Chilling tales for the restless night

The sisters of blood moon

In the heart of Victorian England, amid the fog-draped moors and ancient, creaking manors, lived a doctor named James Millbrook. James was a man of reason, dedicated to his profession and unmoved by superstition. Yet, one cold autumn morning, as the amber leaves fell from the trees, he received a letter that would take him far from the logic and certainty of his well-ordered life.

The letter was from his uncle, a wealthy and reclusive gentleman, who had long since retreated from London society to his sprawling estate in the countryside. The message was brief but urgent: his uncle was gravely ill, and James, as his only living relative, was to come at once.

Upon receiving the letter, James immediately set out for his uncle's estate. He had never been close to the man, but the call of family and duty was enough to draw him from the familiar streets of London. The journey took him deep into the wilds of the countryside, where the roads grew narrow and the air colder with each passing mile. The great house loomed ahead—a towering, ivy-covered mansion set against a backdrop of shadowy trees.

James arrived expecting to find his uncle bedridden, tended by servants, but to his surprise, the old man was not alone. He was attended by three young women—Annette, 19; Eloise, 23; and Jeanne, 25—all as striking as they were mysterious. Each had a beauty that was ethereal, but there was something unsettling about them. Their smiles were sharp, their eyes always watching, and their behavior—from the very start—was strange.

The girls, who were introduced as his uncle's wards, greeted James with mocking politeness. Annette, the youngest, often spoke in riddles, while Eloise, the middle sister, observed him with a cold detachment. Jeanne, the eldest, exuded a quiet authority that made James uneasy. He soon found himself the target of their constant pranks—salt in his soup, doors that mysteriously locked, shadows in the halls that seemed to move.

On his first night, he woke to find a dead duck placed at the foot of his bed, its feathers matted with blood. Horrified, he stormed down the grand staircase, shouting for the girls to stop their wicked games. The girls simply laughed, their voices echoing through the old stone walls. They seemed to delight in his discomfort.

Despite their cruel antics, James could not leave. His uncle's condition had worsened, and the old man, frail and pale, begged James to stay. He confided that he wished to make James his heir, to take care of the estate and watch over the three girls, whom he spoke of with a fondness James could not understand. The girls, however, had other plans.

James began to suspect there was something more sinister at work. His uncle's illness seemed to deepen at an unnatural rate, and the house itself felt like a prison. The walls closed in on him; the air was thick with unease. Every night, strange noises echoed through the halls—the sound of footsteps where no one should be, the whisper of wind through a window that had not been opened.

Then, one night, as the moon hung full and heavy in the sky, James saw something that chilled him to the bone. From his bedroom window, he spotted the three sisters in the distance, running across the fields that stretched beyond the manor. They were clad in white robes, their dark hair trailing behind them, each holding a flickering candle as they moved silently toward the old orchard. Their movements were swift and unnatural, as if they were gliding rather than running.

James felt an irresistible pull to follow them, his heart racing with both fear and curiosity. He slipped out of the house, his footsteps muffled by the damp grass, and trailed the sisters from a distance. As he approached the orchard, the scent of rotting apples filled the air, and the trees seemed to twist and bend in the moonlight, casting strange shadows on the ground.

In the center of the orchard, hidden among the twisted, ancient trees, stood a small, crooked wooden house. Faint light seeped through the cracks of its weathered boards, and from within came strange and ghastly sounds-chants, mingled with high-pitched screams and the unmistakable bleating of goats. James, against his better judgment, moved closer. His pulse quickened, and his hands trembled as he pushed the door ajar.

Inside, the scene that greeted him was grotesque beyond his worst nightmares. The three young women— those beautiful, yet unnatural creatures
—were huddled over a slaughtered goat, their mouths and hands slick with blood. They were naked, their bodies smeared with the crimson of their feast, and their eyes gleamed in the flickering candlelight that lined the small house.
Each side of the room was bathed in the glow of candles, casting a ghastly pallor over the scene.
They were feasting, devouring the raw flesh of the animal, their voices rising in unholy chants, twisted with the sound of cracking bones and bubbling laughter. James gasped, his heart seizing in his chest, unable to believe the horror before him.

His gasp caught their attention. All at once, the three women turned to him, their eyes gleaming like predators in the night. The air grew thick with an unnatural chill. Jeanne, the eldest, rose to her feet, her face a mask of twisted delight. James stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest as he fled from the house, his legs barely carrying him through the dark woods and back to the manor.

He ran inside, locking the door behind him, his body shaking with terror. He collapsed in his room, the vision of the bloodied women haunting his every thought.

He was too frightened to sleep, his mind racing with the realization of what they truly were— witches. The girls, with their beauty and charm, were nothing more than dark enchantresses, practicing their evil arts in the dead of night.

By morning, James was a shadow of himself, pale and shaken. He thought of fleeing the estate, escaping the clutches of the three witches. But just as the idea formed in his mind, Jeanne appeared before him as if summoned by his very thoughts.

"You shall not go anywhere until your work is finished." she said with a chilling face, her voice low and commanding. Her words were a warning, a spell. James felt his body stiffen with fear, realizing then that he was truly trapped.

From that moment on, his days became an endless nightmare. Every attempt to leave the house was futile. No matter how far he wandered, he would always find himself drawn back to the manor as if the house itself had a hold on him.
Sometimes, as he lay in bed, he would feel sharp, stinging pains like needles piercing his skin. He would writhe in agony, clutching at his arms, but there was never a mark to explain the pain.

It wasn't long before he discovered the source of his torment. The girls had crafted dolls in his likeness, each one made with strands of his hair. They used these effigies to hurt him, to bind him to their will. The more he struggled, the more they twisted the pins into the dolls, and the greater his suffering became.
Meanwhile, his uncle, once a robust man, had fallen into an even deeper state of decline. The old man lay bedridden, his eyes clouded with weakness, and his voice barely a whisper. James tried to care for him, but his own body was failing. He was a prisoner, both physically and mentally, and the house itself seemed to grow darker with each passing day.

Months passed, and James watched helplessly as his uncle's life slipped away. The old man's final breath left him pale and cold, and with his death came a cruel revelation: his uncle had left the entirety of his vast fortune to James. Yet, the girls had other plans.
In his weakened state, James was powerless against their manipulations.
They forced his trembling hand to sign away the estate, the lands, and all the wealth to their names. He was no longer a man, but a shell of his former self, controlled by their dark magic and bound to their will.

Each day, they tormented him.
Sometimes it was the pins and needles in his skin, other times it was the suffocating feeling of their presence looming over him, watching his every move, waiting for him to break completely. His health deteriorated rapidly, his once sharp mind clouded by fear and despair.

The girls, those three witches, seemed to thrive on his suffering, feeding off his pain as they prepared for the final act.

At last, one dark, stormy night, James's frail body could take no more. He lay in his bed, weak and broken, the life slowly ebbing from him. The girls watched from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He took his final breath, the weight of their curse pulling him down into the cold grip of death.

And with that, everything-the estate, the wealth, the lands—was left to the three young women. They had won.
As James's soul slipped into the void, the girls danced once more. In the moonlit fields, they twirled in their white robes, candles in hand, their laughter echoing through the night.

The house was theirs, the power was theirs, and the fields where they danced would forever be marked by the shadows of their dark triumph.
The nightmare was over for James, but for the witches, their reign had just begun.