Author’s Note: This story is recommended for mature audiences and includes elements that may be triggering to some readers. Please take care if you are sensitive to any of the following: Threat of physical harm, reference to the death of a child, threat of physical harm of a child, emotional abuse, grief, fear, trauma, and gore.

Under the Blood Moon

I pluck a pain pill from the lipstick case in my purse and dry swallow before unpacking. As I place my weeks’ worth of clothes in the dresser — the owner was thoughtful and left the top drawers empty — I notice a missed call. The voicemail plays on speaker while I move around the softly lit bedroom.

“Hi, Ashley, it’s Damian, the owner of your Airbnb. Reaching out to let you know that things in Hobart should be quiet during your stay this week. I hope you get the chance to hike in the area. There’s a trail marked on the east side of the property that will take you directly to the hot springs. But heads up, they’re only open during the day. Lock the cabin door at all times — we think some black bears in the area have learned how to use doorknobs. Oh, and before you leave, run the dishwasher and take the trash out. Enjoy your stay!”

Moving to the kitchen, the fridge is stocked with all my favorite foods. No meat, just like I asked. I’ve been vegetarian for so long that the sight of it makes me queasy, so this is a rare special request. I prep a mug of tea and a hummus tomato sandwich and move to ‘my writing nook,’ as I’ve started calling it in my head.

Walking through the foyer earlier, I spied this cozy alcove. It’s perfect: Soft pillows, window seat, walls stacked with built-in bookshelves, and a padded papasan chair that looks big enough to live in. My dream space for writing, made real. Some fairy lights are strewn around the room, so I switch them on, making it feel extra magical.

Curtains along one wall attracts my attention. I pull them back to reveal a picture window featuring a gorgeous night sky with a full moon. I should keep the curtains closed, to write without the added distraction, but tie them back and slump into the papasan without bothering. I know myself well enough to know I’m too lazy to mess with them everyday while I’m here. It’s easier to just not touch them at all. Plus, the view is inspiring and it’s not like anyone is going to rock up and peep at me through the window. I’m surrounded by forest. The closest people are likely a mile or two away in the direction of that podunk town, Hobart.

Getting comfortable, I task myself with typing plot beats. I end up looking out the window more than I do my screen.

At one point, I realize I’m peering at a spot in the woods that appears brighter. I stare at it a moment. It doesn’t change or grow. It must be a campfire.

Damian didn’t mention anything about people camping in the area. But he did say the hot springs are only open in the day. I’m slightly miffed that strange people are close by when the main selling point of this cabin’s description promised me: “You’ll feel like you’re the last person on the planet while you’re here.”

I double-check the front door to regain a sense of control over the situation. It’s still locked.

Walking back to my nook, I’m determined to ignore outside so I start typing.

When I shake myself into focus what feels like hours later, the clock says it’s two o’clock in the morning. I chuckle, because that door lock check only happened a half hour ago. In that time, my leg has fallen asleep. But I can’t move. I can’t stop now. This is the first script I’ve attempted to write in the last nine months.

A knot forms in my throat and I censor my brain. The accident is over. Done with. It wasn’t my fault that he died. It’s okay. I’m okay. That’s not something I need to think about. My therapist was adamant that it’s not good for me to ruminate.

Actually, I should get up and move around to shake out of these thoughts.

The window attracts my attention again. That campfire is still lit. Judging the distance, it can’t be more than a quarter mile away.

If whoever is out there isn’t scared of bears, then neither am I. My mom always said my curiosity would kill me. I huff.

With no plan or thought, I throw on a coat, wrap a blue scarf around my neck, unlock the front door, and lock it again behind me. The key goes in my left pocket and I pat it as I walk eastward towards the trail to the springs.

It’s quiet and I shiver. No birds call or coyotes yowl. But thank the bloody gods the moon is full. It’s nearly as bright as daylight. The way the moonlight filters through the branches makes the path feel alive.

Walking at night in the middle of a forest wasn’t on my itinerary, but maybe it will inspire my screenplay.

