What the moon takes

The first thing Nora Hale noticed was the blood.

It was beneath her fingernails, dark and dry, gathered in thin lines around the edges. For several seconds, she simply stared at her hands, trying to understand what she was seeing.

Then she noticed the scratches.

Three long marks ran down her left forearm. Two more crossed her right shoulder, disappearing beneath the strap of her nightshirt. They were red, angry-looking, and deep enough to sting when she touched them.

She sat upright in bed.

Her bedroom was quiet. The curtains were half open, allowing a pale strip of morning sunlight to fall across the floor. Her bedside clock read 6:17 a.m.

She blinked at it.

She didn't remember going to bed.

In fact, she didn't remember most of the previous night.

A familiar pressure settled behind her eyes.

Not again.

Nora pushed the covers away and examined her feet. There was dried mud between her toes and along the soles, as though she'd walked through wet ground without shoes. A small leaf clung to her ankle.

She pulled it away.

Her apartment was on the third floor of a quiet residential building in Blackwood. There was no garden outside her bedroom window, no flower bed she could have stepped into, and certainly no reason for her feet to be covered in mud.

She looked toward the window.

It was closed.

The lock was still in place.

"Okay," she whispered. "Think."

She remembered leaving St. Vincent's Medical Center shortly after midnight. She remembered the exhaustion in her legs after a twelve-hour shift, the rain tapping against her windscreen, and the red traffic light near the old bakery.

She remembered arriving home.

She thought she remembered locking the door.

After that, everything disappeared.

Nora rubbed her forehead.

She was a nurse. She understood fatigue, stress, sleep deprivation, and the strange things the human brain could do when pushed too far. She had worked enough night shifts to know that exhaustion could make time feel unreliable.

But exhaustion didn't explain the blood.

She climbed out of bed and hurried to the bathroom.

Under the bright mirror lights, the scratches looked worse. She turned her arm, examining each mark carefully. They weren't neat cuts. They looked as though something sharp had dragged across her skin.

She ran water over them.

The first touch made her flinch.

"Damn it."

She opened the medicine cabinet, found antiseptic and cotton wool, and cleaned the wounds. The blood beneath her nails took longer to remove. She scrubbed until her fingertips turned pink.

When she finished, she stood staring at herself.

Her dark hair was tangled around her shoulders. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and her face looked paler than usual.

She looked like someone who hadn't slept in days.

But there was something else.

For one strange moment, she thought her eyes looked different. Not their usual shade, but something brighter, almost golden beneath the bathroom light.

She leaned closer.

The effect disappeared.

Nora shut her eyes.

"I'm tired," she told her reflection.

It was the explanation she'd been using for months.

Stress. Exhaustion. Sleepwalking.

Nothing worth worrying about.

Except she was beginning to worry.

In the kitchen, Nora made coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

She stood by the counter, waiting for the machine to finish, while her mind returned to the missing hours.

This wasn't the first time.

There had been other mornings when she'd woken with strange marks on her body. Once, she'd found mud on the carpet beside her front door. Another time, she'd discovered a torn sleeve on a blouse she distinctly remembered hanging in her wardrobe.

Two weeks earlier, she'd woken with a painful ache in both legs and a faint smell of wet leaves on her pillow.

She had blamed everything on her work.

Hospitals were exhausting. People came in frightened, injured, and sometimes dying. Nurses didn't always get enough rest. She knew that better than anyone.

But the missing nights had started happening even when she wasn't working.

And they always seemed to follow the same pattern.

She would go to sleep.

Then hours would vanish.

Nora lifted her coffee and took a sip.

Her phone lay on the kitchen counter. She picked it up and checked her messages.

There was one from Ben, sent the previous evening.

Ben: Don't forget to eat something after your shift. And get some sleep, please.

She smiled faintly.

Ben Carver had always worried about her. Sometimes more than she thought necessary.

She typed a reply.

Nora: I survived another shift. Barely. Coffee is currently keeping me alive.

