The Town of Bogahill

Chapter Six: The Blood Moon Oath

The night after the feast was colder than any before. A heavy mist crawled through the cracks of the windows, filling the house with a damp chill that settled deep into Caroline’s bones. The torches outside had burned low, their smoke curling into the shape of black ribbons that swayed in the wind. The silence in Bogahill was not peace it was expectation. Something waited. Caroline sat by the window, her hands trembling as she clutched the locket Gerald had given her years ago. It used to bring her comfort a reminder of their early days together, the laughter, the dreams but now it felt like a weight, something foreign pressed against her heart. Her mind kept returning to the way he’d looked at her at the feast. Not with love. Not even with guilt. But with certainty, as if she was already gone. Unable to bear the stillness, she lit a lamp and began to walk through the house. The light cast long shadows that twisted across the walls like veins. Somewhere above her, the boards groaned as if someone or something was moving. She followed the sound up the narrow staircase and down the hallway that led to Gerald’s study, a place he’d forbidden her to enter. The door was locked, as always, but the key was still in his coat pocket downstairs. Her hands shook as she retrieved it. Every step back up the stairs felt heavier, her pulse thudding in her ears. When she finally turned the key, the door opened with a long, aching creak.The smell hit her first—iron, earth, and something far worse. The study was dimly lit by a single candle, melted down to a pool of wax. Papers were scattered across the desk, covered in strange markings drawn in dark ink. In the center of the room stood a wooden chest, its lid slightly ajar. Caroline hesitated, her breath shallow, then reached for it. Inside were bones. Small ones. Human. Some still wrapped in scraps of fabric that looked like they belonged to children. Her knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of the chest to keep from falling. Beneath the bones lay a book bound in rough leather, its cover stained dark. She opened it with trembling hands. Each page was filled with symbols and rituals words she couldn’t fully read, but the drawings told enough of the story. Diagrams of human bodies, circles marked with blood, and sketches of a figure standing over an altar beneath a blood-red moon. The handwriting was Gerald’s. As she turned another page, something slipped from between the sheets a photograph. It showed her family standing at the edge of the town square, but it wasn’t taken by her. In the background, behind them, the townsfolk stood in a circle, their eyes black and unblinking. On the back of the photo, scrawled in Gerald’s handwriting, were three words: “The offering comes home.” Her breath hitched. The room suddenly seemed to close in around her. She stumbled backward, knocking over the candle. The flame flared, throwing light across the far wall—and that’s when she saw it. Pinned to the wall were old newspaper clippings. Headlines yellowed with age:

“Family Disappears in Bogahill—No Remains Found.”

“Local Writer Survives Mysterious Tragedy—Only Child Left Unharmed.”

And below them, a photograph of a young Gerald standing in front of this very house, smiling faintly, his clothes spattered with something dark. A sound escaped her throat a strangled cry she didn’t recognize as her own. Her vision blurred with tears, and she staggered toward the desk. There, among the papers, she found a letter written in his familiar neat script.

My dearest Caroline,

Forgive me, for I have carried this burden alone for too long. The people of Bogahill saved me once, many years ago, when death had already taken my family. They offered me life a new beginning but the price was blood. Every generation, the one who returns must give back what was given. The town demands renewal, and it is my turn. The child you carry will seal the covenant. Through the bloodline, Bogahill will live and so will I.

Do not run, my love. There is no leaving this place. The town keeps what it is owed. The letter fell from her shaking hands. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, and the air seemed to pulse with whispers. She realized, with a hollow kind of clarity, that Gerald hadn’t just brought them here to visit he had brought them here to die. The floorboards creaked behind her. She froze. Slowly, she turned. Gerald stood in the doorway, his eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. He didn’t look surprised to see her there. He looked… relieved.

“I hoped you’d understand,” he said softly. “It’s better this way.” Her voice broke as she whispered, “What did you do, Gerald? What have you done?”

He stepped closer, the faintest smile touching his lips. “What I had to. What every man of this town must. Bogahill feeds us, shelters us, gives us life but it needs life in return. That’s how the balance is kept.”

Tears streamed down Caroline’s face. “You’re going to kill us. Your own children our baby.”“I’m not killing anyone,” he said gently. “I’m giving us eternity.”

She stumbled backward, the walls closing in, the whispers rising to a feverish hum. From the floorboards beneath her feet came a low vibration, like the heartbeat of something massive and ancient. Gerald reached for her hand, but she jerked away.

“You’ll see,” he whispered. “When the blood moon rises, it will all make sense.”

Caroline bolted past him, her heart hammering. She ran down the stairs, but the walls seemed to shift as she moved, the house changing shape around her. Behind her, Gerald’s calm voice echoed through the halls.

“You can’t run from what you are, Caroline. Bogahill doesn’t forget its own.”

She reached the front door, her trembling hands fumbling at the lock—but it wouldn’t turn. The metal was hot to the touch, burning her skin. She screamed, slamming her fists against the door, but it didn’t move. Outside, the blood moon climbed higher, casting its red glow across the town. And somewhere in the distance, the church bell began to toll slow and heavy announcing the hour of the offering.

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