Chapter 7: Blood Moon Truths

The night of the eclipse arrived not with a sense of resolution, but with the atmosphere of a bizarre, small-town festival.

Our “private, mystical ritual” had, through the relentless engine of Cedar Hollow gossip, morphed into a community event. By the time my parents, Holloway, and an incredibly reluctant Principal Hendricks escorted us onto the football field, half the town was already there.

Folding chairs and picnic blankets dotted the track. Concession stands, normally reserved for Friday night games, were doing a brisk business selling “Eclipse Burgers” (just regular burgers with a black bun) and “Blood Moon Punch” (Hawaiian Punch with dry ice swirling in it). Kids ran around with glow sticks, their shrieks cutting through the murmuring crowd. Mr. Jenkins from the gas station had set up his telescope with a sign that read: “SEE THE MOON TURN RED (and maybe the girls turn normal?) $2.”

It was a carnival of our humiliation.

And there, in a prime spot on the 50-yard line, holding court, was Tammy Jo Harkness. She’d upgraded from a betting pool to selling “I Survived the Cedar Hollow Eclipse” t-shirts (poorly screen-printed) and offering “professional commentary” to anyone who would listen. Her gaze, when it found us, was no longer just cruel. It was calculating. We were the main attraction, and she had a front-row seat.

My skin prickled under the weight of hundreds of stares. The October air was crisp, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs. The blood moon hung low and heavy in the clear sky, a swollen, copper-colored orb that cast an eerie, reddish light over everything, making the green turf look black and the white yard lines glow like neon.

“This is worse than the time I forgot my pants for gym class in seventh grade,” Lila-Beth muttered beside me.

Her fingers found mine and laced tightly through them. It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was an anchor. Our joined hands ignited, glowing like molten gold where our skin met the light so bright it seemed to push back the moon’s ruddy glow, creating a small, private sun between us.

Old Man Holloway, wearing what appeared to be his regular overalls but with a stained satin sash draped across his chest, stepped forward. He held up the charred, water-stained remains of Miriam’s grimoire. The crowd hushed, a wave of silence rolling out from the center of the field.

“Miriam’s instructions were clear.” He announced, his reedy voice carrying in the stillness. He wasn’t shouting; the crowd was just that quiet. “For the final lock to break, you gotta speak your truth under the blood moon. The foundational truth. The one the magic’s been pushin’ you toward since minute one.” He fixed his pale eyes on us. “No holdin’ back. No pretty lies. The magic’ll know.”