His response came a minute later.

Ben: Coffee isn't food.

Nora: It has water in it.

Ben: That's not how nutrition works.

She laughed quietly.

For a moment, the strange morning felt less frightening.

Ben had a way of making ordinary things feel manageable. He was a detective with a habit of noticing details other people overlooked, which was both one of the things she loved about him and one of the reasons she sometimes avoided telling him things.

He noticed too much.

Especially when it came to her.

Her phone vibrated again.

Ben: Are you awake?

Nora: Unfortunately.

Ben: Coffee?

She glanced at the clock.

7:21 a.m.

She should have been sleeping, but the thought of sitting alone in her apartment with the blood and unanswered questions made her uncomfortable.

Nora: Only if you're buying.

Ben: Obviously.

Nora: That's why I love you.

His reply appeared almost immediately.

Ben: Love you too, Nora.

She read it twice before putting the phone down.

Then she looked at the scratches on her arm.

Her smile faded.

At 7:56 a.m., a familiar silver SUV pulled up outside her building.

Nora watched from the window as Ben stepped out.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that never seemed to stay perfectly in place. He wore a charcoal shirt beneath a dark jacket, and his expression was serious even when he wasn't working.

She grabbed her handbag, checked the front door lock, and headed downstairs.

Ben was waiting beside his vehicle.

"Morning."

"Morning."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"You look tired."

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm beautiful. We all have our burdens."

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Get in, beautiful."

She climbed into the passenger seat.

The inside of his SUV smelled of coffee, cedarwood, and the clean soap he always used. It was a familiar scent, comforting enough to make her relax slightly.

Ben started the engine.

"Did you sleep?"

"Some."

"How much is some?"

"Enough."

He glanced at her.

"Nora."

"Ben."

He shook his head, smiling faintly.

"Fine. Keep your secrets."

She looked out of the window.

The streets of Blackwood were slowly filling with morning traffic. Shopkeepers lifted their shutters, pedestrians hurried along the pavements, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifted from a small bakery near the town centre.

Blackwood was the kind of town people moved to when they wanted a quiet life. Its narrow streets were lined with old Victorian houses, maple trees, and little shops that had been open for generations.

It was beautiful in the morning.

But beyond the houses and the last row of shops stood Blackwood Forest.

The woodland stretched across the edge of town, thick with ancient trees and tangled undergrowth. Its paths were popular with hikers during daylight, but few people ventured far inside.

Children were warned not to enter after sunset.

Hunters sometimes disappeared.

Strange howling sounds were reported from time to time, although most residents dismissed them as foxes or stray dogs.

Nora had never believed the stories.

At least, she hadn't before.

"You're quiet," Ben said.

"I'm enjoying the scenery."

"You've lived here for years. What scenery?"

"Maybe I've developed a sudden appreciation for trees."

He laughed.

"That's new."

They pulled up outside their favourite café, a little place called The Morning Bell. It sat between a bookshop and an old florist, with wide windows and wooden tables that were always occupied by the same collection of familiar faces.

Inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries filled the air.

Ben ordered his usual black coffee. Nora chose a latte and a croissant, mostly because he gave her a disapproving look when she tried to order only coffee.

They found a table near the window.

For a while, they talked about ordinary things. A difficult patient Nora had treated during her shift. A neighbour who had been complaining about the building's plumbing. Ben's latest attempt to repair a loose kitchen cabinet.

Nora laughed more than she had expected to.

It was easy with him.

That was the dangerous thing about loving someone who knew you so well. Even when you wanted to hide, some part of you kept reaching for them.

Ben took a sip of coffee.

Then his expression changed slightly.

"What?" Nora asked.

"Nothing."

"You're looking at me."

"Am I not allowed?"

"You're allowed. You're just doing it suspiciously."

He placed his cup down.

"You've been different lately."

Nora's fingers tightened around her coffee cup.

She looked at him, waiting for him to explain.

And suddenly, the warmth of the café didn't feel quite so comforting.