Chapter 3: The Blood Moon
Chapter 3: The Blood Moon
The day of the full moon began with the sky cloaked in red.
Clara stepped out of the boarding house and looked up. A thick haze tinted everything crimson—the sun dim, the clouds heavy and low. It wasn’t just her imagination; even the air smelled metallic, like rust and wet iron.
“Blood sky,” Mrs. Whitlow said from the porch, clutching her shawl tighter. “Always comes before the blood moon.”
Clara paused at the foot of the steps. “Is that what it’s called?”
Mrs. Whitlow didn’t answer. She just turned and went inside, bolting the door behind her.
By noon, the streets were empty.
Shops that usually stayed open until dusk had darkened their windows and locked their doors. Even the diner was shuttered, a piece of paper taped to the glass: Closed for maintenance. Stay safe.
Clara walked in eerie silence, each footstep echoing down Main Street. The wind whispered again, not in words this time but in something more primal. A warning.
She found Liam by the town’s edge, standing near the forest’s mouth. His shoulders were tense, hands clenched at his sides.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” she said.
He nodded without looking at her. “The animals are gone. Not a bird, not a squirrel. Even the stray dogs disappeared last night.”
“Where do they go?”
“They know better than we do. They run.”
Clara hesitated. “What really happens tonight?”
Liam looked at her then, jaw tight. “It hunts.”
“The werewolf.”
He didn’t correct her.
“Liam,” she pressed, “you said your father used to warn you. What else did he say?”
He ran a hand through his hair, the scar on his cheek white against his skin. “That it doesn’t just kill. It chooses. Marks someone. And once you're marked, the curse follows.”
Clara felt a chill slide down her spine. “How does it choose?”
“I don’t know. But people who survive an encounter... change.”
As night fell, Clara prepared.
She’d spent the afternoon gathering what little information she could. Most of it was in Eleanor Hart’s journal. There were only fragments left, but some things were clear:
The creature appeared with every full moon.
It always attacked someone from the village.
And there were rumors hushed and denied that the beast might be someone from Black Hollow.
She loaded her flashlight, grabbed the journal, and tucked a small silver letter opener into her coat pocket. It wasn’t much, but it made her feel less helpless.
The town was already locking itself in when she stepped outside. Lights went off behind drawn curtains. Bolts clicked into place.
Clara made her way toward the forest.
And waited.
The moon rose slow and terrible, a glowing red coin in the sky.
The wind died. The night grew so still she could hear the crunch of her own breath. Then, far off in the woods.
A howl.
Low. Deep. Not canine.
It was followed by silence, then the snap of branches, and something moving fast.
Clara ducked behind a tree, heart pounding. Her breath puffed in sharp clouds. The forest seemed to pulse around her, the shadows alive.
Another sound closer now.
A growl.
She turned slowly and saw it.
Tall. Nearly eight feet. Shaggy black fur. Long limbs too human to be an animal, too monstrous to be a man. Eyes like burning coals. And blood—fresh blood dripping from its claws.
Clara didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The beast tilted its head, sniffing the air.
“Clara… Clara... Clara...”
The whisper echoed again not from its mouth, but from the space around it. As if the very forest spoke her name.
She ran and keep running.
Branches clawed at her arms. The flashlight swung wildly, useless. Behind her, the crashing of underbrush, the low snarls growing louder.
She reached a ridge and stumbled down the slope, landing hard on her side. The journal flew from her coat and slid into the darkness.
She scrambled to her feet, only to find herself at the edge of a clearing ringed in old stones, half-swallowed by moss. In the center stood something ancient: a tree blackened by lightning, split down the middle, yet still standing.
The howling stopped.
Clara turned slowly, expecting the beast to pounce but it wasn’t there.
Instead, Liam stepped into the clearing.
His face was pale. Sweat gleamed on his brow. His shirt was torn near the collar, and a single deep scratch stretched across his shoulder.
“Hmm Liam?” Clara breathed.
“I told you not to follow the whispers,” he said hoarsely. “You know, I told you to leave town.”
“Was it you?” she asked, horrified. “Were you the”
“No,” he said sharply. “But I’ve seen it. Too many times.”
Clara’s voice trembled. “Then why are you out here?”
“Because it’s not done yet,” he said. “It’s hunting. And it’s looking for you.”
She took a step back, then froze. From behind Liam, the beast emerged.
Closer now. Snarling. Drool dripping from its fangs.
“Liam” she warned.
“I see it,” he said, not turning. “Run.”
“I’m not leaving you! Never!”
“Then what are you waiting for... hide, hide!” he shouted, shoving her toward the tree.
Clara ducked into the blackened hollow as the werewolf lunged. She saw Liam raise a silver blade larger than hers and strike. The creature shrieked, a high, keening sound that made her ears ring.
But then came the thud of bodies, the crunch of bone, and Liam’s cry of pain. Really in Pain.
Clara peeked out. The creature was gone.
Liam lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
She rushed to him, pressing her hands to his side. “No no no no, I'm begging you, please stay with me”
His eyes fluttered. “Hmmmm... Did I… get it?”
“Yes,” she lied. “You did.”
But even as the silence stretched out around her, a faint sound reached her ears from far off in the distance. She heard it again.
The howl.
Unharmed, yet still hunted.
And it wasn’t just any scent—it was her scent.