The Man On The Moon was a quiet being.

He whispered to her when everything else seemed too real and loud.He smiled when she looked at him, his light washing over her weary face and promising it would all be ok. He beckoned and called, tug at the strings of her heart and looped it around his fingers, dragging her along to wherever it was that he called her. She could close her eyes and trust in him, that the Man On The Moon would never fail her.

You can hear him from up above

He had led her to the edges of mountains facing the grand winds and the crashing waves below, to the dark forests where wolves howled and trees shivered, to castles that did not belong to her and huts which promised magic. In him and his call, she trusted wholeheartedly. Today it has called her once again, seeking her out amongst the millions of sleeping young souls in the orphanage, tugging at her heart until she listens. She rises and walks silently past the bodies, following the soft voice of the man in the moon to the cold whispering winds outside.

Immortal evil is he who whispers…

She closes her eyes and lets the voice take her, her shoes feeling the edges of a cobblestone street which turns into sinking mud then into another street pockmarked with pebbles and potholes.

Don’t listen to him!

She finally stops and opens her eyes, finding herself in a place unlike any other to which the Man On The Moon had brought her. An alleyway which makes her skin pucker with gooseflesh, the caws of ravens making her shiver with uneasiness. In front of her is an old shop, tinged with age and colour washed away by reality. A strange distant hum draws her to turn the knob and enter inside. The floorboards creak with anticipation, ‘a victim’ they seem to cry.

Beware the voices!

The aisles in front of her are overflowing, tumbling with mismatched odd ends and dusty antiques. Her fingers leave traces in the snow like dust that has collected over time on old porcelain dolls and ancient china cups, dust motes glittering in the odd rays of sunlight that find their way through tattered curtains.

Do not let his power catch you.

She can no longer hear the Man On The Moon, instead a song fills her subconscious. One that is as old as time, one which twists her heart in its low hellish tone, its roots calling her just as her Man On The Moon had. She follows it to the spiralling staircase laced like a bride in webs and golden rust. He will crown you in twisted thorns and sell you for parts.

The song of the voices twists her heart, low and earthy, emanating from the depths of the shop, pulsing like a heart beat louder and louder as she gets closer and closer. Further and further she goes until she reaches the floor where candles flicker with anticipation to reveal a cavernous room the size of a concert hall, the music of the ghosts in her head harmonising with shrill excitement.

He will make you the bride of defeat.

The girl’s eye is caught by a golden box, small enough to fit the palm of her hands and covered in a thick layer of filth. She picks it up, stroking away the layers of spider lace and unclasps the beautiful box. Inside lies a small ring, silver with a single blood red ruby at its head. The girl looks into the small but glorious ocean of red and catches a glimpse of what seems to be the reflection of someone else, its mouth open in terror. But her heart quickly settles as with a few blinks the reflection captures her in its depths, the ghostly face gone.

Death your paramour and Satan your af air.

The girl begins to lose sensation over her being the longer she looks into the ruby, her body suddenly feeling as if it did not belong to her and moving in discord with her will. She slips the ring on her finger and begins to scream as the ring tightens around her small finger, turning pale white skin into a red like that of the ruby.

His voice haunts the children and draws them to their mortality.

Blood begins to webb her finger and the sound of her cracking bones accompanies the ghostly voices in her head. Suddenly, the door of the basement slams shut, darkness fills the room like a thick blanket and the solemn whistles and hums in her head become louder until they no longer seem to be the product of her consciousness but something real and sacreligious. Blood drips down her finger and paints her white night gown, pooling at her feet.

Yet despite his evil, the mortals all listen.

The ghosts sing, their voices matching in the pulsing crescendo of the dying mortal. A grand concerto of ghostly noises intertwining with her own screams, the symphony of the dead.

And they die terrible deaths, all forgotten.

The Man On The Moon smiles from the sky.

For the Man On The Moon is a creature of hell.

Written by Jiya Jamu

Jiya Jamu - a lover of written tales and who aims for the stars with attempts to write a debut novel. Storytelling is what makes me who I am, agonising poetry and whimsical narratives is what I wish to impart as my literary legacy.