The Sickly Blood Moon

The moon bled that night. A sickly red, it loomed over Lawler Manor as though the heavens themselves had opened a wound. The air carried the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—cloying, metallic. The estate, forgotten by the living, perched atop the blackened hills, its towers piercing the night like jagged teeth gnawing at the sky. A creeping mist slithered around its foundation, curling through the dead trees with the likeness of skeletal fingers. The villagers had long since abandoned the road that led to the house, whispering of monsters and mystery, of the lady in crimson that resided there—a specter, a goddess, a curse.