Chapter 28

Morning sunlight streamed through my curtains, soft and golden, making Sherfield look almost deceptively normal. Birds chirped, dew clung to the grass, and for once, there were no whispers, no strange chills—just quiet. Dad and Gran were finally home.

The sound of clattering dishes floated up from downstairs, mixed with Dad's cheerful voice. I smiled before even opening my eyes. After everything—the leprechaun, the lost spirit, the creepy well—I deserved one day that felt normal.

"Morning, sunshine," Dad said as I wandered into the kitchen. He stood by the stove in his worn T-shirt, flipping pancakes that looked slightly too crispy. "Gran's still resting upstairs. Doctor says she just needs to take it easy."

"That's good," I said, kissing his cheek before snagging a piece of bacon. "You're cooking? Wow, the world really is ending."

He laughed. "Don't jinx it, kiddo."

I let myself relax just a little, but that spark of unease deep inside me refused to die. All the supernatural chaos lately—spirits, Sam's water powers, the family connections—made my head spin. I shook it off as Dad mentioned unpacking some of Gran's old things.

"She had boxes in storage," he said. "We'll bring them down after breakfast. Maybe you'll find something interesting—old family photos, letters, maybe even that painting of your mum when she was your age."

The thought tightened my chest. I barely remembered Mum, only fragments—stories, dreams, faint images—but now the idea of seeing her younger self made me nervous.

After breakfast, we carried the dusty boxes down from the attic. The scent of cedar and old paper filled the room. There were albums, letters, a tarnished silver brush set... and then I saw it.

A portrait.

It was tucked behind a pile of books, wrapped in yellowed linen. When I unrolled it, my breath caught. The woman in the painting had soft blonde hair and hazel eyes—my hazel eyes. Her expression was calm, almost mournful, and behind her stretched a blood-red sky.

"Dad..." My voice came out small. "Who is this?"

He frowned, leaning closer. "That's strange. I don't remember seeing this before."

"Doesn't she look like—"

"Your mum? Yeah," he said quietly, rubbing his neck. "But the style's older. Maybe it's one of your great-great relatives from Roundstone."

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the woman in the portrait was watching me.

\---

By the time I reached school, the uneasy feeling clung to me like static. Nick was waiting by my locker, grinning.

"Morning, O'Brien," he said, tossing me a chocolate bar. "Breakfast for the banshee."

"Thanks, I guess?" I laughed. "You're in a weirdly good mood."

He shrugged. "It's the Blood Moon Festival tonight. The whole town's setting up by the square. Free food, bad music, ancient curses—it's a vibe."

Brandon joined us a second later, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "You sound excited for something that probably started as a cult ritual."

"Every good party did," Nick shot back.

I rolled my eyes but smiled. "Maybe I'll go. I could use something normal for once."

At lunch, we gathered at our usual table. Lisa had a pile of books spread out, Sam sipped nervously from her water bottle, probably worried about making another spectacle of herself.

"So, I did a little digging," Lisa said, adjusting her glasses. "The Blood Moon Festival isn't just some random small-town celebration. It's based on an old Celtic tradition honoring spirits trapped between realms. Supposedly, it keeps them from wandering."

Sam frowned. "You mean, like, a mass ghost appeasement?"

"Basically," Lisa said. "And guess what—it started in Roundstone. Aili's hometown."

All eyes turned to me.

"Wait, so my family's home village started a ghost festival?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "That's... totally not creepy at all."

Nick leaned in. "Everything's connected to you lately, O'Brien. First the banshee stuff, now this. You're like a magnet for dead things."

I kicked him under the table. "Thanks, that's so comforting."

He grinned. "I try."

But deep down, I felt uneasy. Trapped between realms. Just like the voice in my dreams.

\---

That evening, the town square glowed under red lanterns and bonfires. Music and laughter filled the air, but beneath it all, there was something heavy. Like the entire town was holding its breath.

Brandon walked beside me, his jacket slung over one shoulder. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," I said, though my heart thudded. "It's just—everything feels off tonight."

He nodded. "You're not wrong."

Booths sold baked goods and charms, old women whispered blessings over candles. In the distance, someone began chanting an old Irish hymn. The sound made the hairs on my arms stand up.

Suddenly, the crowd hushed. A bell rang, echoing across the square.

Lisa's eyes widened. "That's part of the ritual," she whispered. "When the bell tolls, the spirits are supposed to listen."

But something else was listening too.

The moment the last note faded, I heard it—a faint whisper, threading through the air like wind. Aili...

I froze. "Did you hear that?"

Brandon turned sharply. "Hear what?"

Before I could answer, a gust of cold air blew through the square, extinguishing half the lanterns. The crowd gasped. Music stopped. Everything went still.

Then I saw her.

The woman from the portrait. Standing near the bonfire, her pale hair gleaming, her eyes locked on mine. She mouthed two words.

"Remember me."

I stumbled backward, bumping into Nick. "She's here," I whispered, voice shaking. "The woman from the painting—she's—"

But when I looked again, she was gone. Only smoke curled where she'd stood.

Nick grabbed my arm. "Aili, what did you see?"

"I don't know," I said, breath uneven. "She looked like me, Nick. Like—like she was trying to warn me."

Sam looked around nervously. "Maybe we should go. Something's off."

Before we could move, the ground near the bonfire trembled. The flames flared blue, twisting upward into a shape—human-like, but distorted, crying out in a hollow, echoing wail.

Water burst from the nearby fountain, swirling unnaturally—Sam's doing. Her eyes glowed bright blue as she raised her hands, voice trembling. "I've got it—just go!"

The water surged, wrapping around the flame-spirit and enclosing it like a shimmering sphere. Steam hissed where water met fire, lighting up the night in eerie flashes.

Brandon stared in disbelief. "Sam..."

"I can hold it!" she cried, voice straining. "But not for long!"

The air buzzed with energy—grief, fear, something older than words. And just as suddenly as it began, it ended. The water crashed down, drenching the square. The fire was gone. The spirit—gone.

Everyone was silent, soaked and trembling.

Nick turned to Sam, voice barely above a whisper. "You just saved the entire town."

Sam wiped her face, shaking. "I don't think it's over."

I looked toward the smoke curling up from the bonfire pit. For a moment, just before the last ember faded, I could swear I saw that woman's face again. My reflection. My bloodline.

Remember me.

The festival ended in chaos. The next morning, I woke to find the portrait on my wall—its painted face smiling now.

And beneath it, written in crimson letters that hadn't been there before:

"The blood moon remembers."