The blood moon
1099 Words
The sun rose over Blackthorn Hill, but its warmth no longer touched Evelyn. She stood among the ruins of the manor, staring at the curling vines that now covered the scorched stones. The roses that had once been black now bloomed red—unnaturally red, the color of fresh blood.
Three nights had passed since she destroyed the Book of Thorns, and yet the dreams had returned. In each one, she stood beneath a crimson moon, surrounded by mirrors that whispered her name. When she woke, her palms were marked with tiny cuts, as though she’d touched something sharp in her sleep.
This morning, the cuts were bleeding.
Evelyn clenched her fists, watching her blood drip onto the soil. The earth drank it greedily, and from where the drops fell, thorns began to sprout. She stumbled back in horror.
“No…” she whispered. “Not again.”
But deep in her chest, something stirred—an ache, heavy and ancient. A memory that wasn’t hers whispered in her ear: “The heir must bloom.”
She turned and ran.
Down the hill, past the rusted gates, into the forest. But the trees twisted as she moved, their roots tangling, their branches clutching her hair and coat. The forest was changing with her, bending toward her will without permission. The curse hadn’t ended. It had taken root inside her.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
The wind answered—not in words, but in a voice. “We are one, Evelyn.”
Her knees buckled. Her vision blurred. For a moment, the world melted into red light and whispers. When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in the forest anymore.
She was back in Blackthorn Manor.
Except this time, it wasn’t a ruin.
The chandeliers glowed. The walls gleamed with velvet and gold. The air smelled of roses and smoke. Music drifted from somewhere above—a slow, haunting waltz.
Evelyn stood frozen. “No… this isn’t real.”
“You made it real,” came a voice behind her.
She turned.
The man—the one she’d freed—stood there again, though now his eyes were no longer warm or sorrowful. They burned the same crimson as the roses outside.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
He smiled faintly. “You called me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You accepted the blood. You burned the book, but you can’t erase a legacy written in flesh.”
Her throat tightened. “I destroyed it all.”
“You freed it,” he corrected. “You gave it back its heart.”
The room began to pulse—the chandeliers swaying as if breathing. Evelyn’s reflection shimmered in every glass surface, multiplying with each heartbeat. Some smiled, some wept, some whispered things she couldn’t quite hear.
She stumbled back. “What’s happening to me?”
“The same thing that happened to Isolde,” he said softly. “But you still have a choice.”
“What choice?”
“To embrace it—or to let it consume you.”
Her chest ached. The locket around her neck felt heavy, the silver searing hot. She opened it, half afraid. Inside, the two faces had changed again. Now it was hers… and his.
The man’s expression softened. “You see? The manor doesn’t forget its own.”
“I’m not yours,” she hissed.
He reached for her, but she stepped back. “Evelyn,” he said, his voice low. “The blood moon rises tonight. When it does, the curse will reach its end—one way or another. You can either let it take you, or you can rule it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what happens if I destroy it instead?”
He smiled sadly. “Then you destroy yourself.”
—
That night, the blood moon rose.
The sky burned red, casting the land in shadow and scarlet light. Evelyn stood on the broken balcony of Blackthorn Manor, the locket gleaming at her throat, the vines below writhing like living veins.
In the distance, the forest glowed faintly crimson. The air thrummed with power, ancient and hungry.
She could feel it—every heartbeat of the house, every whisper of its ghosts. Their energy flowed into her veins like fire. The ground beneath her feet cracked, and from the fissures, rose petals drifted upward like embers.
The man appeared beside her, silent as a thought. His presence made the air shimmer.
“It’s time,” he said.
Evelyn’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why me?”
“Because you are the last echo,” he said. “The final reflection. The curse can only end when the house has one soul left to mirror.”
She looked out at the glowing moon. “And if I break the mirror again?”
He shook his head. “There are no mirrors left. Only you.”
The truth settled over her like cold rain. She was the last vessel. The manor’s heart. The curse’s living shell.
She closed her eyes. “Then I end it from within.”
Before he could stop her, she reached into the locket and crushed it in her fist. The silver cut deep into her palm, blood spilling freely onto the balcony stones. The air screamed. The vines below erupted, curling toward her like serpents.
“Evelyn!” the man shouted, grabbing her shoulders. “Stop!”
But she didn’t. She let the blood flow, the pain rising into light. The moon blazed brighter, and the entire manor began to tremble, its walls shattering, its echoes crying out in fury.
Evelyn felt herself burning from the inside, her blood turning to flame. The voices screamed—Isolde’s, the man’s, a thousand more—all begging her to stop.
She opened her eyes. They glowed crimson-gold.
“I am the last echo,” she whispered. “And I choose silence.”
The light exploded.
—
When the dawn came, Blackthorn Manor was gone.
Where it had stood, there was only a field of roses—red, white, and gold—swaying gently in the morning wind. The air was quiet. Peaceful.
But if one listened closely, beneath the rustle of petals, there was still a faint melody. A piano’s last notes, fading slowly into silence.
At the center of the field stood a single mirror, half-buried in soil. In its reflection, a woman’s face smiled softly before vanishing like mist.
The curse was broken.
Or perhaps… finally complete.
- Writer
