He lifted the jacket and shirt, scrutinizing the area around the waist. Flipping Damien over, the innkeeper carefully inspected the dusty suede jacket. Extracting the billfold from the inside right pocket, he sifted through its contents, finding nothing that piqued his further curiosity.
In a perplexed tone, the innkeeper inquired, "I see you aren't carrying anything sharp."
"No, I am not. As I said, I'm not looking for trouble. I'll leave. Just untie me!" pleaded Damien in an almost desperate voice. Stepping back slightly, the innkeeper retrieved his gun, his gaze fixed on Damien. After a brief pause, he flipped Damien over, deftly loosening the rope from his boot.
A confident smile played on the innkeeper's lips as he opened Damien's gate, assured that the threat had subsided. Despite Damien towering over the innkeeper by almost half a foot and being two decades younger, the innkeeper dismissed any notion of physical confrontation. Damien, though seemingly slender, hinted at an underlying athletic build beneath his clothes. The innkeeper, however, believed Damien lacked the experience and tenacity required for a surprise attack, especially in their current situation.
Damien, pushing himself off the ground, felt his stiff joints protest from the icy confinement. He reached for the tossed green envelope, squinting against the flurry-laden wind. Hastily retrieving the packet from snowy ground, he struggled against the storm, sifting through its contents. With great effort, he managed to secure it, tucking the envelope into his pocket. The wind howled, carrying the tension of the encounter into the frozen night.
Before retracing his steps along the path, he cast a final, wary glance at the innkeeper, who casually rested the shotgun over his shoulder. The howling winds transformed the innkeeper's voice into a mere whisper, lost in the chaotic symphony of the blizzard. Unfazed, Damien took deliberate steps forward, the crunch of snow beneath his boots muffled by the relentless gusts.
"Come on in. You can't stay anywhere else," the innkeeper shouted, his words a desperate plea against the biting wind.
Astonished, Damien stood frozen, his face stinging from the icy gusts. The scent of smoke wafted from the lodge's chimney, a beckoning aroma in the frigid air. Sensing Damien's hesitation, the innkeeper added, "Well, there isn't a house within fifteen miles. You want to leave, won't stop you. But I can wager that spending the night at my lodge is a much better option than wandering through the woods in this blizzard and finding nothing."
Damien hesitated, the swirling snow gathering around him as he contemplated the innkeeper's proposition. The glow of the fire within teased warmth, but caution lingered in his mind. With measured resolve, he took a step forward, ears tuned to the hostile winds and any abrupt movements from the innkeeper.
"You want to come in or not? The wind's getting chilly, and I won't keep waiting for you all night," the innkeeper called out impatiently, his voice a battle cry against the storm. Damien, sensing the urgency, lowered his gaze, crossing his arms to shield against the biting wind. His enhanced hearing caught the subtle chattering of the innkeeper's teeth, a symphony of the inhospitable night.
The innkeeper, stationed sentinel-like at the doorstep, awaited Damien's approach with measured anticipation. A silent gesture extended a tacit invitation, urging Damien to step forward into the unknown. "After you," the innkeeper declared, a cunning smirk playing upon his lips, a subtle challenge amid the looming uncertainty.
"How do I know you're not aiming to put a bullet in my skull?" Damien retorted, his words nearly swallowed by the relentless howl of the wind, the air thick with apprehension.
"If I intended harm, I wouldn't have dallied for the past ten minutes as if wooing you. I returned your wallet, didn't I? Easy pickings as you lay in the snow. So, for the last time, care to step inside?" the innkeeper responded, the barrel of his gun pointed earthward, its weight shifting casually in his left hand.
Damien sharpened his senses, attuned to the innkeeper's steady heartbeat, searching for any trace of deception in his demeanor. After a moment's reflection, he nodded and crossed the threshold into the warmth of the inn, the crackling fire thawing his frozen limbs.
Inside, Damien and the innkeeper proceeded to the reception desk. The innkeeper, reaching for the key and a pen, cast an eerie glow with the dim light bulb overhead, the air still charged with the recent altercation. In the register, the innkeeper scribbled, "Mr. James Hunter."
"That's not my real name," Damien asserted, the scratching of the pen against paper filling the silence.
"Yeah, kid, I know. You can be anyone you want as long as you pay your dues and refrain from any violent inclinations," the innkeeper remarked, handing the key to Damien. As Damien ascended the stairs, the innkeeper called after him, "By the way, name's Lionel Shaw. And Mr. Hunter, next time, choose a less conspicuous alias, and don't pick the headline from a newspaper found in someone's house."
Damien nodded in acknowledgment, continuing his ascent as the warmth of the inn gradually penetrated his chilled bones. Thoughts of the day's tumultuous events swirled in his mind, morphing him from one identity to another within the span of a day.
"James Hunter... What a day," Damien sighed wearily, the name feeling foreign on his tongue as he approached the door marked "2." With a decisive turn of the iron key, he pushed the door open, revealing the modest sanctuary within. A solitary bed occupied one corner, its weary form draped in an equally tired quilt. The tempest outside raged on, but within the sturdy walls of the lodge, its fury was muted.
Shedding his damp attire, Damien sank onto the bed, exhaustion weighing heavily upon him after the day's relentless trials. Suddenly, a mysterious impulse drew his gaze to the window. Stepping closer, he beheld the half-moon peeking through shifting clouds, casting ephemeral beams across the room. In that fleeting moment, his eyes caught the moon's radiance, briefly transformed into a shimmering golden hue before returning to their usual somber grey.
