On the night the moon turned red, the village of Valmire held its breath. It was not the soft hue of autumn sunsets, but a deep scarlet, almost black, as if the sky itself were bleeding. The elders whispered that the red moon foretold misfortune, a sign that the balance between the living and the shadows had been broken.
 
Léa, the last weaver in the village, looked up at the sky and shivered. Her fingers, usually dancing among the wool threads, froze. She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell—tales of how the red moon preceded disappearances, forgotten wars, or worse: the awakening of what should have remained asleep. In the nearby forest, the wolves howled, but that night, their song was different. It was no longer a call to the pack, but a lament, as if they, too, sensed the approach of an ancient threat.
 
The next day, the wells were found dry. Not a drop of water, not even the usual mud at the bottom of the buckets. The villagers gathered in the square, their pale faces illuminated by a strange light, as if filtered through a veil of blood. The mayor, a sturdy man with a usually firm gaze, trembled as he held the village’s old grimoire. « When the moon bleeds, the doors open », he read in a hoarse voice. No one knew which doors. No one wanted to know.
 
Then came the disappearances. First a child, then a shepherd, then old Martha, who knew every herb and root in the mountains by heart. Each time, a small black stone, smooth and cold, as if polished by invisible hands, was found near their bed or their last step.
 
Unable to stand idle, Léa followed the stones. They always led further, to the old abandoned tower at the edge of the forest, the one even hunters avoided. The stone walls, covered in moss, seemed to breathe. Inside, the air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, darker. In the center of the tower, a circle of black stones was arranged, and in its midst, a figure waited. It was neither man nor beast, but something in between, its eyes reflecting the reddish glow of the moon.
 
« You have come », the creature murmured in a voice that was not quite a voice. « They are all afraid. You seek. » Léa felt her heart pounding, but she did not run. « What have you taken from my village? » she asked, her voice steadier than she thought possible.
 
The creature smiled—or what passed for a smile on its twisted face—and placed a black stone in Léa’s palm. « Nothing that was not already mine. The red moon is a reminder. A pact was forgotten. » Léa clenched the stone. She knew, without being told, that the « price » was more than she could imagine. But she also knew she could not run.
 
That night, the moon turned white again. But Léa never returned.