The small village of Eldridge lay nestled in the heart of the British countryside, a place replete with charm and serenity. Its rooftops, steeped in thatching, glistened in the sun’s warm embrace, and white walls creaked in time with the whispering winds. Yet, there hung about Eldridge a strange sense of otherness, a persistent feeling that the ground beneath its cobbled streets had absorbed centuries of woe. The villagers often exchanged wary glances as the sun dipped low, painting the sky blood-red, heralding the rise of the notorious Blood Moon.
To the uninformed, the Blood Moon was but a natural phenomenon, an eerie celestial event marked by an unusually deep red hue as the earth’s shadow cloaked the full moon. However, for the villagers, it heralded the return of something much more sinister—a tale spun from the threads of folklore that told of the Riven family, long dead but never truly gone.
The Riven estate, nestled at the outskirts of Eldridge, had a standing graveyard of whispers surrounding it, entangled in history and dark secrets. It was said that on nights when the Blood Moon ascended, the spirits of the Riven family would rise, seeking vengeance for wrongs that could never be righted. Not a single villager dared to transgress the estate’s boundaries during such nights, for fear of awakening the wrath of spirits that had remained dormant for far too long.
Amidst this backdrop of tension, a new family moved into Eldridge—the Wilkins. Thomas Wilkins, a university lecturer in folklore, had grown enthralled by the tales told during his visits to the village. He saw the allure of Eldridge as the perfect subject for his research. His wife, Margaret, was more pragmatic, dismissing the stories as quaint superstitions, whilst their daughter Emily, a bright-eyed girl of ten, instinctively felt the haunted air around the place like a moth circling a flame.
The Wilkins settled in an old, creaking cottage less than a mile from the Riven estate, and the villagers watched them with a wary interest. Unlike many before them, who had glossed over the pervasive tales, Thomas had taken his family for a tour of the estate, eager to uncover the truths hidden in the heart of Eldridge’s folklore. He dismissed the villagers’ warnings as mere exaggerations of myth.
As the days grew into weeks, shadows danced longer at dusk. The village’s inner clock seemed to pause when the Blood Moon approached. Ultimately, the fateful night arrived, draping Eldridge in a shroud of otherworldly stillness. The clouds parted, revealing the moon in all its crimson glory. A sense of foreboding enveloped the village, and the inhabitants locked themselves indoors, whispering prayers to ward off the spirits, whilst the Wilkins appeared blissfully ignorant of the omens surrounding them.
That night, Thomas’s fervour for folklore outweighed his sensibility. Despite Margaret’s lingering apprehensions and Emily’s restless whispers echoing cautions of the moonlit night, he suggested they venture to the Riven estate to witness the legendary event.
Together, they walked beneath the ominous sky, cautiously making their way through the gnarled pathways that led to the decaying estate. The air was heavy, brimming with tension as if unseen eyes tracked their every move. The ancient mansion loomed into view, silhouetted against the eerie glow of the moon. Thomas could almost feel the excitement thrumming through his veins—this was what he had been searching for.
As they crossed the threshold, the door groaned open as if inviting them into its depths. Broken furniture and dust-laden artwork lined the walls, remnants of an era long past. Shadows flickered at the periphery of Thomas’s vision, but he dismissed them—his logical mind had too tightly anchored him to reality.
Margaret shivered, pulling Emily closer. “Let’s just have a quick look and leave,” she urged, unease seeping into her tone as candles flickered to life around them, illuminating ancient relics that seemed to sway with a life of their own. The stories had said that the Riven progeny thrived on the Blood Moon’s power, but Thomas was indifferent.
As they stepped further into the hall, a low growl echoed from the depths. The air thickened, and Emily gripped her mother’s hand tighter. “Mummy, I don’t like this,” she whispered, staring into the darkness beyond.
“Just a stray animal,” Thomas replied, but his certainty had begun to crack under pressure. The shadows danced away from the light of the candles, retreating almost as if alive, and an inexplicable chill wrapped itself around the family like a deathly shawl.
When they reached the grand hall, they found the room frozen in time, adorned with cobwebs and dust but vibrantly alive under the moonlight. Suddenly, from the corner of the room, came a woman’s laughter, chilling in its sweetness, eliciting goosebumps along Emily’s delicate skin.
“Look!” she pointed, fixing her gaze upon a beautifully crafted mirror that seemed to ripple in the glow of the moonlight. A face formed in its depths, sorrowful yet full of fury, as if it longed to break free. An unearthly sensation washed over the room, a palpable energy that twisted and turned in their chests, shaking them to the core.
Thomas stood transfixed, capturing the moment in his mind almost like a painter before a masterpiece. He had come searching for answers—what was this spectre caught within the glass? “Can you see it?” he whispered, entranced by the visage.
Margaret’s heart raced, a primal instinct urging her to flee, yet she remained rooted beside her husband. “We need to leave,” she implored, but the haunting laughter echoed again, this time accompanied by the heavy thud of footsteps echoing from above.
That was when the lights flickered and went out, plunging them into darkness. Emily screamed, clutching her mother tightly as the air thickened with the scent of damp earth and decay. The laughter grew louder, now accompanied by a chorus of tortured voices crying out in anguish.
“Thomas!” Margaret’s voice rang out, panic seeping through. “Get us out of here!”
He spun around, the urgency of her words ripping him from his trance. They were not alone. An oppressive presence surrounded them, weaving in and out of shadows, and Thomas suddenly felt the weight of history pressing upon his shoulders.
From the darkness, figures began to form—the skeletal remains of the Riven family, their faces twisted in pain and anger. They were not mere apparitions but echoes of lives lost, echoes that hungered for recognition and respite from the pain of their demise.
“Foolish trespassers!” the woman in the mirror cried, her voice echoing eerily. “You have come to witness the blood of the innocent! You shall pay for your intrusion!”
Margaret stumbled forward, trying to shield Emily from the torrent of wrath emanating from the spirits. The spirits began to converge upon them, their eyes gleaming with an ethereal light, the moon’s glow reflecting the carnage of a long-forgotten massacre.
In that moment of terror, Thomas felt a surge of determination. “I won’t let you harm my family!” he shouted, his voice wavering but strong. He tore his eyes away from the mirror, focusing on the exit that now seemed so far removed. The spirits hesitated, a flicker of recognition washing over them. Did they see themselves echoed in their fears?
The night’s grip tightened as Emily clung desperately to her mother, confusion intermingling with terror. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas caught sight of a doorway ajar, almost beckoning them. “This way!” he cried, spurring them towards hope.
As they rushed toward the light, the spirits shrieked, the cry ripping through the void as if the very fabric of the mansion bled with their despair. The laughter transformed into a cacophony of fury, their once sorrowful expressions now grotesque masks of rage.
Running, the family broke free from the suffocating darkness. With a final push, they burst through the threshold and stumbled out into the crisp night air. They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, gasping for breath as the moon loomed above, casting a crimson gaze over Eldridge.
Behind them, the Riven estate shuddered, groaning as if it were breathing its last breath. The shadows twisted and turned, retreating into the bowels of the earth, their cries mingling with the wailing wind. The door of the estate slammed shut, sealing the restless spirits within once more.
Breathless and shaken, the Wilkins rose to their feet, a familial bond solidified by terror. The Blood Moon arched overhead, ever-watchful, a silent guardian of the secrets buried deep within Eldridge. They had faced the horror of a history that refused to die, but they had emerged—forever marked, yet free.
In that moment, the village slept once more, shrouded in an air of fragile peace, unaware of the darkness that was still lurking, waiting for the next rise of the Blood Moon.
