It was a cool, clear night; the stars twinkled above in the dark dome of the sky while the moon ominously glowed above like a terrible omen of something bad to come. The old man looked up with large, brown eyes full of trepidation as he whispered prayers over his small slumbering family nestled together in the tiny wooden cart. Just from looking at that moon he knew the dead walked this evening; it was something his mother had told him long ago but he had forgotten her words until this evening, until he beheld that moon. It was always the same on nights like this, the celestial orb barely hung in the sky, haloed with a red ghost for everyone to awe and wonder about but for those who knew the lore they simply cringed under the weight of terror and watched for the damned to mark their targets.

The last time he had seen the Blood Moon was over thirty years ago. He was a much younger man back then, with a new family to support. He remembered the dread of his gypsy friends when they viewed the Blood Moon and made proclamations of some terrible omen. It had frightened him so badly he left the gypsy troupe and moved into a small village to become a tanner. Nothing bad happened to them that evening but he had heard rumors of some terrible monster born from the great crescent mountains. Now as he sat here watching the same moon, his old gypsy heritage warned him of the grim fortune it brought: death and once again he ran, but this time it was to that great and powerful city in the mountains in hopes of avoiding a future of pain and discomfort.

He had heard stories of the illness while he traveled the countryside bringing his wares from town to town. It was said that their King went mad when he contracted it. People described how he changed: he developed a thick, misshapen body, long dagger like nails, an exaggerated jaw with sharp teeth and solid black eyes. At first he refused to believe the rumors of the King’s madness, how his majesty sat in his throne room scraping his face until it was shredded, large pieces of skin dangling like a beard from it. People spoke of the way he tortured beautiful men and women; whipping them until their skin was peeled of their body making them as ugly as he. The old man did not believe that any illness could do all of that but he knew the King and of his vanities and now, as he looked at the red ring around the moon he wondered if everything about their great and powerful King was all true.  

He had seen people with the illness, locked in cages like animals but they were not animals at all, they were so much worse. The victims became twisted abominations of their former selves, with inhuman traits and murderous tempers. He ran home to find his son and daughter-in-law tormenting his grandchildren and beloved wife until the two finally attacked and killed one another out of a territorial rage. They had contracted the illness and were no longer the beautiful children he had known but black eyed, feral beasts. The old gypsy determined then that all the rumors of his once glorious King were true, he did go mad and he did torture innocent people out of jealous vanity. There was no place for an honest man in that life.

Now he watched what was left of his small family as they slept in a covered cart under the Blood Moon and prayed to “The One” for their safety. The old man rubbed his eyes and tried to keep himself awake. It was he who was now charged with the protection of his grandchildren and wife despite his gnarled hands and aged eyes and the thought of them becoming sick and turning into monsters gave him a reason to stay awake. He was certain that only the presence of evil souls could cause such a devastating blight so he searched for the ghosts under the bittersweet beacon that floated above. He intended to kill his family before they were preyed upon by such wicked spirits; though he prayed even more that it would not have to come to that.

The old man heard a small child cry and looked to his grandchildren thinking they could have had a nightmare. The poor dears had watched their parents change, had watched them rip one another apart so they had good reasons to be afraid but it was not them who cried out; they were sound asleep, fat little arms embracing one another in small comforts. The cries continued and he searched the surrounding landscape for the source of the mysterious moans. It was so lonely a cry that it could not be a malignant spirit; the sound was more that of a child.  
“Who’s there?” he stood and looked all about. His heart began to pound and his hands shook as he held a tiny knife, his only weapon.

“Help me please, I can’t see for I’m blind; I’m lost and hungry.” A small boy had walked from behind a tree sobbing openly. He wore a tattered robe that covered his head and his eyes were hidden behind a rag perhaps to conceal his blindness. The pitiful boy was only about five and he was filthy.

“My child, what are you doing out in the wilderness on such a fiendish night?” The old man had run over to the child and covered him with a blanket. He let the boy hold his arm while he led him over to the covered cart. The poor old man did not notice the bugs that fell from under the child’s robe and landed him. “Where are your parents?”

