The night of black moons—a name whispered through trembling lips and sealed with silence. It was the night that tore Baskerville apart. Twenty women murdered. Some raped, others mutilated, and the rest shot dead where they stood. Twenty souls gone, and not a single person ever found guilty.
The police scoured every inch of the town, interrogated every man, woman, and child. But no one confessed. No evidence held. No fingerprints, no footprints, no DNA. Just twenty graves and a town that stopped breathing the moment the sun rose over the blood-soaked fields.
Five years later, the town was a shadow of itself. The laughter that once filled its narrow streets had vanished, replaced by the slow creak of shutters closing before dusk. No one came to Baskerville anymore.
But that changed the morning Justin Gayle walked into town.
He was tall and lean, wrapped in black from head to toe. His sharp brown eyes scanned everything—the cracks in the walls, the faded posters, the wary glances of the old folks who lingered near the general store. Justin had solved more murder cases than any man his age—thirty-three. Some called him the super detective, others called him obsessed.
Either way, he was here to dig up ghosts.
Justin's boots crunched against the gravel as he approached the small diner by the town square. The sign above the door read "Martha's Place", though most of the paint had peeled away. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and grease filled the air. A woman behind the counter looked up. Her name tag said Martha.
"Can I help you, stranger?" she asked, wiping her hands on a rag.
Justin smiled faintly. "Coffee. Black. And maybe some information."
Her eyes narrowed. "Information's more expensive than coffee."
"I can pay," he said, setting a silver badge on the counter. It gleamed faintly under the flickering light.
She froze for a moment, recognizing the symbol. "You're one of them city detectives."
"I am," he replied. "Justin Gayle. I'm reopening the case about the Black Moons."
The diner went silent. Two old men near the window stopped mid-conversation. The sound of a spoon clinking against a cup seemed deafening.
Martha's voice lowered. "That case is cursed, detective. Everyone who came to investigate either left town or went missing."
Justin stirred his coffee, unfazed. "That's what I heard. But I'm not leaving until I find out who did it."
She sighed. "Then you'll want to talk to Sheriff Dole. He's the only one left who still keeps the files. His office is just down Main Street—but I'd be careful if I were you. Some things in Baskerville are better left buried."
Justin finished his coffee in silence and stood up. "And some things shouldn't stay buried at all."
The sheriff's office was a crumbling building that smelled of mildew and dust. Inside, Sheriff Arthur Dole sat behind a cluttered desk, his uniform faded, his beard streaked with gray.
He looked up with tired eyes when Justin entered. "Let me guess—you're another one of those hotshot detectives thinkin' you can solve what nobody could."
"I'm not like the others," Justin said calmly, pulling up a chair. "I solve what others can't."
Dole chuckled dryly. "That's what they all said."
Justin leaned forward. "Tell me about that night. Everything you know."
The sheriff sighed and rubbed his temples. "It was the night of the lunar eclipse. Sky went pitch black—no stars, no moonlight. The power grid failed, too. Town was plunged into darkness for three hours. When the lights came back, we found the first body behind the chapel. Then another near the mill. By dawn, there were twenty. Every single woman between the ages of twenty and forty-five. No signs of struggle in half of 'em. Some looked like they just… stopped breathing."
"Any pattern?" Justin asked.
"None. No weapon found, no tracks, no witnesses. Only thing we got were strange marks burned into the doorways of every victim's house. Looked like circles overlapping—some thought it was ritual. But no one ever figured out what they meant."
Justin took notes quickly. "You still have the photos?"
The sheriff hesitated. "In the basement. But I shouldn't—"
"I'll take full responsibility," Justin interrupted. "I need to see them."
After a long pause, Dole rose and led him downstairs. The basement was cold and smelled of rot. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with dusty boxes. He opened one marked BLACK MOONS CASE and pulled out a file. Inside were grainy photos of the victims.
Justin studied them closely. The cuts, the bullet wounds, the positioning of the bodies. And then he saw something—the angle of each corpse's head was the same. Tilted slightly right.
"Who took these photos?" he asked.
Dole frowned. "Local photographer. Name's Eli Mercer. He's still around, lives by the old train station. But he don't talk much since his wife disappeared the same night."
Justin closed the file. "Then I'll make him talk."
Eli Mercer's house was a decaying two-story at the edge of town. The windows were boarded up, the grass overgrown. Justin knocked once. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time.
Finally, the door opened a crack. A gaunt man peered out, his face pale, eyes sunken.
"Who are you?" Eli rasped.
"Justin Gayle. Detective. I need to ask you a few questions about the murders."
Eli's hand twitched near the doorframe. "I told everyone everything I knew."
Justin stepped closer. "Then you won't mind telling me again."
For a moment, Eli seemed ready to slam the door—but something in Justin's calm stare stopped him. He sighed and opened it wider. "Fine. But make it quick."
Inside, the house smelled of damp wood and old chemicals. Camera parts and photographs littered every surface.
"You took pictures of all the bodies," Justin said. "Did you notice anything unusual?"
Eli nodded slowly. "Yeah. The eyes. Every one of them had their pupils dilated—like they'd seen something terrifying right before they died."
Justin frowned. "Drugs?"
