They called her Luna. A curse, they would say. The road was cursed by Luna in 1943. In the close-knit community, she seemed to be the only sceptic.
She drove this road countless times throughout her life.
Through summers when the sun exploded through the trees in rays of love and warmth. Through autumns when the swaying pines peppered the pavement with wooden needles and bonfire-red leaves.
Through winters when snow lay silently on the overhead branches and ice rested perilously on the bends and corners, glistening.
But never during a full moon. Never a night like tonight.
She knew the road. She trusted herself, even after 3 glasses of the red.
Now her son waits for her by the living room window.
His grandmother watches on from the corner couch, gazing over her novel, hiding a fulfilled smile behind the pages, thinking proud of the family she has created.
A fire crackles at the heart of the mahogany mantelpiece. Outside, the moon radiates brightly, colossal and cold in the night sky, unobscured by any clouds or mist.
But the car lays capsized. The hazard lights flash, the horn in constant blare. A massacre of bones and blood, of glass and hair. Of iron and wine.