After a while, I hear a clinking noise. Like coins clinking together, only more hollow. After a few more minutes, a static hum with a rhythm joins, baiting my ever-present curiosity. It’s like wind running through an empty tree trunk. The clinking and humming grows louder as I near where I think I saw that campfire.

Slinking over to a large oak, I glimpse around the rough bark. The innocent sound of clinking and humming morphs into the horror before me: The clinking of bones. The humming of lipless mouths.

Fear blooms in my gut as five fully animated human skeletons hum a song around a large fire.

They twirl and dance in their bare bones.

This is impossible. My brain must be awash with the surreality of dreams. I pinch myself. “Ouch,” I mouth. This isn’t a dream.

Their song follows a strange, repeating eight note tune. Each note hangs in the air for seconds. My brain bleats an alarm. I’m not supposed to be here. But my curiosity won’t be slaked until I find out what they’re doing first.

Before I get in too deep, I look around for something to defend myself against this paranormal nightmare. There aren’t any sticks or sharp objects at my feet.

I start to get flustered, then see a palm-sized rock by a nearby tree trunk and get on my hands and knees to reach it. The looming threat of animated skeletons distracts me from looking where I’m crawling, until my hand sinks into a mushy warm substance.

I’m not prepared for the abomination the moonlight exposes when I look down. Five boneless bodies in individual heaps. They’re open at the top. They look like discarded dirty clothes. Blood is draining from everywhere. Empty meat sacks.

This is my worst nightmare come to life. It looks like raw meat, only amplified by a million. I smell the rancid odor of death and retch.

It occurs to me that my mom’s assessment of my curiosity is likely to be proven right tonight if I don’t leave now. Whatever these monsters are doing here, I don’t need to see it.

Breathing through my mouth and doing my best to avoid the gore, I crawl a few more feet to grab the rock, just in case. The moment my hand closes around the smooth surface, two things happen: The luminous moon darkens, turning bright red and transforming the woods around me into something altogether more frightening. And the five skeletons stop humming and dancing. The sudden darkness and silence is menacing. My feet are frozen to the spot.

One skeleton steps forward, his two gold canine teeth glint in the firelight. “We begin. We come together under this Blood Moon to capture that revitalizing essence of youth. Bring forward the sacrifice for this Blood Moon.”

Two of the four skeletons walk into the dark tunnels that lead to the hot springs. A moment passes and they return from the darkness. They carry a struggling human child between them.

My vision tunnels. That poor boy can’t be more than eight. About the same age as Tyler Baumgarten was when my car crashed into his bicycle nine months ago. His curly, black hair resembles Tyler’s in the pictures the police showed me.

For a split-second, I think I see Tyler trembling, right there in front of me.

“Please! I want my mommy! Take me home!” Trembling wracks his heaving body. He’s crying so hard his eyes are swollen and his ears and nose are red from the frosty air.

The leader drones over the child’s heartbreaking pleas, “In reverence for your rare gifts, Blood Moon, we’ve removed our external selves to capture this child’s essence of youth. The blood of this sacrifice will grace our bones with your eternal youth and beauty.”

The two Minions move to tie the boy’s thin arms and legs to a grimly decorated stake.

Understanding dawns on me. Saving this boy is my only chance to make things right. The odds are against me, but one thing rides in my favor: They still don’t know I’m here.

The rock is a heavy weight in my hand. “Stop!” As I step forward, I raise the rock over my head and chuck it at one of the Minions holding the boy. I attribute my aim to adrenaline, because a massive hole appears in the Minion’s skull. A beat later, the Minion crumbles into a pile of dust.

All four remaining skeleton’s heads swing their sightless gazes my way.

Gold Canines points his finger, “Who are you? No one is permitted here at night. How dare you interrupt Casparian Society rites! Restrain her.”

Two skeletons catch me as I move toward the boy. They’re surprisingly strong as they restrain my wrists. Their skeletal grasps make my hands flare in pain. My responding scream jars them and they loosen their grips for a split second. Long enough for me to wretch free and protectively throw myself over the boy.

