Granny's Moonlit Story

Chapter One

Granny Never Told Stories Unless the Moon Was Full

Most grown-ups think monsters hide under beds.

They're wrong.

If monsters exist—and I believe they do—they're much smarter than that.

They hide in ordinary places. In quiet houses. In family secrets. Sometimes, they even wear a smile.

I didn't always believe that.

I was ten years old the night my grandmother proved it to me.

People spend their lives trying to explain mysteries.

The Bermuda Triangle.

The lost city of Atlantis.

Whether anyone has ever lived on Mars.

Those are interesting questions.

But none of them kept me awake at night.

My grandmother did.

She never told her strange stories unless the moon was full.

Everyone else thought it was just one of her little habits.

I knew better.

On those nights, something about her changed.

It began with her eyes.

They seemed brighter somehow, catching the moonlight even when she wasn't standing near a window. Then came the silence. Granny was usually humming old hymns while she baked or cleaned, but on full-moon nights the house became so quiet that every creak of the wooden floor sounded like a warning.

By then, I had learned not to ask questions.

Questions had a way of finding answers.

And answers weren't always friendly.

My grandmother was beautiful in a way that didn't belong to old people.

Her white curls framed her face like fresh snow, tied neatly with a faded ribbon she'd worn for as long as I could remember. Her skin was smooth, almost untouched by time, and her sharp gray eyes missed absolutely nothing.

When she looked at you, it felt less like she was seeing your face and more like she was reading your thoughts.

She loved us fiercely.

That was never in doubt.

But love and fear can live in the same house.

I learned that, too.

That evening, I curled up on the old sofa in her sitting room, wearing my favorite black-and-white striped pajamas. The fireplace crackled softly, filling the room with warmth while snow drifted silently past the windows outside.

Across from me sat my cousin Michael.

If you saw him for the first time, you'd probably like him.

Everyone did.

He had messy brown curls, bright eyes, and the kind of innocent smile that fooled adults.

It didn't fool me.

Yesterday, I watched him make Tommy bleed.

Tommy was twelve.

Michael was only eight.

Tommy was bigger.

Stronger.

Faster.

None of that mattered.

By the time Granny and I reached the yard, Tommy was lying in the snow, crying as blood spread across the white ground.

Michael just stood there smiling.

Not laughing.

Not crying.

Just smiling.

That smile frightened me more than the blood.

Granny didn't shout.

She didn't panic.

She looked at Michael for a long moment.

He lowered his head without saying a word and walked back into the house.

It was the only time I'd ever seen him obey instantly.

Since then, he'd hardly spoken to anyone.

When he did, he acted as though the rest of us weren't worth his time.

Even my friend Nengi, who secretly adored him despite his terrible attitude, couldn't understand why he had changed.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Outside, the wind whispered against the windows.

Inside, the grandfather clock struck nine.

One...

Two...

Three...

By the twelfth chime, the room felt colder.

The fire was still burning.

But the warmth was gone.

Moonlight spilled across the wooden floor like silver water.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow.

Steady.

Deliberate.

Granny descended the staircase.

She wasn't wearing her usual black dress.

Tonight, she wore white.

The moonlight wrapped around her like it had been waiting.

For just a second, I could have sworn her eyes glowed gold.

She stopped at the bottom step.

Looked first at Michael.

Then at me.

Finally, she smiled.

"It is time," she said.

And without realizing it, I reached for Michael's hand.

For the first time in my life...

I was afraid of my grandmother.