Blood Moon
In the quiet village of Eldermoor, there was a legend of the Blood Moon—a night when the moon turned red, casting an eerie glow over the land. On this night, it was said that the spirits of the restless dead would rise, thirsting for revenge.
One autumn, as villagers prepared for the Blood Moon, strange things began to happen. Animals disappeared, crops wilted overnight, and eerie howls echoed through the hills. The villagers whispered in fear, wondering if this Blood Moon would be different.
When night fell, the moon rose, glowing deep crimson, illuminating the village with an unnatural light. Shadows stretched and danced across the ground, and a thick, cold mist rolled in, carrying the scent of decay. Then, the dead appeared.
They rose silently from their graves, their faces pale and eyes hollow, with a thirst for vengeance that could not be quenched. One by one, they crept through the village, silently entering the homes of those who had wronged them in life. Some villagers saw loved ones they had betrayed; others saw the faces of strangers with burning, accusing eyes.
In his home, the blacksmith Aaron heard soft footsteps and turned to find his long-dead brother, his skin rotting, his eyes glowing red in the moonlight. “You left me to die,” his brother’s hollow voice whispered. Aaron tried to scream, but his brother’s icy grip choked the breath from his lungs.
By morning, the village lay empty, save for a trail of blood-red mist that lingered in the streets. The Blood Moon had claimed its toll, and the restless spirits had returned to their graves, their vengeance satisfied… for now.
In the quiet village of Eldermoor, there was a legend of the Blood Moon—a night when the moon turned red, casting an eerie glow over the land. On this night, it was said that the spirits of the restless dead would rise, thirsting for revenge.
One autumn, as villagers prepared for the Blood Moon, strange things began to happen. Animals disappeared, crops wilted overnight, and eerie howls echoed through the hills. The villagers whispered in fear, wondering if this Blood Moon would be different.
When night fell, the moon rose, glowing deep crimson, illuminating the village with an unnatural light. Shadows stretched and danced across the ground, and a thick, cold mist rolled in, carrying the scent of decay. Then, the dead appeared.
They rose silently from their graves, their faces pale and eyes hollow, with a thirst for vengeance that could not be quenched. One by one, they crept through the village, silently entering the homes of those who had wronged them in life. Some villagers saw loved ones they had betrayed; others saw the faces of strangers with burning, accusing eyes.
In his home, the blacksmith Aaron heard soft footsteps and turned to find his long-dead brother, his skin rotting, his eyes glowing red in the moonlight. “You left me to die,” his brother’s hollow voice whispered. Aaron tried to scream, but his brother’s icy grip choked the breath from his lungs.
By morning, the village lay empty, save for a trail of blood-red mist that lingered in the streets. The Blood Moon had claimed its toll, and the restless spirits had returned to their graves, their vengeance satisfied… for now.
Blood Moon
In the quiet village of Eldermoor, there was a legend of the Blood Moon—a night when the moon turned red, casting an eerie glow over the land. On this night, it was said that the spirits of the restless dead would rise, thirsting for revenge.
One autumn, as villagers prepared for the Blood Moon, strange things began to happen. Animals disappeared, crops wilted overnight, and eerie howls echoed through the hills. The villagers whispered in fear, wondering if this Blood Moon would be different.
When night fell, the moon rose, glowing deep crimson, illuminating the village with an unnatural light. Shadows stretched and danced across the ground, and a thick, cold mist rolled in, carrying the scent of decay. Then, the dead appeared.
They rose silently from their graves, their faces pale and eyes hollow, with a thirst for vengeance that could not be quenched. One by one, they crept through the village, silently entering the homes of those who had wronged them in life. Some villagers saw loved ones they had betrayed; others saw the faces of strangers with burning, accusing eyes.
In his home, the blacksmith Aaron heard soft footsteps and turned to find his long-dead brother, his skin rotting, his eyes glowing red in the moonlight. “You left me to die,” his brother’s hollow voice whispered. Aaron tried to scream, but his brother’s icy grip choked the breath from his lungs.
By morning, the village lay empty, save for a trail of blood-red mist that lingered in the streets. The Blood Moon had claimed its toll, and the restless spirits had returned to their graves, their vengeance satisfied… for now.
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