The Last Full Moon.
Charlotte was going hunting. She waited until an hour after sundown and then set out, taking only her heaviest cloak and her sturdiest pair of boots. The cottage door closed behind her as the wind whipped down the side of the mountain. The trunks of the trees stirred and groaned, as though their sleep had been disturbed. It was late autumn and Charlotte felt the cold down deep in her bones. She wanted to turn around and go back inside, to just sit by the fireplace and wait for the morning. But she couldn’t. There were no stars in the sky. A pale yellow moon drifted in and out of the clouds as they passed. A full moon meant danger, it meant fear and anger and horror, and more often than not it meant death. …