Story 1136: Night of the Bleeding Sky

It began with the stars vanishing.

Not one by one, but all at once—blinking out like candles smothered by unseen fingers. The villagers of Stonegrasp stood in their doorways, staring at the sky, whispering prayers that felt brittle on their tongues. The moon turned dark. And then the sky began to bleed.

At first, it looked like mist—rosy, glimmering, almost beautiful. But it thickened, pulsed, and poured down in long, trailing strands like threads of living silk. By midnight, it was a rain of red. Not water.

Blood.

And it was warm.

By morning, the roads were thick with it—coagulated rivers carving paths through fields and into wells. Livestock refused to drink. The trees leaned inward. Birds fell silent. People began to whisper of an omen, of the return of the Hollow One, of old oaths broken beneath the stars.

But no one spoke above a whisper.

No one dared.

Because those who did… disappeared.