Thomas's hands trembled, the wooden handle of the hammer slick with sweat. He stood before the church, the lingering echoes of the bell's toll vibrating in the air, while the villagers' faces appeared blurry and fearful under the light of the torches. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his voice: "I tell you, that was no ordinary wolf! It had human eyes, claws that could tear through tree trunks! Adrian, you saw it too, didn't you?"
He turned to look at Adrian, only to find him leaning against the old oak tree, his gaze fixed on his left arm. Adrian said nothing, merely nodding, his face as pale as a wheat field bathed in moonlight. Thomas furrowed his brow, a wave of unease rising within him, but there was no time for further thought—the crowd was in uproar.
"The Moonchild! The Moonchild has returned!" an old woman shrieked, her fingers crossing her chest, her voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind. Her linen headscarf had slipped to one side, revealing her graying hair.
"Nonsense!" Village elder Martin, leaning heavily on his cane, struck the ground with it, the dull thud of wood against stone silencing the clamor. "Just a hungry wolf, nothing more. You young ones are always making a fuss. Thomas, have you had too much of the barley wine?"
"I haven't drunk anything!" Thomas retorted, his voice hoarse, swinging the hammer so violently that it nearly struck a nearby barrel. "I saw it with my own eyes, Martin! That thing nearly tore Adrian apart! If you don't believe me, go to Blackmoon Forest—there are still claw marks on the trees!"
For a moment, the crowd fell silent, but soon murmurs surged like a rising tide. A few burly men began to flex their arms, gripping sickles and pitchforks, shouting to search the forest. A small boy, hiding behind his mother's skirts, asked in a hushed voice, "Will the Moonchild eat people?" His mother quickly covered his mouth and shot Thomas a fierce glare.
Thomas breathed heavily, beads of sweat sliding into his eyes, stinging painfully. He glanced at the church, its crude stone structure appearing grim in the twilight. The wooden carving on the door—an angel wielding a spear—cast a distorted shadow in the flickering firelight. Suddenly, he remembered the stories the elders used to tell: that Blackmoon Forest was home to monsters cursed by the gods, and that every full moon, they would emerge to hunt. He had always thought them to be mere bedtime tales, but now, those blood-red eyes haunted his mind, unshakable.
"Thomas, stop trying to scare people." A familiar voice came from behind the crowd—it was Hans, the blacksmith. He pushed his way forward, holding a freshly forged horseshoe. "If there were truly a werewolf, the Church would have sent someone by now. Don't forget, we slaughtered that wild boar just last month."
"That's different!" Thomas argued, his voice rasping. "A wild boar doesn't stare at you like... like it's trying to talk to you."
At his words, the crowd stirred once more. Several women began to whisper prayers, crossing themselves and murmuring "God protect us." Thomas's frustration grew; he didn't want to scare anyone, he just needed them to understand that this creature was something they couldn't handle. He looked to Adrian, hoping for support, but Adrian merely kept his head lowered, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the hilt of his knife, lost in some distant thought.
"Enough!" Elder Martin struck his cane against the ground once again, his tone laced with irritation. "Everyone disperse! It's getting dark, and no one is going into the forest to die. At dawn, I'll send people to check. If it's a wolf, we'll set up more traps. Thomas, you and Adrian go home and stop causing trouble."
The crowd slowly began to disperse, but the whispers continued unabated. Thomas watched as the villagers trickled back to their cottages, the light of the torches flickering along the muddy paths. A deep frustration gnawed at him. He turned to Adrian and murmured, "Why aren't you speaking? You know this better than I do."
Adrian lifted his head, his expression distant. His left arm was wrapped in bloodstained cloth, but curiously, no fresh blood seeped through the bandages. "I'm tired, Thomas," he said softly, his voice heavy with weariness. "Let's go home."
Thomas opened his mouth to argue, but instead, he sighed and patted Adrian's shoulder. He grabbed his hammer and walked toward his cottage. The cold night wind cut through him, but he couldn't help but glance back at the direction of Blackmoon Forest. The moon hung low in the sky, round like a polished silver coin, casting its pale light upon the forest's edge, as though tracing some faint outline.
Thomas's cottage was not far from the church, a humble dwelling of mud bricks and thatched roof. Inside, a wooden table, a chair, and a rusted iron stove were all that filled the space. He pushed the door open, dropped the hammer, and lit the fire in the stove. The flames leapt, casting dancing shadows on the walls. He removed his leather apron and hung it on a peg before sinking heavily into the chair, staring blankly at the fire.
Those eyes… the more he thought about them, the more something felt wrong. They weren't the eyes of a beast, too calm, too deep, as if they belonged to a person, filled with anger. He grabbed the water jug on the table and took a large gulp, but it did nothing to ease the unease gnawing at him. He stood up and walked to the window, pushing open the wooden shutter. The moonlight poured in, illuminating his soot-streaked hands. He suddenly felt that the moonlight was colder than usual, as if it were staring directly at him.
"God protect us," he whispered, crossing himself. His mother had taught him to say this whenever fear gripped him. But tonight, the words felt hollow. He closed the window and returned to the stove, but try as he might, he couldn't settle.
Meanwhile, Adrian had returned to his home on the other side of the village. His house, larger than Thomas's, had been left to him by his father. Deer hides hung from the wooden walls, and hunting gear was piled in the corner. He closed the door, bolted it shut, and without a word, walked to the table and lit the oil lamp. The dim light revealed his face, beads of sweat dotting his forehead, his complexion even paler than usual.
He unwrapped the bandages on his left arm and looked down at the wound. It was still gruesome, the flesh torn open to reveal dark red muscle beneath, but strangely, the blood had stopped flowing entirely. He pressed a finger gently against it; the sharp pain was still there, but it was much lighter than before. A chill of inexplicable fear rose within him—this wasn't right, it was far from normal.
A breeze rustled outside, as though something had brushed past the house. He jerked his head up, grabbed his knife, and walked to the window. The wooden shutters were tight, but he cracked them open a little and peered outside. The yard was empty, save for a few leaves being stirred by the wind. He exhaled in relief, ready to close the window, when suddenly he froze—the shadow in the corner of the yard seemed to move.
He held his breath, squinting his eyes to see more clearly. The shadow was indistinct, like a crouching beast, or perhaps a person bent over. His grip tightened on the knife as he opened the window wider. But just then, the shadow vanished, swallowed by the moonlight. He rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, the yard was calm once more.
"Goddamn it," he muttered under his breath, closing the window and returning to the table. His heart was racing, and his fingers idly stroked the hilt of the knife. He grabbed the bandages and rewrapped the wound, but the unease in his chest only grew stronger. He looked up at the moon, now high in the sky, its bright, unblinking eye glaring down at him. He suddenly remembered Thomas's words: "It had human eyes."
Village elder Martin, leaning on his cane, slowly made his way back to his house. He muttered to himself about the foolishness of the young, unaware that, in the shadows of the church, a gaunt figure was watching him. Cloaked in a tattered robe, the figure's face hidden beneath a hood, she gripped a crooked wooden staff. It was Mathilda, the village witch, a woman no one dared approach.
She looked up at the moon, murmuring, "The Moonchild... has returned." Her voice was raspy, like dry leaves scraping against the earth. She turned toward Adrian's house, her eyes flickering with something complex.
The night deepened, and the village fell into silence, save for the wind and the occasional bark of a dog. Moonlight bathed Blackmoon Forest, casting a shadowy net over the cursed land. Deep within the forest, a pair of blood-red eyes slowly opened, watching the village intently.