scifi – Anthology of the Unknown

A small town experiences strange disappearances every time the Blood Red Moon rises. Locals whisper of an ancient curse, warning outsiders to stay indoors when the sky turns crimson.

The townspeople of Ravenshollow had always feared the Blood Red Moon. Once every few decades, it appeared in the September sky, a deep crimson that bathed the town in eerie light. Legends spoke of shadows creeping through the streets and whispers drifting from the forests surrounding the town. People shuttered windows, barred doors, and prayed the night would pass without incident. Those who ventured outside never returned. The stories were dismissed by outsiders, but the town elders knew better. They whispered about a curse, ancient and unforgiving, tied to the moon’s bloodied hue, waiting to claim those foolish enough to ignore its warning.

It began centuries ago, when a stranger arrived in Ravenshollow during a Blood Red Moon. He carried a carved obsidian amulet and spoke of a pact with the heavens. Locals welcomed him with curiosity, unaware of the danger. That night, the moon rose crimson, and livestock were found slaughtered by morning. Villagers reported seeing shadows moving without source, and some claimed the stranger himself had vanished, leaving only a lingering dread. Since then, every Blood Red Moon brought the same phenomena: missing people, strange sounds in the woods, and glimpses of red-eyed figures lurking in the fog. Ravenshollow became a town that feared its own sky.

Children told stories of figures emerging from the treeline, tall, thin, and glowing faintly red in the moonlight. Their voices were silent, yet the terrified children heard whispers calling their names, echoing inside their skulls. Families locked themselves inside, avoiding windows. Windows that overlooked the forest were boarded up; doors were chained. The elders warned that the curse only chose those who dared to look, those drawn by curiosity or disbelief. Even animals would grow restless, barking or hissing into nothingness. The Blood Red Moon was not merely a celestial event—it was a warning. An observer of the sky could invite the curse into their home.

As the moon rose crimson, a low, rumbling sound could be heard, like the earth itself moaning. Windows shook and candle flames danced wildly. Shadows stretched impossibly long, moving against the wind. Some reported seeing figures with glowing eyes crossing the town square, though no footprints marked their path. Dogs howled, cats hissed, and some claimed to feel a weight pressing on their chests. Elders whispered that the curse was drawn to fear, feeding off panic, and growing stronger as the moon rose higher. Those who ignored the warnings risked more than their sanity—they risked vanishing entirely, swallowed by the crimson night.

One family, the Whitmores, lived on the edge of town, nearest the forest. On the night of the Blood Red Moon, Jonathan Whitmore dared to step outside to observe. His wife begged him not to, but curiosity overcame fear. As he gazed upward, the moon bled across the sky, painting the forest red. Shadows emerged instantly from the tree line, tall and fluid, drifting silently toward him. He stumbled backward, calling for his wife, but the shadows encircled him. By morning, the Whitmores’ home was empty. No trace of Jonathan remained, except his footprints stopping abruptly at the edge of the forest.

Over time, scholars attempted to debunk the curse, dismissing it as coincidence or superstition. They studied astronomical data, lunar cycles, and weather patterns, but each Blood Red Moon confirmed the town’s fears. Visitors who mocked the legend disappeared, leaving behind only shattered windows or overturned furniture. Those who survived the night spoke of visions that haunted them forever: glowing figures, whispers in dead languages, and eyes watching from the dark. Even photographs taken under the crimson moon revealed distorted shadows that did not exist in reality. Ravenshollow’s curse was persistent, patient, and tied directly to the red lunar glow.

The town’s history revealed a pattern: every thirty to forty years, during a September Blood Red Moon, disappearances peaked. Diaries from centuries past recounted entire families vanishing without trace, doors locked from the inside, windows intact, and no footprints outside. Survivors described hallucinations of people they loved, beckoning them toward the forest. The elders whispered that the moon awakened something ancient, something older than the town itself, which hungered for those who dared witness its crimson face. Fear became ritual: homes were sealed, streets emptied, and families huddled together, praying the moon’s curse would pass once more without taking its due.

