The Death of Poe: The Blood Moon

The moon rose - low and red in the night sky. The Blood Moon.

Mercy rose from her bed as if lifted by an unseen force. Her eyes were open but unseeing. She moved through the house like a fog rolling in from the sea: silent and shifting.

She stepped out into the garden barefoot, the wind pressing her nightgown flat against her form. The gate to the forest was already open.

And she walked through it.

The woods were glowing with soft moonlight.

Every leaf glowed rust-red. Every branch seemed to bend to her. The path she took was not one she knew - yet her body followed it perfectly, as though it had always been hers.

And he was waiting.

He stood beneath the old yew tree.

Not quite a shadow. Not fully man.