The Blood Moon over the IJssel

Introduction

The IJssel River, a silver ribbon weaving through the Dutch lowlands, had always held an air of quiet mystery. It whispered through ancient towns, lapped gently against weathered bridges, and carried with it the echoes of centuries past. But among the murmured stories of traders and sailors, of Viking raids and medieval wars, one legend stood apart—a tale spoken only in hushed voices, reserved for the superstitious and the wise.

The legend of the Blood Moon.

Every century, when the moon turned red above the river, the dead were said to rise. Not in the form of bones or rotting corpses, but as vengeful wraiths, shadowed figures of those lost to the IJssel’s dark depths. They did not seek peace. They sought justice.

And now, in the quiet town of Zutphen, where history bled into cobbled streets and mist-shrouded canals, the Blood Moon was coming again.

The Scholar’s Warning

Willem Veldkamp had always considered himself a man of reason. As a historian and archivist, he had spent years piecing together the past through brittle manuscripts and faded ink. Ghost stories were just that—stories, born from fear and embellished over generations. But when he stumbled upon *De Vloek van de Bloedmaan* (*The Curse of the Blood Moon*) in the town’s archives, he felt something he could not explain.

The parchment crackled under his fingers as he read:

*"They come when the moon bleeds, rising from the river’s depths. The cursed souls, drowned in injustice, seek vengeance. Flee the water’s edge. Do not heed the whispers. Pray for the dawn."*

The words were scrawled in frantic, uneven script, as if the writer had been desperate to get them down before it was too late.

Outside, the October wind howled against the stained-glass windows of the library. Willem shivered, though the room was warm.

He pushed the book aside and rubbed his temples. It was just folklore, he told himself. Another one of Zutphen’s many ghost stories.

But deep down, something unsettled him.

He needed to know more.

The Omen

The town was alive with anticipation the next morning. The annual festival that accompanied the lunar eclipse had been planned for months—stalls lined the streets, selling spiced cider and warm stroopwafels, while children wove between them, faces painted with stars and moons.

The townspeople had always celebrated the event, dismissing the darker legends as old wives’ tales. Willem wanted to believe the same.

But as he made his way through the square, something felt… off.

A beggar, an old man wrapped in tattered blankets, sat by the church steps, his eyes milky with age. As Willem passed, the man’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.

*"You’ve seen the book,"* the beggar rasped.

Willem froze. *“What?”*

*"You read the words. It’s too late now."* The man’s fingers dug into Willem’s skin. *"You’ve woken them."*

A shudder crawled down Willem’s spine. He yanked his arm away and backed up.

The old man only grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. *"Pray for the dawn, historian."*

Shaken, Willem quickened his pace, heart hammering in his chest.

That evening, as he made his way to Mevrouw Ingrid van Rijn’s home—a historian who knew more about Zutphen’s past than anyone—he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Shadows in the Mist

Mevrouw van Rijn’s house sat at the river’s edge, ivy crawling up its walls. The air smelled of damp earth and burning sage as Willem knocked.

The old woman opened the door without a word, her gray eyes piercing.

*"You should not have read that book,"* she said, before he could speak.

Willem swallowed. *“You believe the legend?”*

She didn’t answer. Instead, she led him inside, past shelves lined with flickering candles and ancient maps. She pulled a worn book from a locked cabinet and placed it on the table.

*"The Blood Moon is not just a story,"* she said. *"It is a reckoning."*

She told him of a forgotten massacre. Centuries ago, during the Eighty Years’ War, Spanish soldiers had stormed Zutphen, slaughtering its people. But the true horror had come afterward—when the survivors, accused of treason, had been bound and drowned in the IJssel.

*"They were innocent,"* Mevrouw van Rijn whispered. *"And when the moon bleeds, their spirits return."*

Willem scoffed, but his hands trembled.

Outside, the first tendrils of mist curled along the riverbanks.

The Rising Moon

By nightfall, the town gathered at the water’s edge. The lunar festival was in full swing—music played, lanterns bobbed on the river, and the sky deepened to a velvet black.

Willem and Mevrouw van Rijn stood by the old stone bridge.

*"Watch the water,"* she said.

The moon climbed higher. And as it did, a strange hush fell over the crowd. The music faltered. The laughter died.

The mist thickened, swirling in unnatural patterns.

Then—voices.

Whispers, soft at first, rising from the river like a forgotten hymn.

*"Help us…"*

The crowd murmured. Some laughed nervously, but others turned pale.

A splash. Then another.

Figures began to rise from the IJssel.

The Drowned

They were not flesh. They were shadows—dark, shifting things wrapped in tattered garments, their eyes empty voids.

People screamed. Some ran. Others were frozen in place.

The wraiths did not attack. They only reached.

One woman, too close to the river’s edge, gasped as icy fingers closed around her wrist. She collapsed, her body drained of color, her lips parting in a silent scream.

*"They are taking the living,"* Mevrouw van Rijn whispered. *"They seek justice, Willem!"*

But justice for what?

The answer struck him like lightning.

*"The church,"* he said.

She nodded. *"The old confessions. The records of their innocence."*

The Reckoning

Willem ran, heart pounding. The wraiths followed.

At the old church, he tore through the archives, searching. Then he found it—the list of the condemned.

They had not been traitors. They had been framed.

He stumbled outside, holding the pages high. *"You were innocent!"* he shouted. *"We know the truth!"*

The wraiths halted.

The bell tolled midnight.

The figures stared at him, their hollow eyes unreadable. Then, one by one, they dissolved into mist, fading into the river.

The moon, once red, paled. The night grew silent.

It was over.

Epilogue: The River Remembers

By morning, the town was quiet. Some claimed they had imagined it. Others swore the dead had walked among them.

Willem stood by the IJssel, staring into its depths.

*"Do you think they’re at peace?"* he asked.

Mevrouw van Rijn sighed. *"For now."*

But as the river flowed, carrying whispers on the wind, Willem wondered.

Some ghosts never truly left.