Echoes in the Blood Moon Wood
Gray clouds cover the old hills. The red moon hangs low, touching every tree with its strange light. Once a month, Thisle follows the path along the edge of town. She can’t help herself, can she? Don’t you wonder if you could do any better?
Thisle, pale and silent, is our lead. She’s sixteen, but no one remembers her birthday. Her mother vanished ten years ago. Since then, she’s been trying to unlock the knot her family made with the forest’s old curse. She wants three things: find her lost mother, end the sickness in her veins, and stop the woods from whispering her name at night.
Yut, her friend, walks with her tonight. He’s taller by a head, his arm always in a sling. Some say Yut was born part shadow, keen to keep out of sight and talk only when there’s reason. Their bond is odd—would you trust someone everyone else fears?
They both enter the forest, light from the moon making their skin look half alive. Roots twist underfoot. The place hums, not with voices, but the dark echo in your chest when you cross a place you should pass by. “We’re close, aren’t we?” Yut asks, breath foggy. “Stop talking,” hisses Thisle. She lifts a lantern, soft glow pushing back some of the gloom. “If they hear you, they remember you.” Does Yut listen, or does he push back his own fear?
As the wind dies, the trees thin, revealing a circle of stones. The ground underfoot has nowhere for light to hide. In the center stands a scarecrow wrapped in rags, bird skull for a head. Its long hands drip with red thread. The curse lives there. Half a life caught on every branch, every red-lipped leaf. Are you brave enough to walk up and touch it?
Thisle kneels. Yut keeps watch.
She pulls the glass phial from her pocket. The phial weighs little. But its burden isn’t so small. Inside is a needle-thin black worm, swirling in dark sap. “Mother put this here,” she says so light the words almost stall and die. “If it leaves, do I… stay?” Her hands shake as she leans in, ready to set the worm on the ground.
A howl rises—thin at first, loud as summer rain a second later. The scarecrow’s head twists. Two empty eyes, wide. The cords on its hands stretch for Yut and Thisle.
Does saving yourself mean you have to doom your friend? What would you do, knowing you have the cure, but only enough for you?
Yut screams, not for long—his shape changes, limbs grow longer, hair falls in clumps. He’s not just hiding in shadow now; the shadow is swallowing him. Thisle drops the phial, voice higher: “Don’t—please! Let him go—take me!” The cord-thing snaps toward her. Some things crawl toward you like a slow storm. Others leap—all fangs, no feet. Here’s a story with both.
The moon throws more red light down. The black worm between her fingers crawls along the earth and into the scarecrow: bone-white fingers snap in two. Some deal just snapped, too. Yut’s voice—more breath than words—floats over, thickening darkness.
Thisle looks at her shaking hands, still stained with thread. She hears the hush of her mother’s voice. Dark woods, thick with change. She shouts, but the trees don’t answer right away.
As dawn tries to break through, only Thisle stands over two shapes: the burning rags of the scarecrow, and Yut’s new, strange form—half boy, half gone. She must make a choice: return to town alone, or stay in blood moon wood for good?
We leave as the red sky thins, Thisle tracing both shapes with her fingers, new tears on her face. The wind whispers her name, soft as a mother’s hands. You don’t know if she’ll answer. Neither does she.
All these puzzles, all these woods… would you keep walking if it was you? Or would you turn back before it’s too late?
To be continued…
