The windmill on the Texas ranch creaked as it turned, its rust-flaked blades casting giant shadows in the moonlight—like a colossal praying mantis perched on its wooden frame. Each rotation of the six tattered vanes let out a groan: squeak… crack—as if the whole thing might snap off its rotted axle and crash down any second. Wind whistled through the gaps in its skeleton, a sound like a woman weeping, clinging to every inch of the land. The air smelled of hay and cow manure, that earthy, rural tang, but tonight it carried a faint undercurrent of something metallic—blood, diluted so thin it might've been mistaken for the sharp sweetness of wildflowers, if you didn't pause to sniff harder.
Crickets chirped in the distant grass, a jumbled night song, occasionally cut by a wolf's howl drifting from the northwest hills—long and raw, adding an edge of wild danger to the quiet. Colton slid the last bullet into his Winchester, the click of metal on metal sharp in the stillness, as if shattering some fragile peace. His fingers were pale with tension, knuckles tight, the calluses on his palm—worn thick from years of gripping a rifle—dimpling as he curled his hand.
This Winchester Model 1894 lever-action had been his father's. Etched into the receiver was the family crest: a standing bull with olive branches twined around its horns, designed back in 1870 when his grandfather first staked claim here. The wooden stock was polished to a deep amber sheen, covered in tiny scars—pockmarks from run-ins with rustlers, a dent from a horse's hoof, even the lopsided scratch of his own childhood initials, carved with a pocketknife. It had been with him forty-three years, since he was eight and his dad first guided his finger to the trigger. It was part of him.
The moonlight over the barn was red as blood, eerie and vivid, painting the ranch in an omen. Not the bright flush of sunset, but a dull, clotted crimson—as if the sky had split open, oozing. Colton remembered his grandmother calling it "Indian Blood Moon" when he was a boy, a sign from the ancestors that disaster was coming. He'd laughed it off as an old wives' tale, but tonight, with that moon hanging low, he felt the fear crawl down to his bones.
He'd found three gutted Angus cattle by the fence, their bodies splayed across the ground, black hides glinting weirdly under the red light. The bull closest to the fence had its front legs still splayed, like it had kicked for a moment before dying. Blood pooled from their slit bellies, soaking the grass into a dark, sticky mire, thick with the stench of iron. Flies already swarmed, a maddening buzz.
But what made his hair stand up? Their organs, laid out in a perfect circle. Heart in the center, a tiny, pulsing blood moon. Liver and lungs ringed around it, neat as clockwork. Intestines, smoothed out and coiled into a second ring, edges tied in precise knots. The four stomachs on the outer rim, arranged by size, like the numbers on a clock. It was identical to the drawing in his grandfather's diary, dated July 16, 1943—down to the angle of the spleen.
Grandfather's words echoed in his head, those scratchy, quill-written lines: "…the blood moon rises, the devil walks the ranch, sacrificing cattle to draw his cursed circle. He who sees it shall bleed within three days—only a blood offering of kin will still his wrath…" The diary ended there, the pages torn out after, ragged edges as if someone feared writing more. He'd thought it senility, back then. Now?
He pulled out his phone, tried to call the sheriff, but the screen read No Service—cold, white letters. The ranch sat out in the far west Texas boonies, signal always spotty, tonight nonexistent. He sighed, slipped it back, his thumb brushing the family crest on the rifle. Only himself and this gun, now.
"Need a hand, rancher?" A low voice emerged from the shadows, cutting the silence. It sounded like wood scraped with sandpaper—rough, gravelly—carrying through the wind and crickets, hitting Colton's ears like a nail.
Colton spun, raising the rifle, finger on the trigger. The sights glinted under the blood moon, locking on the deep shadow by the barn wall. A man stepped out, wearing a Stetson pulled low, brim hiding most of his face. All Colton could see was a cigar clamped between his teeth, unlit—dark brown, hand-rolled, by the look of it.