“All of my parents are dead, dead, dead.”
The old man looked up sharply when the boy had said this. He thought his voice had changed with each word he spoke an idea which left the old man’s skin chilled with goose pimples but the boy began to cry again and the man softened. It was only one child, one voice. He thought that he must be paranoid because of the Blood Moon.

“You should come with us to Silver Moon City,” he said to the boy. “I will take care of you.”

“What is this Silver Moon City?” the child asked curiously.

“Why child it is only the greatest city on the continent. I will go to them and beg to stay and work; it is not my home but it could become so.”

“Why would you do that?” the odd boy asked once again as he fondled the bit of bread the old man gave him. The child seemed more interested in conversation then food. He even began to shift closer to the old man as if he were frightened or afraid.

“If you could see the moon you would know that something is wrong child. It is a bad omen. We gypsies can recognize these things as a sign of evil moving and gaining power. We must go somewhere safe before the evil finds us. I shall take care of you, so you do not need to be afraid.” The old man looked up and beheld the dangerous future sprawled out like a map across the sky.

“No,” said the child in a female voice. “I shall take care of you, for something evil has already found you.”

The man went cold from the many voices the child used; a different voice for each word, a different gender and age, a different person trapped inside one child like image. Now that he thought about it the old man had not seen the boy move his mouth when he spoke; his jaw opened but nothing more. The old gypsy could not scream, he could not move; he was paralyzed by fear. The child let loose a blood curdling laugh and revealed its green, slimy, feral teeth and sank them deeply into his old skin.

The boy then moved to the cart and looked at the sleeping children, with their soft skin exposed to the night air; the child licked his lips and drooled at the helpless feast while the old man watched, frozen in horror. The wicked child bent down to smell their ripe flesh and turned its nose up as if it had smelled something sour. Instead he bit the old woman who screamed from her sleep and woke the children who wailed loudly from the shock. The wicked child smiled while blood dripped down his chin, then turned and walked away nonchalantly, as if it had not bothered the little abomination that he ruined four lives.

“Papaw, Papaw, what’s wrong with you? Why are you bleeding? We had a terrible dream, you and grandmamma will die…won’t you?” the little girl cried out to the old man who rubbed his arm and watched as the blind boy calmly walked away.
“It is nothing to worry about my dear, merely a scratch.” A tear slid down his cheek when he realized that he and his wife were now infected with this new disease and that their fate was sealed. His wife looked at him with helpless eyes; she knew her destiny as well. The old man covered his grandchildren and sang them a lullaby to sleep. “It was all just a bad dream,” he told them as they drifted back into slumber. “It was not one of those dreams my darlings, not one of your special dreams…just a dream.” He held his wife’s hands and looked deep in her eyes. She knew what had happened to her and what had to be done. The old man kissed her gently on the lips then slit her exposed throat. He could not allow her to become unnatural. He began to move the horses in the direction of the great city in the mountains while crying and singing his lullaby. It was urgent that he get the children to the monks before he changed and killed them both. There was not even time enough for him to bury his beloved wife.  

At first he did not feel much different, the occasional aggravation and angry words directed towards the children but he blamed that on the long journey, the loss of his wife and exhaustion. He was an honest man and he tried to remember the teachings of his ancient faith. Every time the anger would well up in him he would think of his father hiding the book of “The One” which he carried in his bags. Religion was forbidden in his home land but so few people practiced the faith anymore that it was more ignored than enforced. The continent was rich from its own hard work, from people who tilled the land, at least that was the popular consensus.

He began to realize how proud the people had truly become and worried that this disease was caused by such high ideas. So every evening he would read from the book to the children and remind them to be honest and good when he was gone. It was not fair that such young children, five year old twins, would be stuck with such an ill fate. He hoped he could find someone to take care of them, to love them the way he had always and shower them with such affection. They were special, like the old and wise gypsies of ancient days, the long lost seers of his land. They must be protected and allowed to live on.

