The Bleeding Moon Bazaar

The full gleaming moon shone its gentle beams across the cobbled brick street. Silver drops of water, which clung to the rough stone, glimmered under the pale light like scattered diamonds. A cold wind cast its breath through the deathly silent city; it whispered past the shut doors and locked windows of the dark houses. The breeze glided through the crumbled walls of the old, decrepit castle in the center of the city, perched in such a stately manner - proud and elegant despite the decaying stone walls - enveloped in a gloomy aura which clung to each and every brick with a dull desperation. 

Tucked behind the thick, splintered wood door, which hung in the entrance of the castle, adorned with rusted iron bars and inlaid with stained metals that had once been considered priceless, was a wide hall. Perhaps it had once been a chamber in which a king would have heard the pleas of his citizens, as he sat with dignity upon the elevated dais in a throne of gold. However, any remnants of such status were long lost to the decay of time. Shattered glass windows adorned the long, crumbling stone walls; the fallen pieces of glass strewn beside decaying silk drapes which lay piled around the bases of the pillars which they had once hung upon, long devoid of their colorful embellishments.

On any average night, even one where the moon hung round and plump in the dark sky, the castle chamber would lay as quiet and as empty as a graveyard. Not even the scratching of an occasional rodent or bird as their claws and nails scraped against stone would ever be heard in the vast chamber. However, on the ever so rare night, when the moon’s silver gentle light might become stained with red, and the spinning hand on the clock strikes upon the twelve; perhaps then the chamber might begin to change. 

The tick of the wood grandfather clock, which lies upon the dais, continues to sound despite the thick dust which cloaks its gears, and the brown caustic rust tainting the aged metal. Every midnight a single chime echoes from inside, and if that night might be one in which the beautiful full moon is corroded in red, a phenomenon quite unknown might occur in the depths of the decrepit castle. No mortal has yet to see this strikingly rare occurrence, but tonight a young female strode into the ghostly hall as the hand of the clock struck the mark, just a minute before twelve. 

The leather soles of her shoes padded so softly upon the stone that not a whisper of sound was made. Silken black hair drapes across her graceful, thin figure as she approached the ticking clock, the faint white light of the moon caressing her body in a gentle touch. Her long stride brings her forth to the base of the dais; the clock ticks further, a second before twelve. The sudden chime of the clock, a resonant, vibrating sound, passes through the echoing chamber. As if cued by some mystical force, the pure moonlight began to shift, wreaths of red light consumed the silver as the clock let sound its twelfth toll. 

The curling tendrils of red moonlight streamed through the shattered glass windows, however instead of simply casting down their light upon the floor, they began to swirl in woven patterns across the stone. In a sudden flourish of elegance, the tendrils of light rose up, twisting into one another. Some beams wove into elegantly embellished cloths which lay across the stone floor in carpets, or hung themselves upon newly created poles and support beams to form a style of market stall, the type which might be found in some ancient Egyptian market or trade city. From the pale remnants of light, which lingered upon the floor, rose up skeletal forms of humans. The moonlight wrapped around the figures, forming muscle, skin and eventually clothes, forming half transparent, ghostly men. The girl stood in awe by the ancient grandfather clock as the beautiful moonlight marketplace began bustling with the activity of the ghostly men and women. 

Shivers of wonder and fear scurried up the girl’s spine as she took a cautious step towards the supernatural market. The quiet mutterings and whispers which flowed from the mouths of the ghosts instead of words filled the vast hall in an elegant chorus of complex communication. As she walked the red moonlit path, a young boy, pale and transparent, darted past her, disappearing into the crowd of spectral merchants. The girl paused before a tall red stall which seemed larger and perhaps more important than the rest. The drapes carried with them the most elegant illustrations of ancient writing and patterns, and the man seated within the stall bore proper and intricate clothing upon his frame. 

“A mortal visitor?” His raspy voice echoed, piercing through the faint murmurs of the other ghosts. “What a rarity this is indeed. And what treasure might you be searching for, young miss?” 