The man wore a brown leather jacket, caked in dust and grease, like he'd dragged it through desert sand. Elbows patched with mismatched leather, stitching messy but tight. Jeans tucked into boots, pant legs crusty with dried mud, splotches like abstract art. Silver studs on his boot heels clicked against the dirt as he walked—tap… tap—a rhythm, almost ritualistic, matching the windmill's squeak in a creepy sort of harmony.
He stopped ten feet from Colton, right hand hanging loose, left holding a dark brown saddlebag. The leather was stiff, edges frayed, canvas lining peeking through. He didn't move closer, just tilted his head slightly, the shadow under his hat shifting, like he was studying Colton.
"Stay back!" Colton's voice trembled, tight with tension. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he slowly opened the saddlebag. The drawstring came undone with deliberate slowness, like a ceremony. A chill rolled out when it opened, sharp against the humid air. Inside, lined up neat as soldiers, were scalpels—over a dozen, different sizes, blades glinting under the blood moon like rows of cold teeth.
"This one'll make the rustler walk into the sheriff's office by noon tomorrow," the man said, pulling a medium-sized scalpel from the bag—thin, sharp enough to slice air. "Even the cow carcass he stashed in the silo'll point him out. But here's the catch: on the full moon, your champion thoroughbred drowns in the water trough."
Colton's finger squeezed the trigger, the rifle butt digging into the old scar in his shoulder. Five years back, rustlers—three masked men—had snuck in to steal his best Angus. He'd chased them alone, fought them in the north canyon. He'd driven them off with this Winchester, saved the herd, but taken a shotgun blast to the shoulder. The scar still ached on rainy days, or when he was stressed—needles, reminding him how close he'd come.
Last week, the bank man had nailed a notice to the porch: white paper with the bank's seal, black letters cold as a tombstone. "Failure to repay by July 30 will result in seizure and auction of all assets: land, livestock, structures, and improvements…" Colton could still see the man's eyes—bored, dismissive, like he was looking at a bum.
Six generations. Since 1870, when Granddaddy Joseph bought this land with his Civil War pay. His dad learned to ride here, Colton learned to shoot, his boy took his first steps in the yard. Every oak, every creek, every clod of dirt held a memory. He couldn't lose it.
He thought of the clipping his grandfather had clutched when he died—a 1938 Dallas Morning News society page, yellowed, with a black-and-white photo: the local sheriff, drowned in a horse trough, body curled, fingers clawing the edges, face frozen in terror. In his hand? A scalpel, blade up, like an offering. And on his left forehead—a scar, curved like an upside-down moon. Just like the man in front of him.
Grandfather had been eighty-seven, gasping, frail as a moth. He'd pressed that clipping into Colton's hand, his thin fingers locking around Colton's wrist with surprising strength. "He's back… he's back…" he'd mumbled, eyes glassy but terrified. "Blood moon… cows… thoroughbred…" He never finished. Just stared, wide-eyed, and died.
"Who are you?" Colton's voice was hoarse, the rifle wavering slightly, but the sights stayed on the man's chest. This wasn't right. He was tied to the cattle, to Granddaddy's death, to that clipping.
The man took off his hat, revealing a scar on his left forehead—shaped exactly like the circle of cow organs, a 诡异 match. Three centimeters long, ragged, as if made by a blunt blade, glowing dark red under the blood moon, like it still bled. "Knife peddler," he said, voice still rough but steady, certain. "In the FBI's spooky files? They call us 'Western Phantoms.' File 731."
He pulled a yellowed contract from his jacket, held it between two fingers, offered it. Colton hesitated, didn't take it. The man shrugged, laid it on the ground, nudged it over with his boot.
It was sheepskin, edges singed like from fire, turned dark brown with age. The writing was in thick black ink, fluid, old-fashioned. Colton recognized Granddaddy's hand—the signature "Elias Colton" matched the one in the family album. Next to it, a faint stamp: a bull, similar to the crest, but off somehow.
