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The cracks on the ceiling of my old house looked more interesting than the inside of my eyelids, so I kept looking at them. My mind wandered. Being a logical person, I can’t let go of things. It’s impossible. I need an explanation.
My phone was charging on the nightstand. I pulled it closer, opened the Google browser, and typed “silver bullets.” The results were exactly what a fan ofSupernaturalexpected.
Silver bullets in lore and folklore.
I started reading. Silver is pure. Blah, blah, blah. It can kill werewolves and ghouls, and it can be toxic to vampires.
“Please!”
My voice scared me a little bit as I exclaimed that loudly. The words reverberated in the dark and empty house. Spike still purred contentedly next to me.
“You don’t care that I’m feeling as if I am losing my mind,” I told Spike, scratching his belly and chin.
The Internet pointed me in only one direction for what I had witnessed—silver bullets. But there are still so many other questions.
How does a good-looking man recover in seconds after bullets are removed?
Who gets shot in a small town like Prudence?
Does the sheriff know about this?
Two hours passed, and sleep still hadn’t graced me with its presence. I had to get up before I went crazy.
“One last search, Spike. What do you say?” I asked my adorable cat, who slept next to me.
I typed “Soren” onto my phone, but there were no results. Surprisingly, no one with that name had a presence on Facebook, or pics on Google, or anything on Instagram.
“Runes and wolf tattoos” was my next search. The Internet took me to countless pages, symbols, and even conspiracy theories about secret society crap.
“Who believes such shit. Look at this. This looks as if a nut job who lives in his mom’s basement wrote it.” I turned my phone towards Spike. That didn’t make me look crazy at all.
I finally stumbled on a website that attracted my attention. It was packed with howling wolves and stickers that read Danger and Top Secret. One of the topics I noticed was “Frost Wolf -- sons of Loki.”
I put down my phone. This was too stupid. Maybe Soren was on drugs. Maybe he took something before. Maybe he’s part of some sort of clinical trial.
Ugh.
I picked up a warm, fluffy robe on a chair beside me. Wrapped up and wearing my ugly but comfortable slippers, I made my way into the small study Granny used. It was the same as I remembered from when I was a kid, only then I was forbidden to go in there. Well, Granny didn’t strictly forbid me to enter. She said that she respects my room and that this is her place to write letters and read, and she expected me to do the same for her and respect her space. As I entered, I felt naughty, as if I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
Right after I opened the door and turned the lights on, a picture of Granny with mom as a kid smiled at me from the wall.
“I’m sorry, Granny. I need to find answers,” I told her ghost, hoping she wouldn’t mind me looking through her stuff now that she was gone.
I loved Granny so much. She was such a good mother replacement for me that I agreed to all her rules. Thinking about her death made my chest hurt. I took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay.
A white desk with elegant, curved legs sat orientated toward the windows looking down at the front of the property. I sat down and opened the top drawer without thinking. Granny’s check book was there, as well as a few envelopes that looked yellow. They were from her best friend, Bessy. Tears filled my eyes. I put the papers down, not wanting to ruin them. It was not a crazy cry but a soft one, allowing me to mourn not only for Granny, but for all the things I lost and would never get back again.
I wiped my tears on the sleeve of the robe, asked Granny for forgiveness, and continued looking through her things. It should have made me feel bad. However, this man who burst into my house clearly knew Granny, so I did something that made me feel like a naughty ten-year-old—I opened the letters and started to read.
After the second letter, I found nothing that could help me. Bessy tried to fix up Granny, who was then probably my age, with a young, good-looking widower she knew. Granny responded with something about her place here and her work, and Bessy stopped pestering.
My next move should be to call Bessy, but the woman had been dead for over a decade.
After going through all drawers and not finding anything, I pulled them out and turned each over.
“No way!”
A small notebook, like a journal, was at the bottom of the last drawer. As soon as I opened it, I saw my grandma’s handwriting.
