The tires crunched over gravel as the old pickup truck climbed the last hill of a long journey. In the back seat, Alistair leaned his head against the window, watching pine trees rise like green towers out of the morning mist. His breath left a faint fog on the glass.
They crested the hill, and the first view of the land stretched before them — a wide basin framed by forest, with only the barest sign of civilization. Somewhere ten miles east, nestled in the valley’s heart, lay a town they had yet to see in full: Moon Lake.
A wooden sign stood back from the road where trees thickened:
WELCOME TO MOON LAKE
“Where Nature Finds Its Balance”
His mother exhaled softly. “Looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”
“Or haunted,” said his sister from the front seat, grinning.
Their father chuckled. “That’s just fog, kiddo.”
Alistair didn’t smile. Something about this place felt… still. Like it was waiting for them.
⸻
Their new property was tucked deep into the woods, ten miles off the main road, beyond a twisting gravel track barely wide enough for the truck and trailer. The map had labeled the land as “formerly homesteaded farmland, now partially reclaimed.”
A sloped field ran down the western edge, wild with tall grasses and a long-fallen fence line. The house stood crooked but proud on a small rise, painted the color of washed-out denim. Its front porch sagged, the roof needed patching, and the windows had been boarded up — some out of caution, others out of necessity.
“Looks like it could fall down in a stiff wind,” Alistair muttered as they pulled in.
“Don’t say that,” his mom said, stepping out of the truck. She brushed her graying bangs out of her face. “It’s ours now.”
“It’s got… character,” his dad offered, eyeing the porch like it owed him money.
“It’s got ghosts,” Mira added. She was ten, fearless, and had been obsessed with haunted houses ever since seeing one episode of Ghost Seekers.
Alistair took a deep breath. Pine, damp soil, something wild in the air. No chemicals. No scorched earth. Already better than the farm they’d lost.
⸻
The barn stood farther back, half-swallowed by weeds and creeping ivy. Its red paint had faded to almost nothing. The roof had a visible sag, and the doors were slightly ajar, swaying with every breeze.
Alistair stepped inside.
Dust swirled in the golden light. Cobwebs clung to the rafters. Broken tack and rusted tools sat half-buried in the dirt floor. He ran his hand along a central beam, brushing off grime until a carved name revealed itself:
BRIGHT RIVER FARM
He stared at it, silent.
Whatever had happened here, whoever had named this place — it mattered. That name would stay.
⸻
That night, the family ate sandwiches by lantern light on the porch. Electricity hadn’t been restored yet, and the fireflies blinked lazily in the grass like stars that had fallen.
“Do you think the town’s going to be weird?” Mira asked, legs swinging off the step. “The realtor said Moon Lake has ‘unique traditions.’ That sounds suspicious.”
“Small towns always do,” their dad replied. “Probably a lot of town meetings and awkward festivals.”
“You just described every place we’ve ever lived,” their mom said with a smile. “We’ll figure it out.”
Alistair poked at his sandwich. “Do you think the school will have a riding program?”
His mom looked at him. “That would be nice. We didn’t have room for horses before, but here… maybe.”
“Don’t get your hopes up too fast,” his dad added. “We’ve got to clear that southern fence line before we even think about livestock.”
Alistair nodded. But still—this place felt right. The fields, the quiet, the distance. Like the land was waiting for something.
⸻
Later that night, long after his parents had retreated inside with maps and legal documents and Mira had passed out mid-sentence, Alistair stood in the barn doorway, looking up at the stars.
No streetlamps. No city noise. Just wind, pine, and the quiet rhythm of the night.
Something about this place felt… different.
Like it had a secret.