"Your grandfather mortgaged this land in 1945," the man said, voice flat, like he was reciting a grocery list. "Traded for a tornado that made the locusts swerve around the ranch. Now it's your turn to pay."
Colton read the contract. "I, Elias Colton, mortgage all of Colton Ranch to the knife peddler in exchange for a tornado, to divert all locusts, harming no grass nor beast. Price: when the blood moon returns, three Angus shall be sacrificed. On the following full moon, the finest thoroughbred on the ranch shall drown at the water's edge, to settle this debt. Signed: Elias Colton. Witness: Knife Peddler. June 17, 1945."
He'd heard of the 1945 tornado—one of the worst in Texas history, flattening counties, killing folks. It had hit here, too—ripped up oaks, torn off the barn roof, even sucked the pond dry. But the locusts? They'd swarmed everywhere else, devouring crops, stripping fields. Somehow, they'd avoided Colton Ranch, like an invisible wall held them back.
People called it a miracle. The preacher came to pray, thanked God. Granddaddy became a local hero, "blessed by the Lord." Colton had grown up hearing the stories. Never knew it was a deal.
"Why should I believe you?" Colton tried to sound calm, but fear coiled in his gut, threatening to choke him. This had to be a dream. This man was crazy. The cattle? A wild animal.
The man chuckled, low, like it came from underground. He nodded at the cattle. "You can disbelieve. But you've seen what happens to cows." He paused, his gaze seeming to go right through Colton. "Or maybe your family's next. Your wife. Your boy. Your little girl…"
Family. The word hit Colton like a fist. Mary, his wife—gentle, steady, twenty years of keeping the ranch and kids and him together. Thomas, eighteen, just got into UT, wanted to be a vet, come back to fix the herd. Lily, twelve, chasing butterflies in the pasture, her laugh the sweetest sound.
He couldn't let them get hurt.
Thoughts raced: Call for help? No signal, and who'd believe this? Fight? The man was too strange, too tied to Granddaddy's fear. Run? Where? This was their home, six generations of roots.
He hesitated, long enough for the windmill to turn thirty times, long enough for three more wolf howls. Finally, he lowered the rifle, voice heavy with defeat. "I'll do it."
The man didn't look surprised. He tossed the scalpel—silver arc in the red light—landing point-up in the grass at Colton's feet. "Take it. By noon tomorrow, it'll all play out." He turned, walked into the dark, steps steady, no hurry. His shape vanished into the barn's shadow, like he'd never been. Only his Stetson lay on the ground, abandoned.
Colton picked up the scalpel. It was cold, etched with odd symbols—like ancient writing. He pocketed it, then stared at the cattle. Pain and anger burned in his chest. He didn't know if the peddler was telling the truth, didn't know what would happen to Lightning—his champion Arabian, white as snow, fast as a streak, winner of the rodeo three years back. Thomas loved riding him, Lily loved brushing his mane, feeding him carrots. He was family.
Colton grabbed a shovel, started digging. Had to bury them before Mary or the kids saw. The dirt was hard, each shovel full a struggle. Sweat soaked his shirt, sticking to his back. The blood moon painted him red, his shadow stretching long, a monster on the ground.
"Colton men don't bow to fate," his dad used to say. But here he was, trading his horse to a ghost, just to keep the ranch. Shame burned, but he had no choice.
By the time he'd buried the cattle, the sky was lightening, the blood moon fading to a pale crescent. The windmill still creaked, but it sounded… quieter, somehow.
He trudged back to the house. Mary and the kids slept. He peeked in their rooms, kissed Mary's forehead—her brow was furrowed, like she dreamed bad things.
In the kitchen, he laid the scalpel on the table, studied it under the light. The blade was thin, almost see-through. The symbols meant nothing to him. He touched the edge—sharp, a tiny drop of blood welled on his finger. It fell onto the blade, vanished instantly. No trace. Like it had never been there.