The Blood Moon Messenger

The blood moon evening drew the masses to the roofs and open fields. Families laid down blankets on grasslands, children pointed with wonder, and phones everywhere tried to trap the red light of the moon into wobbly snaps. Most came in the spirit of laughter, snacks, and amazement. But for Selena Marlowe, the withdrawn archivist of the city library, the evening held a completely different meaning.

For several weeks, she had been tormented by dreams: images of a red disk inscribed on parchment so yellowed it felt sandy, a voice in the dark calling out her name, and the feeling of being stalked—not by other people, but by time. She presumed they were stress dreams. She did spend her days wading through manuscripts, dust, and the creepy quiet of the Special Collections vault. But tonight, when the moon disappeared into darkness and then glowed an impossible hue of red, Selena realised that the dreams were a warning.

The library basement contained a book that had unsettled her for decades. Nobody knew the author, no catalogue entry existed, and one rainy morning it had turned up in a donation bin with no label on the package. Its leather binding was inscribed with a single, perfect circle stained the colour of dried blood. For generations, no scholar had been able to read it, though it was written in an alphabet which resembled several at once. Selena had it kept away, but her eyes constantly returned to it as though it were regarding her.

Her colleagues avoided the book. One went even as far as to tell her it was cursed, but his strained laughter revealed insincerity. Selena did not argue. She bore its weight in ways she could not grasp. It was patient. Waiting.

And as the eclipse reached its height, Selena couldn't resist. She left her apartment, tied her scarf around her throat tightly against the chill, and sprinted back to the empty library. The streets were deserted, with everyone else standing in open places to watch the sky. The library, however, was a graveyard. Her key creaked tightly in the lock, echoing through marble corridors as she descended into the archives.

Below-stairs, she pulled the book from its leather binding. Her breath fogged the air—unusual, since the room was usually heated for the preservation of it. The cover pulsed softly beneath her fingertips, as if a heartbeat.

As she opened it, the previously dry and blank pages shone with light. New text extended across the vellum, written in her own slanted hand.

"The messenger must rise."

Selena's heart pounded. She dropped the book, taking a step back, but the letters kept burning hotter. The words slid from the page, rolling in the air like smoke, until they formed a circle above the desk—the same circle she'd seen in her dreams. The library walls stretched out, shadows bending in unnatural ways, and the room was full of a chorus of whispers. It was not a voice, but hundreds gathering, speaking in tongues older than history herself.

She clasped the edge of the desk for support. "Who are you?" she panted. Her voice trembled, but the shadows spoke with unnatural unity: "We are bound. You are chosen."

The ring of light shrank, condensing to a single pinpoint that pierced directly into Selena's heart. She gasped, grasping her ribs, but there was no hurt—only this strange heat that infused her veins with purpose. In her head flashed images: civilisations rising and falling under veiled skies, messengers offering themselves to monarchs, wars resolved by cryptic words given at blood moons. Every generation, the eclipse chose a person. And now, for reasons she could not yet grasp, it had chosen her.

Her phone hummed in the lining of her jacket, yanking her briefly back into normal life. Twelve messages from friends and co-workers lit up the screen—red moon pictures, effusive captions, hashtags. It was all a show to them. But to Selena, it was an invitation.

The whispers hadn't stopped. They throbbed in her head, without sound: "Guard… Tell… The seal must not break…" She pressed her hands into her ears, but the voices were in. "Seal?" she bellowed aloud. "What seal? What do you want from me?"

Silence that followed was thicker than any reaction. The book pages rustled on their own, and then slammed shut. Selena stood rigid, the shock waves from the slam resonating throughout the room.

She wasn't alone. There was a muffled scuff from the rear of the archive. She spun toward the noise. She hadn't assumed it was anything, but then—a person moved in the dim light of the emergency lamps. A man in a gray coat stepped out, his face half-hidden by the rim of his hat.

"You opened it," he said. His voice was even, almost resigned.

Selena took a step back. "Who are you? How did you even get in?"

He didn't answer outright. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin bearing the same circle as the book's cover. "I was the last messenger," he breathed. "And now it's yours."

Selena's mouth felt parched. "Messenger of what?"

The man stood looking up at the sickly red light streaming in through the tall windows. His eyes were old for centuries. "Of things nobody wants to know. Of things too dangerous to speak. When the moon is blooded, the world is in equilibrium. And somebody has to say." He pressed the coin into her palm. It was fire cold, searing her hand with the circle's impression.

Selena wished to rebel, to turn her back on whatever fate this was. She had books to catalogue, a quiet life to return to. But in her heart, she already knew there was no turning back. The warmth in her chest—the second heartbeat—throbbed in agreement. She had been selected, whether she wanted it or not.

The man faced the shadows. "My time is up. The burden is yours now. Guard it well." Before she could question further, he moved back and disappeared into the shadows as if he had never appeared at all.

Selena clutched the coin. The whispers were quieter, but unrelenting. Her eyes went back to the book. The luminous words were no longer there. Its pages had yellowed and lay still, as if everything was fine. But the ache on her palm and the pounding in her chest told her otherwise.

She knew, with racing terror, that her existence as a noted archivist was at an end.

The blood moon had awakened something old. The eclipse was not merely a shadow of the Earth passing over the face of the moon. It was a key—a reminder of a vow carved centuries ago before her own time. And now Selena was its custodian.

Holding there in the stillness of the library, she called out into the silence: "What happens next?"

This time, there was no answer. Only the pale echo of her own terrified eyes staring back from the glass case, and the fading light of the blood moon pouring in through the high windows.

But Selena knew the silence was temporary. Whatever message the eclipse carried, it had only just begun.