“What wares do you sell? Perhaps one will spark my interest,” the girl spoke back, meeting the man’s eyes with a daring gaze of her own. 

The man cackled with glee, pleased at her flippant response. “We sell any ware you want. The price is really what you should be looking at, Miss.” 

“The price?” The girl asked. Behind her, the great grandfather clock had continued ticking ever onward, the hand the halfway mark between the twelve and the one.

“Young miss, you have no idea what ghostly land you have stumbled upon, do you?” The merchant grinned, red moonlight lips pulling apart in a wide smile. “Welcome to the Bleeding Moon Bazaar, Miss. A most fantastical, supernatural place beyond the far edges of your wildest dreams. Anything you might desire can be found tucked in the moonlight of these elegant stalls, hidden in the minds of these ghostly merchants. My name is Bezel, and I am the one who shall fetch you the wares you desire. For the right price of course.” The man tucked his left arm behind his back, and with an elegant flourish of his right arm, he leaned forward into a deep bow as if officially welcoming the young lady into the bazaar. 

“I know what this place is, I am not here by accident.” The girl hissed in annoyance, taking a step closer to Bezel. Behind her, the hand of the clock finally struck the thirty, the midway between the twelve and one. “If you sell any ware, then what might be the price for the Ferryman to return to me what I have lost.”

“Ahhh, the true depths of your desire indeed. The price for that, my dear lady, is none other than the spark which lights the abyssal depth within your chest. The book of character, tucked away in your library stacked full of knowledge and theorems. Your ledger, drenched in red I shall claim in return for the Ferryman’s deliverance.” The merchant slipped his red, incorporeal hand within his robe, and in a dramatic, graceful gesture, revealed a simple scroll, composed of thin white moonlight, untarnished by the red which had claimed every other glimmer of light in the grand hall. 

“Very well, a fair price and one I am willing to pay.” The girl’s face paled a shade, but her determined gaze remained engraved in her eyes. Behind her, the great grandfather clock ticked closer to the one, its hand moving in a steady rhythm.

“In truth to the name of the bazaar indeed, affirm the agreement with the crimson seal and the deal is done.” The merchant held the silvery scroll of paper out to the young woman, alongside a silver knife, engraved with the most stunning gold embellishments, which he had produced from a pocket, deep within his garb. 

The girl reached forth and accepted the knife and scroll with only a moment of hesitation. She pressed the sharp edge of the silver metal to her skin, the cool blade against her warm, smooth skin. A swift movement and a line was drawn across her wrist, crimson blood welling from the crevice created by the knife. She held her arm above the scroll, drops of thick red falling like rain upon the pure moonlight. Every drop spread like ink on paper, tainting every speck of moonlight around it until the scroll was wreathed in red. 

“The deal is done.” A wide grin split the spectral merchant’s face. Edges of malice, perhaps, swirled around the smile, hiding in the corners and curves of his face. Even if the young lady had noticed the malevolent glint in his eyes, it was far too late. A single resonant chime sounded from the grandfather clock as the hand struck upon the one. The echo of the rich tolling of the bell echoed through the chamber, and as the sound faded, if one were to enter the hall, no bazaar would remain to be seen. No ghostly red stalls would line the chamber, nor spectral men, whispering their barters to one another in the unknown language of the moon. The red taint of the moonlight was gone, as quick as the bazaar, and nothing but pure silver light leaked through the shattered windows. And just the same would the young, silken haired girl disappear, along with the red stained scroll and the kind merchant Bezel, until the next traveler stepped foot in the hall. Lured by the enticing rumor of the Bleeding Moon Bazaar, the place which held everything one could desire. And perhaps the traveler might, unbeknownst to them, pass beside the young miss, ghostly and pale, as they made their way to the tall, central stall. The one with the drapes which bore elegant illustrations of ancient writing and patterns, and the merchant, dressed in proper and intricate clothing, seated inside, with a silver knife and scroll tucked deep within his garb.