"Maybe. But the coroner said no trace of toxins. It's like their fear killed them before anything else did."
He walked over to a table and picked up a photo—one Justin hadn't seen before. It showed one of the victim's houses with a strange circular mark carved above the door.
"That symbol," Justin said. "You know what it means?"
Eli hesitated, then whispered, "It's the old symbol for Eclipse. I used to photograph the night sky. That symbol's from an astronomy chart. Whoever carved it knew what they were doing."
Justin's pulse quickened. "So the killer left it as a message."
"Maybe," Eli said. "Or maybe it was a countdown."
Justin froze. "A countdown to what?"
"The next black moon," Eli murmured. "It's happening again—tomorrow night."
The next twenty-four hours were a blur of investigation. Justin combed through old reports, cross-referencing the victims' backgrounds. Then, he found the link everyone had missed: all twenty women had once worked at the Baskerville Textile Factory, which closed a year before the murders.
Digging deeper, Justin uncovered more—there had been a fire at the factory six years ago. Five women were killed, their deaths ruled accidental. But the factory owner, Gerald Crane, had walked away with the insurance money.
Crane still lived in town, in a mansion on the hill.
Justin drove there that evening. The gate was locked, but he climbed it easily. The house loomed large against the fading sky, lights flickering in a few windows. He knocked, and a tall man in a robe answered.
"Can I help you?" Crane asked, his voice smooth but cold.
"Detective Justin Gayle. I'm investigating the Black Moon murders."
Crane's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're five years too late."
"Maybe," Justin said. "Or maybe I'm right on time."
Crane gestured toward the hall. "Come in, then. Let's talk."
Inside, the house was immaculate—too immaculate. No family photos, no signs of personal life. Just expensive art and silence.
"Tell me, Mr. Crane," Justin began, "what happened at the textile factory?"
Crane poured himself a drink. "An accident. A fire broke out from a faulty boiler. Tragic, yes, but these things happen."
"Convenient accident," Justin said. "Especially since you collected two million in insurance."
Crane's jaw tightened. "Are you accusing me of something, detective?"
"I'm stating facts. The women who died that night all worked for you. So did the twenty who were murdered five years later. Care to explain that coincidence?"
Crane smiled thinly. "Coincidences happen every day."
Justin stood. "Then you won't mind if I check your property. Maybe the police missed something last time."
Crane's eyes darkened. "Get out of my house."
Justin walked to the door. "I will. But I'll be back—with a warrant."
As he left, he noticed something carved faintly into the wooden frame by the door—a small overlapping circle, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
That night, the sky turned black once more.
The second Night of Black Moons had come.
Justin sat in his rented car outside Crane's mansion, watching through binoculars. Midnight approached, and the town was silent. Then he saw it—Crane leaving his house, carrying something wrapped in cloth. Justin followed him through the back road leading toward the old factory ruins.
The air was thick with fog as Crane entered the abandoned building. Justin crept inside behind him, silent as a shadow.
Inside, Crane was arranging twenty candles in a perfect circle, just like the marks on the victims' doors. He unwrapped the cloth—inside was a revolver.
Justin stepped out of the shadows. "I'd put that down if I were you."
Crane didn't flinch. "You shouldn't be here, detective."
"You killed them," Justin said quietly. "The women from the factory. You killed them to cover up your insurance fraud. But when people started asking questions, you went on another spree—to make it look like some ritual killer had done it."
Crane smiled faintly. "You're good. Better than the rest."
Justin kept his gun steady. "You murdered twenty innocent women, Crane. Why?"
"Because they wouldn't stay quiet," Crane hissed. "They knew about the fire. They knew I locked the exits that night to save on maintenance. They were going to expose me. So I silenced them."
Justin's jaw clenched. "You slaughtered them to protect your fortune."
Crane's voice broke into laughter—cold, hollow laughter that echoed off the walls. "And it worked. Until you showed up."
He raised the revolver. But Justin was faster. A single shot rang out. Crane stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, the gun clattering to the floor.
Justin approached slowly. "It's over."
Crane sank to his knees, breathing heavily. "You think you've saved this town? Baskerville was dead long before me."
Justin didn't reply. He cuffed the man and called it in.
By dawn, the police had swarmed the area. The news broke within hours: "Gerald Crane, Businessman, Confesses to Baskerville Murders."
Sheriff Dole shook Justin's hand as Crane was loaded into a squad car. "You did what no one else could, son. You gave those women peace."
Justin nodded, exhaustion lining his face. "I just followed the truth."
Martha from the diner arrived with a thermos of coffee. "Guess you weren't cursed after all," she said softly.
Justin smiled faintly. "Maybe not cursed. Just persistent."
He watched as the sun rose over the silent town. The people began stepping out of their houses, blinking into the light like they hadn't seen it in years.
For the first time since that terrible night, Baskerville breathed again.
As Justin turned to leave, he looked up at the sky—clear and bright. No black moons. No shadows. Just daylight, clean and pure.
He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and walked toward his car. Another case closed. Another ghost put to rest.
But as he drove out of town, a single thought lingered in his mind—etched as deep as those overlapping circles on the victims' doors:
Evil doesn't vanish. It waits.
And Justin Gayle would be waiting for it too.