A teenager named Lily, fascinated by the legend, ignored the warnings one September. She crept outside during the red lunar eclipse, smartphone in hand, determined to capture footage. The forest edge seemed to shimmer under the crimson light. Shadows moved unnaturally, twisting through the fog. A low whisper called her name, sending chills down her spine. Panic surged, but she could not turn away. A red-eyed figure emerged, floating toward her, veils trailing like smoke. Her camera recorded nothing but darkness, yet she felt its presence pressing against her mind. She screamed, and the world seemed to fold around her as she vanished.

The next morning, the town awoke to silence. Birds did not sing, and the wind held its breath. The forest seemed thicker, darker, as if watching. The Whitmore family, the teenagers, and the stranger from centuries ago—whoever defied the Blood Red Moon—left only traces of disturbance: footprints ending at the treeline, windows open, or objects missing. The elders held council, murmuring prayers that had been passed through generations. They warned children never to gaze upon the moon directly, never to step outside when the red glow touched the land. The curse demanded attention, and it would take what it wanted.

Photographs of the Blood Red Moon always reveal anomalies: a shadow with no source, a face in the clouds, or streaks of crimson that do not match light patterns. Scientists debate, locals know. Every red lunar eclipse confirms the warning: the moon is a harbinger, the curse manifesting in both physical and mental realms. Some speculate it is a spirit, some a demon, others a natural phenomenon twisted by fear over centuries. Whatever it is, it watches, waits, and punishes curiosity. The sky itself becomes a trap for those foolish enough to look, leaving their minds haunted long after the moon disappears.

One night, an outsider named Marcus ignored the elders. He climbed a hill to see the Blood Red Moon at its peak. The town below grew still, like holding its breath. Marcus snapped photos and laughed at the superstition, but the moment he gazed directly at the moon, the shadows stirred. Figures emerged from every dark corner of the forest, floating toward him. Whispers slithered through the air, words that formed in his mind, calling him by name. The crimson light washed over the hill, and Marcus vanished without a trace. The Blood Red Moon claimed him as it had countless others.

Stories spread of red-eyed figures in town long after the moon set. Survivors reported nightmares, visions, and hearing whispers in empty rooms. Those who had seen the moon’s crimson glow carried a sense of being watched, shadows following them through city streets and alleys. Attempts to rationalize the disappearances failed. Even cameras and recording devices malfunctioned under the moon’s crimson light. Some scholars suggested a psychic imprint, a resonance that drew victims toward the forest. Ravenshollow became a cautionary tale, a place where lunar fascination equaled danger. The Blood Red Moon was no ordinary eclipse—it was a predator cloaked in scarlet.

Elders recall a prophecy: when the Blood Red Moon rises, the town must stay vigilant. Families seal homes, forbid children from windows, and light candles to ward off the shadows. For centuries, these rituals reduced casualties, but never eliminated them. Outsiders who mock or ignore the tradition vanish first. Scholars who attempted to study the phenomenon reported extreme disorientation and sudden nausea during the eclipse. Many left the town, but the red moon left marks on their memory: whispers in empty streets, shadows in photographs, and a sense of dread that could not be rationalized.

The moon itself seems to pulse with intent, casting long shadows that twist and elongate. Animals refuse to move during the eclipse; dogs howl at the treeline, cats arch their backs in terror. The town remains silent, huddled indoors, waiting. Old timers whisper that the red lunar glow is a window, a portal for whatever ancient being haunts the forest surrounding Ravenshollow. Eyes appear in the darkness, waiting for those who venture out. Each disappearance reinforces the legend. Some claim that the Blood Red Moon can read minds, choosing victims not by sight alone, but by curiosity, disbelief, and fear.

The night ends with the moon sinking behind distant hills, blood-red fading into deep amber before disappearing entirely. Streets empty, the shadows retreat, and a fragile calm returns. Those who survived count themselves lucky, knowing others were not. The forest seems to breathe again, silent and patient, holding its secrets until the next crimson eclipse. Children cry themselves to sleep, elders bow in prayer, and the town holds its collective breath until the next Blood Red Moon rises. The curse is patient, eternal, and selective—waiting for those who cannot resist looking, learning, or wandering too close to the crimson glow.

