The Harvest Moon rose fat and orange over Woodpile, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty streets. Clara stood by the window, the Lexicon of Binding heavy in her hands, heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. Tonight was the night. The second ritual had to be completed—there was no other choice.
Eli sat slumped on the couch, barely conscious. The failed binding had left him weaker, his skin too pale, his breath shallow. Whatever entity clung to him was feeding now, growing stronger with each moment they delayed. Clara could see it in the way his veins darkened, the way his reflection in the window sometimes moved a half-second too slow.
She couldn't afford mistakes. Not this time.
Clara turned away from the window and grabbed the ritual satchel she'd prepared. Salt, iron nails, bay leaves, black candles, a knife—the necessary tools of ancient protection. She cast one last glance at Eli. His eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding their green depths.
"Where—where are you going?" he rasped.
"To the well," Clara said. Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. "I have to finish this."
"No," Eli croaked, trying and failing to sit up. "It wants you there. That's what it wants."
Clara hesitated, guilt gnawing at her gut. She kneeled beside him, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
"It doesn't matter what it wants," she said softly. "I'm not letting it have you."
Outside, clouds slid across the moon, throwing the town into an eerie twilight. Clara slipped out the front door, heart hammering, her breath frosting in the chill air.
The path to the well wound through the woods. Trees bent inward, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Every crunch of her boots on dead leaves sounded deafening. As she neared the clearing, the air grew colder, heavier, as if saturated with invisible eyes.
The well loomed before her—ancient stone slick with moss, the wooden frame around it cracked and leaning. It looked like it might collapse under its own weight. But Clara knew better. The well was a mouth. A throat. And it was waiting.
She set the satchel down and began drawing the ritual circle around the well, salt scattering in trembling hands. She placed the black candles at the four cardinal points and lit them, the flames guttering in the cold breeze.
Clara opened the Lexicon to the marked page. Words glowed faintly in the moonlight. She took a deep breath and began to chant.
The ground vibrated beneath her feet.
The flames flared.
A moan, low and resonant, rose from the depths of the well, as if the earth itself was crying out.
Clara kept chanting, voice rising above the sound.
Suddenly, the wind screamed through the clearing, blowing out three of the candles at once. Only the northern flame survived, flickering stubbornly. Panic surged through her veins, but she forced herself to keep going.
The ritual demanded blood.
Clara drew the knife across her palm, wincing as the blade bit deep. Blood dripped onto the stones, soaking into the earth. The well's moaning grew louder, urgent.
"By the bond of salt and stone, I cast thee back!" Clara shouted.
The well shuddered—and then something rose.
A shape, more mist than flesh, pulled itself from the mouth of the well. It had no face, only a shifting mass of darkness where a head should be, tendrils reaching greedily toward her.
Clara stumbled back, terror gripping her.
The entity spoke—not with a voice, but directly into her mind.
"Break the bond. Be free."
"No!" Clara screamed aloud, brandishing the knife.
The shadow recoiled, hissing, but its tendrils lashed out, snagging her ankle, pulling her toward the well's edge.
She stabbed downward, severing the connection. The mist recoiled again—but not before a shock of searing cold sank into her bones.
Clara's vision blurred. The ground tilted dangerously.
In her mind, images flashed: Abigail, crying beside the well; Eli, screaming as he was dragged into darkness; herself, alone, forgotten, swallowed by the earth.
The Harvest Moon burst free of the clouds, bathing the clearing in silver light.
And with it came strength.
Clara forced herself upright, gripping the Lexicon like a lifeline. She recited the final incantation, voice hoarse but unyielding:
"By vow unbroken, by blood unbowed, by light undimmed—I bind thee!"
The circle of salt ignited in a blaze of white fire.
The entity shrieked—a sound that ripped through the trees, scattering birds from their roosts—and was yanked back, sucked into the maw of the well.
The flames died instantly.
Silence fell.
Clara collapsed to her knees, gasping, every muscle trembling. Her palm bled freely, staining the pages of the Lexicon, but she didn't care. It was done.
Or so she thought.
A low rumble echoed from deep underground. Not a voice, not words. Just hunger.
Clara forced herself to her feet and stumbled back toward the house, clutching the ruined Lexicon to her chest.
When she burst through the door, Eli was waiting—barely standing, but alive. His eyes met hers, clear for the first time in days.
"You did it," he said, voice breaking.
Clara shook her head, tears streaming down her face.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
She looked at the broken obsidian pendant on the floor its edges glowing faintly. There were still embers in the ashes. Still movement in the shadows. Outside, the Harvest Moon hung heavy in the sky. And beneath their feet, the well dreamed of escape.