They grab my ankles while the last Minion continues to firmly hold the boy. He’s watching our tussle and hasn’t attached the boy to the stake.

Screaming worked before. So, I scream louder than ever, gathering strength from a place I never knew existed. Protecting the boy’s shoulders with my palms, I pull on his body. With the force of my yank, the Minion’s arms are pulled out of his shoulder sockets. In a blink, he turns to ash and bone.

It seems when these skeletons sustain enough damage, they can’t go back to their human bodies. They turn to dust.

Gold Canines and the other two appear shocked at the second skeleton disappearing. Did they know this happens if their skeletons are damaged?

They’re distracted and I have the boy in my arms. This is our chance to escape.

I get up and launch into a run while hoisting the boy onto my hip. He’s too big to be carried like this, but I’m past the point of thinking. I’m going to protect him and get us as far away as possible from those empty meat bags and their skeletons.

A skeleton gains on me and grabs onto my scarf, pulling on my throat. I sprint faster despite feeling like I’m choking. Struggling for breath, I look behind me. Gold Canines himself holds my scarf fringe in his bony clutch. His intent is written in those eyeless sockets. This must be the end. My breathing stalls and my vision crackles on the edges. The boy’s tiny fingers pull the other end of the scarf from around my neck, giving me access to inhale. Bones clatter. I look back to see what happened. Gold Canines must have run into a tree and sustained damage. All that is left is ash and dust.

My hands burn in pain. I’m using all my strength to grip the boy. I don’t know where the other two skeletons are or if they’re still chasing us, but I’m not slowing down until we get to the cabin.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t be scared.” Although the boy isn’t crying anymore, I keep repeating this mantra. My hip is sore and I’m dragging myself. I let the boy down so we can make better progress.

When it feels like we’re running uphill, I thank the bloody gods. “We’re almost safe.” I announce, more for myself than for him. I stick the key in the door’s lock and note that the key head is a skull. My stomach knots at the implication.

Barricading myself and the boy inside the cabin, a sense of safety overwhelms me. Then, my brain shorts out and everything goes black.

What must be hours later, I wake. The morning sun filters through the canopy of the oak tree outside the living room window. I’m lying on the foyer floor, still wearing my coat. My scarf is gone and my hands are in rictus with pain.

I frantically search for solid proof that last night’s events were real.

My eyes prick when I find his dark, curly head on a pillow on the couch. Sleeping peacefully. He’s pulled a throw blanket over his body, but the scratches and bruises peek through. He must have been cold, only dressed in his pajama shorts and t-shirt.

I don’t know who to call or how report this — more importantly, I’m going to have to figure out how to return this boy to his parents without suspicion.

With rigid fingers, I grab my phone from the papasan in my writing alcove and dial up Damian. It rings through to his voicemail. Lying comes easily.

“Hi Damian, it’s Ashley. There’s been a family emergency and I’ve been called back to LA. I’m sorry, but I have to cut my writing retreat short. I hope this doesn’t cause you any inconvenience. Thanks again, this is a beautiful cabin.”

As I hang up, a black book on the shelf next to me catches my attention. It has no cover or title on the outside binding, provoking my intrigue, so I slide the book into my hand.

CASPARIAN SOCIETY

My heart sinks. This is the name that Gold Canine’s mentioned last night. I find the red velvet ribbon marking a spot near the end of the book and open to that page. My eyes scan everything, snagging on:

BLOOD MOON RITUAL

Shed thy skins in the sacred and hallowed space on the hour of the Blood Moon. Only when the moon turns red shall ye begin the ceremony of sacrifice through restraint against the Stake of Exetia. Capture the sacrificial blood of youth in the Lunar Chalice. Bathe thy exposed bones in the blood of the sacrifice. And wrap again thy bones in thy familiar husks before the expiration of the Blood Moon.

Numbness settles. A gold photo frame on the shelf above snags my attention. The photo captures a gorgeous couple on a beach at sunset. This must be Damian and his girlfriend. His gold canine teeth glint in the dying sunlight.

I don’t run the dishwasher or take the trash out before I leave.