The Moon's Ominous Glow

The Hunter’s Moon hung fat and malevolent in the inky sky, casting a sickly, silver sheen over the dense woods. It was a spotlight on a stage of nightmares, and every shadow seemed to writhe with unseen menace. The air, crisp and cold, carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and something else… something metallic and final. Blood.

“Damn thing’s bright enough to read by,” Jack grumbled, kicking at a fallen branch. His breath plumed in front of him, a fleeting ghost in the spectral light. “Figures. Just when we need to be stealthy, the sky decides to play spotlight operator.”

I didn’t dignify his commentary with a response. My focus was on the ground, scanning the leaf litter with a practiced eye. The third victim, a man named Silas Croft, lay sprawled near a moss-covered boulder, his hunting rifle still clutched in a rigor-mortis grip. The killer had been efficient, brutal, and unnervingly clean, leaving nothing but the grim tableau.