Years pass, the story of the Blood Red Moon spreads beyond Ravenshollow. Tourists come, curious, eager to photograph the phenomenon. Few last until midnight. Most vanish, leaving nothing but footprints halting at the treeline or abandoned cameras. Survivors speak of whispers calling names, shadows stretching impossibly long, and figures floating in the forest. Legends warn: do not stare too long, do not leave your home, and never seek the crimson moon. Ravenshollow waits. The Blood Red Moon rises again and again, crimson in the sky, patient and hungry. Those who dare to watch may never return, and those who do return are forever changed.

In the older neighborhoods, there’s a story everyone knows but few repeat aloud. They say cats linger at thresholds for a reason. Landlords tell newcomers that pets act strangely in certain houses — meowing at closed doors, pacing the entryway, scratching to be let in or out without ever settling. At first, it feels like annoyance, a quirk of the animal. But the longer you live there, the more unsettling it becomes. The cats aren’t restless. They’re guarding. And if you ignore their vigilance long enough, you’ll notice something else: shadows moving when the doors are opened. Marta, a retired teacher, recalled her first encounter with the legend. Her cat, Dorian, would sit stubbornly in front of her bedroom door every night, tail twitching, ears angled toward the hall. Whenever she tried to coax him away, he hissed — something he had never done to her before. One evening, annoyed, Marta pushed him aside and closed the door. At three a.m., she awoke to scratching sounds on the inside of the door, though Dorian was curled on the bed beside her. She never spoke of what she saw when she opened it. Neighbors only remember she moved out.

Folklore scholars have long considered doorways liminal — places where boundaries blur. The old people in town believed each entry was a crack between worlds, too thin to hold back what pressed against it. Animals, especially cats, were said to sense the strain. They would guard the gaps instinctively, as though their very presence sealed the divide. It’s why, the elders say, homes without cats feel colder, emptier. There’s no one watching. Modern families laugh, insisting their pets just want outside. But sometimes laughter dies when the air chills suddenly at a half-open door and the cat refuses to cross. Years ago, a child vanished on Ashgrove Street. Witnesses recall she had been playing in the yard, her orange tabby darting around her feet. The child ran toward the porch door, cat at her heels. She stopped midway through, one foot in, one out. Neighbors swear the cat arched and yowled as if fighting something unseen. The girl laughed, tugging the animal forward. A moment later, both were gone. The door swung slowly shut, leaving the family screaming on the porch. Search parties found no trace. Some say the tabby still wanders, scratching at doorways but never crossing inside.

On Maple Avenue, there’s a crumbling boarding house that renters never stay in for long. Tenants describe cats from the neighborhood loitering there — sitting on stoops, blocking doorframes, staring inward with unblinking eyes. Visitors report the smell of mildew and the sound of dripping water, but it’s the cats that disturb them most. They gather silently, like sentries. People who lived there swear doors rattle at night, though windows remain still. One man claimed he saw a pale hand press through the crack beneath the kitchen door, only to vanish when the cats bolted upright and hissed in unison. Some families adopted traditions to ward off what might slip through. A dish of milk set by each doorway. Salt sprinkled in the hinges. Always keep at least one cat in the house, they said, and never scold it for scratching at the threshold. It was considered an insult to the guardian, a dangerous dismissal. In old diaries, there are records of people who refused to keep cats at all. Their homes were said to fall victim more quickly — filled with drafts, doors slamming without wind, and shapes glimpsed in mirrors. Those households rarely stayed occupied for long.

A traveling salesman once lodged in the town’s inn, scoffing at the stories. He had no pets, no patience for superstition. That night, the innkeeper’s cat stationed itself at his door. The man shoved it aside with his shoe, laughing as he closed the door behind him. Hours later, other guests awoke to his screams. They found him in the hallway, claw marks across his chest — not from an animal, but something sharper, thinner, as if carved with needles. He babbled about faces pressing through the wood, whispering his name. He left before dawn, never to return. It isn’t only front doors that matter. Bedrooms, closets, basements — all have thresholds. Cats know this. In one house, a family complained their kitten refused to cross the doorway into the basement. When they carried him down, he panicked, scratching to escape. Weeks later, their son reported seeing figures in the corner of the basement doorway, shapes darker than the dark itself. They thought it imagination, until one evening the father felt breath on his neck as he climbed the basement stairs. He turned, but nothing was there — except the kitten, crouched on the step, eyes wide.