He knew he was beginning to change with each new day. The anger, it made him hungry but not for food, it was something else. He wanted to hurt people, even his own grandchildren when they fought; that was what he wished to feed upon.
He had never been an angry man; he always believed that when people wronged him it was because of some pain in their own life. The old man never struck back at anyone, keeping the wrath of his body under control so that he could lead his family by an example of love. It was all changing, slowly. Each new day made it harder to remember his oath of love. The old man would make the children hide themselves under blankets until he called for them as he wrestled with the inner monster trying to break free. That was how the virus worked; he figured it out and hoped he could tell the monks of the great city he now traveled and maybe they could treat people for the disease and work to find a cure.

The old man realized that the virus did not change a person from who they were, it simply brought out the worst part of them and forced it to materialize in a monstrous form. After all, every man is a monster and the greedier and more selfish the person the quicker they materialized into a monster. As a society, most people worked hard to change themselves and live decent lives, ignoring the call of temptation and obeying the law. The old man figured that it worked so slow in him because he tried to live an honest life and hurt few people along the way. He wondered what it would do to a wicked man and thought of the King and his vanity. He now understood why the demon child did not bite his grandchildren; they were too fresh, too innocent; his grandchildren were special even among the gypsies. The boy left their deaths in his old hands but he would not do it. He would fight until he made it to the city. “Only a few more days,” he thought to himself as he trudged along.

The old man cried out when he saw the long line of refugees struggling to get into Silver Moon City, obviously running from the same fate. It was blocked for miles with carts and the anger burst forth in him, an anger he had never felt before, it was murderous. Had he come so far only to fail? Struggling to hold the monster in he abandoned his cart and walked to the gate with his grandchildren cursing at people who stepped in front of him.

He saw a large man dressed in black standing by the gate with a woman in a glorious silver robe, adorned only with the finest silk and velvet. “That must be the Queen,” he thought as he pushed passed people, knocking them down and striking them if they got in his way. His teeth began to sharpen and his eyes turned black. The children cried and screamed while the old man dragged them along unintentionally piercing their tender flesh with sharpened nails. Now no one stood in his way; they were all frightened as he transformed into the monster. His ugly long hair dangled while the children cried loudly; their blood dripped to the ground from the wounds their grandfather left; it was their screams that caught the large man’s attention.

“Please,” the old man cried out and the woman looked on with wide eyes. She was not afraid like the others; it was almost as if she had seen him before. The old man spoke slowly less with words and more with growls and snaps. “Family… dead!  bitten… child…demon! Blight…  sickness… virus…My…grandchildren…” The old man was unable to finish, the transformation was complete. The aged gypsy man monster lunged at the lady in silver, angry at the way she looked at him but she caught him by both of his wrists in one of her lady like hands and held him by the throat with the other, squeezing tight so that his limbs hung limp. She stared hard at him into his black eyes.

“Get the children and take them to my mountain palace. Have the doctor treat them, and check them for bite marks of any kind,” the royal lady told her bodyguard. He bent down and scooped up the small brown haired children as they cried over the loss of their papaw and bled from the cuts he gave them when his hands had changed to claws.

The large man looked into their small brown eyes and smiled. He would be a father soon and because of that he grieved for the old man who traveled so far to bring these little one’s to safety. How hard the gypsy must have fought to keep himself from hurting the precious angels he now held even while his body was corrupted from an insane illness. He would talk to his wife and they would adopt these children and honor that old man’s effort. The burly guard looked at the old man who cringed under his Queen’s iron grip; this woman had secret power that the beast sorely underestimated. “Don’t worry now old man, I will make sure these children live happy lives with my wife and I,” the guard comforted the beast and then disappeared from sight.

A tear slid down the monster’s face; even ravaged by sickness he had a good heart.

“I am sorry about this,” the woman said to him and she squeezed his neck harder.
The old man smiled at her and hoarsely whispered under the pressure of her grip, “Thank….you,” as she broke his neck and his black eyes closed forever.

“His troubles are over but ours have just begun,” the woman spoke to another man in black as they both looked over the sea of ragged men, women and children pouring into their lands and looking for sanctuary. “At least he can rest in peace.”