The Maiden of the Moon – A Chilling Tale from the Lake

Each evening, as twilight painted the sky with shades of lavender and silver, a young maiden wandered to the village well with a clay jug in hand. Her voice, soft and haunting, floated on the wind as she sang old lullabies passed down from her grandmother. Her songs, though sweet, carried an inexplicable sadness—as if whispering secrets only the night could understand.

One moonlit night, curiosity carried her farther than usual. Lost in melody and thought, she wandered beyond the path she knew. She came upon a lake she had never seen before—its waters shimmered like a thousand tiny stars had sunk beneath its surface. Entranced by its beauty, she slipped off her shoes and dipped her feet in. The water was cool, almost silken, and a strange calm overcame her.

What she didn’t know was that she was being watched.

Drawn deeper by a force she couldn’t name, she waded farther in, the hem of her gown soaking dark with lake water. Her humming quieted, replaced by silence as a strange sensation brushed her heel. Before she could react, a powerful tail coiled around her ankle and pulled her beneath the surface.

The moonlight flickered as ripples scattered outward—and then there was only stillness. Her screams were swallowed by the lake, unheard and unanswered.

The next day, as dusk approached, a weary young man was returning from the market. Arms heavy with goods and head heavy with fatigue, he paused when he heard a soft, melodic voice on the breeze. It was like nothing he had ever heard—aching, beautiful, and lonely. Following the sound, he was led to the lake’s edge.

There, in the center of the water, perched on a smooth, glistening rock, sat a breathtaking maiden. Her golden hair tumbled down her back, the ends dripping with water. Her eyes, though mesmerizing, carried a sorrow deeper than the lake itself. She sang to the moon, her voice echoing across the water like a siren’s hymn.

Unable to resist, the young man stepped into the water, hypnotized by her song. Step by step, he moved closer—until the lake swallowed him whole, never to be seen again.

From that night onward, legends began to spread. They spoke of a maiden of the lake, who appeared only when the moon was high. Her song would drift through the night, pulling lost souls toward her watery realm. Some claimed to have heard her. Few claimed to have seen her. None had ever returned.

But one night, something changed.

Instead of staying perched on her moonlit rock, the maiden walked to the shoreline, her voice louder, more desperate. At that same moment, a young girl carrying a pail passed by the lake, returning from the well. Hearing the song, she stopped—and, to the maiden’s astonishment, began to sing along.

Their voices intertwined in harmony, echoing like twin echoes from across time. The maiden approached the girl, a strange hunger blooming in her chest. The moon grew brighter, illuminating the girl’s innocent face. Without hesitation, the maiden took the girl’s hand and pulled her beneath the water.

As they vanished beneath the surface, the maiden felt something shift within her. The girl’s essence, her energy, flowed into the maiden’s body, awakening a hunger she could not quench. No longer content with mere company, the maiden now yearned for the energy of the living.

From that night forth, she was no longer just a creature of sorrow—she became a predator. The Maiden of the Moon.

Her song became darker, more powerful. With each soul she consumed, the moon above swelled, as though feeding on her evil deeds. Night after night, she lured villagers, travelers, and curious children into her watery grasp.

Then came the night when her power reached its peak.

As she sang under the swollen, luminous moon, the lake began to tremble. One by one, the bodies of her victims rose from the depths—bloated, pale, eyes empty and mouths agape. They walked, dripping and moaning, onto the shore.

The maiden herself emerged from the lake—no longer the ethereal beauty of old. Her hair hung in greasy strands, her skin had faded to a sickly gray. Her teeth had become jagged like broken glass, and her fingernails had transformed into claws sharp enough to tear through flesh.

The night was filled with the screams of the living as the dead walked the earth once more.

And the maiden? She returned to the well from which she once fetched water, her sad song still echoing. But now, it was no longer a lullaby—it was a warning.

Moral of the Story:

Beware the allure of beauty cloaked in sadness. Even the gentlest song can hide the darkest hunger beneath the surface.