The Bigshot's Superstar Wife - Chapter 151

Chapter 151: Think of One Thing
The whispers began to spread like a sickness, creeping through the quiet village streets. The children who had once laughed and played now sat in silence, their eyes distant and dull.

They spent their days staring blankly at nothing, and their nights tossing and turning, haunted by the song that refused to leave their minds.

The melody lingered inside their heads like a splinter, sharp, painful, and impossible to ignore. No one dared to speak of it, not after Tomas’s disappearance.

The elders had forbidden anyone from mentioning the song, warning that curiosity would only bring more danger.

The children were afraid, terrified of punishment, terrified of the unknown, yet the song’s pull was relentless.

It whispered to them when they closed their eyes, hummed softly from the shadows, and danced just beyond the edge of their hearing.

No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t forget it. Curiosity, however, is a powerful thing, and children are born curious.

One by one, they began to slip away in the dead of night, drawn by that haunting voice. It was never sudden, never a rush or a panicked flight.

Instead, the children wandered calmly, as if pulled by invisible strings. Their feet padded softly on the dirt roads as they made their way toward the forest.

They never seemed afraid, only quiet, distant, and entranced. At first, no one noticed.

A child here, a child there, the villagers believed they had wandered off to play or visit friends.

But when a fourth child went missing, then a fifth, then a sixth, panic began to spread.

The villagers searched the forest again, but as before, no trace of the missing children was found. Only the wind answered their desperate calls.

Desperate for answers, the villagers turned to the foreigners. The strange visitors had long earned the villagers’ trust, after all, they had saved many sick children before.

Surely, they would know what to do now. The foreigners listened carefully as the villagers explained the disappearances.

Their faces darkened with concern, and after a long silence, one of the foreigners, a tall man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel, offered a solution.

“There is an old belief,” the man said. “A spirit dwells in the heart of the forest, an ancient one that feeds on innocence. The song you speak of is its call. It lures children to their doom.”

“What can we do?” the village chief asked, his voice heavy with fear.

The foreigner’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he spoke again.

“You must offer gifts, burn paper money, pour wine, and leave food at the forest’s center. It may calm the spirit, and perhaps… the children may yet return.”

With no other choice, the villagers followed the foreigner’s advice.

That evening, they gathered what they could, bundles of paper money, baskets of fruits and bread, and jugs of rice wine. A group of men, torches in hand, marched into the forest.

They walked in silence, the air cold and damp around them. The deeper they went, the stronger the feeling of unease became, as if the trees themselves were watching.

They reached a clearing, a strange, unnatural patch of land where the trees bent in twisted shapes.

The earth seemed dry and lifeless, yet the air was heavy, as though something unseen lingered close by.

The men built a small fire and burned the paper money, the flames flickering violently as if the air itself tried to smother them.

They left the offerings behind, whispering desperate prayers before fleeing back to the village. But the song did not stop. That night, more children vanished.

The villagers gathered once more, fear and desperation twisting their faces. The foreigners returned, their expressions grim.

This time, they revealed a chilling truth, the song was no simple curse. It was a summoning, a call that awakened something far older and far more dangerous.

“The children,” one foreigner whispered, “are being prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” a mother cried.

The foreigner’s voice dropped lower. “For the Red Blood Moon.”

The words sent a chill through the room. The Red Blood Moon, a rare celestial event that occurred once every century, was said to mark the night when dark forces gained power.

Legends spoke of spirits demanding sacrifices under its crimson glow. And now, the villagers knew that their missing children were part of that sacrifice.

The foreigners claimed that the children were still alive, kept somewhere deep within the forest.

But if they were not saved before the Red Blood Moon, their lives would be claimed forever.

The villagers wasted no time. Armed with axes, torches, and whatever weapons they could carry, they gathered in groups and ventured into the forest.

The air felt heavier than before, colder, and the shadows seemed to writhe like living things.

The song was louder now, a haunting melody that wrapped around their thoughts and made their heads pound.

Hours passed, and the villagers searched desperately, calling, shouting, and pushing through the tangled trees.

Just when hope began to waver, a sharp scream pierced the air. The villagers rushed toward the sound, their torches casting flickering beams across the darkened woods.

They found a clearing, a place where twisted roots jutted from the earth like skeletal hands. In the center stood a stone altar, blackened with age.

The missing children knelt before it, their eyes wide and empty, their bodies unmoving. Strange red markings covered their arms, and their faces were pale as death.

Surrounding them were figures, shadowy beings that flickered like smoke, their eyes glowing red beneath the moon’s rising light.

The villagers attacked without hesitation. Torches swung, flames danced, and shouts rang out. The shadowed figures let out inhuman screeches, retreating like mist before a wind.

One by one, the villagers snatched the children away from the altar, dragging them back toward the trees.

But the forest fought back. Roots twisted and lashed at their ankles, and the shadows lunged with clawed hands.

The villagers struck back, setting branches ablaze and cutting down anything that moved.

Finally, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the villagers stumbled back into their village, bruised, bleeding, but victorious. The children were alive, though dazed and weak.

The foreigners vanished soon after, their presence fading like smoke in the wind. No one knew where they went or why they had come in the first place.

But some believed they had known all along, that they had been the ones who summoned the darkness in the first place. Perhaps the sacrifices had been part of their twisted plan.

The villagers mourned those they had lost, but they never forgot the lesson the forest had taught them.

From that day forward, no one wandered alone at night, and the sound of singing was met only with cold, fearful silence.

And on nights when the wind howled through the trees and the air grew heavy with dread, the villagers knew, deep in their hearts, that something still lingered out there, waiting for another chance to call.