There are rare nights when cats behave even more strangely. They’ll plant both front paws on the threshold and stand motionless, staring into the space beyond. Old folklore says this is when the barrier is thinnest, when something stronger presses against the door. A farmer once described his barn cats doing it together — six of them, shoulder to shoulder at the barn door, unmoving for hours. He thought they were staring at mice until he noticed the wood bowing inward, as though pressed by unseen weight. The next morning, the door bore long cracks, though no storm had passed. Records tell of a woman who lived alone near the edge of town. She had three cats and no visitors. When neighbors grew concerned after weeks of silence, they forced the door and entered. The house was empty. No furniture, no belongings, no woman. Only the cats remained, pacing door to door, tails puffed, as if still guarding. Some say the woman was taken through one of the thresholds she failed to respect. Others whisper she might have joined whatever lingers there. The cats eventually scattered, each claimed by other families — but every one still stalks their new doorways.

During a heavy winter storm, power went out across the district. Families huddled in the dark, fires burning low. One family noticed their tomcat pacing wildly at the front door, yowling. Annoyed, they tried to quiet him, even locking him in the pantry. Hours later, the front door creaked open by itself. Cold wind howled in — and something else followed. Footsteps in the hall, slow and dragging, though no one was there. The family fled into the night, barefoot in the snow. When neighbors entered days later, the house was deserted. Only the cat remained, guarding the door. Local legend speaks of an artist obsessed with capturing cats in his work. Every painting showed a feline crouched at a doorway, eyes luminous, bodies taut. When questioned, he explained he could see things others could not — figures pressing from the other side, faces crowding the frames of his doors. The cats, he said, were the only reason he still lived. One day, his home was found abandoned. The canvases were gone, torn from their frames. Only claw marks remained along the inside of the doors, as though something had finally gotten in, dragging him silently away.

Parents in the district still caution their children. “Don’t chase the cat if it lingers in the doorway,” they say. “Don’t drag it inside if it won’t come.” Some dismiss it as silly superstition. Yet accidents cluster around the children who ignore the advice. One girl vanished while playing hide and seek, last seen near her grandmother’s porch door. Another boy swore something pulled his sister’s hair as she crossed a kitchen threshold. She was found trembling, eyes staring blankly, unable to speak again. The warnings remain simple, almost playful, but the weight behind them has never faded. A priest once spent the night in one of the afflicted houses, determined to disprove the folklore. He prayed at the doorway, sprinkling holy water, dismissing the cats that prowled nearby. At midnight, he described hearing whispers on the other side of the wood, voices imitating his own prayers but twisting the words. He reported shadows moving in the hall even as he stood alone. When dawn broke, he left the house pale and shaking. His sermons never mentioned thresholds again, but he adopted six cats at once, each one patrolling his rectory doors until the day he died.

It is said once each decade, the cats in the neighborhood gather on Ashgrove Street. Dozens appear, sitting in silence at every doorway, from corner store to abandoned house. People who have seen it describe a low vibration in the air, like countless wings brushing past. The cats remain still until dawn, then disperse without a sound. No one knows what presses against the thresholds on those nights, nor what the cats keep from entering. But residents lock their doors tightly, shutter windows, and pray. They know the guardians are working. And they dare not interfere with the vigil. Cats may seem capricious, impossible to please, but in this place their behavior carries weight. When they linger at a doorway, people wait with them. When they pace, households light candles and stay silent. Some scoff, but the older families nod knowingly, living long lives under feline watch. In this town, you don’t push a cat aside when it guards the door. You let it stand there as long as it wishes. For the unspoken belief is clear: without the watchers, something far worse would walk through.

Tag: scifi

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