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The House Beneath the Blood Moon

The House Beneath the Blood Moon

Romance
last updateLast Updated : 2026-01-25
By:  Magdeleina Thomson Ongoing
Language: English
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Synopsis

Dark Romance

Vampire

Second Chance

Weak to Strong

Superpower

Contemporary

Mystery

Samantha Hale thought she had it all — a perfect marriage, a thriving career as a software engineer, and the kind of life that looked flawless from the outside. Until she discovers her husband is cheating on her… with her sister. And that her sister is pregnant. Betrayed. Homeless. Broke. One night, Samantha enters a radio contest on a whim — and wins an old Victorian mansion in a forgotten countryside town called Willow Creek. It’s supposed to be her new beginning. But the house has a secret buried deep beneath its foundations. When she unlocks the door to the basement, Samantha finds two stone coffins — and accidentally awakens Lucien Varyn, the long-lost King of Vampires, and his enigmatic right hand, Sebastian. Lucien is dark, magnetic, and far too dangerous. Sebastian is cold, calculating, and hiding something behind his icy loyalty. Both are bound to her by an ancient prophecy neither of them expected to come true. As strange events unfold and old powers stir, Samantha must decide who to trust — and who to love — before the house claims her soul… Because in Willow Creek, under the glow of the Blood Moon, the past isn’t dead. It’s just waiting to be awakened.

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reviews

Zara Night
Zara Night
I love this book its really addictive. Samantha is really something
2026-01-19 19:39:34
0
0
79 Chapters
The Perfect Error
If heartbreak had a sound, it would be silence. Not the calm kind. The kind that presses against your ribs until even breathing hurts. I used to think love was logical. Predictable. Like code — if you gave enough, worked hard enough, believed deeply enough, it would never fail. But love isn’t logic. It’s a system that crashes without warning. My name is Samantha Hale, and I was the perfect equation… until my husband decided to delete me from it. Ethan Hale — my husband, my boss, my biggest mistake. He was the golden man of Hale Technologies: brilliant, charming, a visionary in every sense of the word. People adored him. They saw confidence where I saw control. They saw success where I saw manipulation. We built the company together. He took the credit. I wrote the code. He wrote the speeches. We were partners — or so I thought. He loved efficiency. Precision. Obedience. And I mistook that for love. Our mornings were a ritual. Coffee. Compliments
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System Failure
If grief is a storm, despair is the quiet after it—when the thunder stops but you still hear it echoing inside you. That’s what the second week felt like: the world carrying on, and me left standing in the wreckage, pretending I still existed. --- Monday Rain again. It had been raining for days, the kind of drizzle that seeps through everything—your clothes, your bones, your will. I woke in the driver’s seat of my old Corolla, neck stiff, knees pressed against the steering wheel. My breath had fogged the windows until I was wrapped in my own ghost. The passenger seat was a museum of small failures: an empty coffee cup, the pawn-shop laptop I’d bought for two hundred dollars, a crumpled résumé smeared with rain. The laptop wheezed when I opened it, fan shrieking like a wounded animal, but it still worked. That meant hope—or the simulation of it. I connected to the café Wi-Fi from the parking lot and started applying. Ten applications. Twenty. Thirty. Each one a plea typed i
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The House That Waited
If I’d expected my “fresh start” to come wrapped in lace curtains and sunlight, I should’ve known better. The first thing I saw when I arrived in Willow Creek was a sign that read: > POPULATION: 1,204 (and probably dropping) It leaned sideways, nailed to a post that looked ready to give up on life. Behind it, the countryside stretched in waves of fog and wet trees, the kind of endless green that looked peaceful in photos and terrifying in person. I followed the GPS directions from the radio station’s email — though calling it GPS was generous. The screen blinked “Recalculating…” every five minutes like it was reconsidering my life choices. --- Arrival After two hours of winding roads and self-doubt, I finally saw it. The house. It stood on a hill like something out of a gothic postcard: tall, dark, and absolutely one bad storm away from collapsing. The Victorian architecture would’ve been beautiful a century ago. Now it looked haunted by debt. Paint peeled from the shutters
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Forage Mode Activated
When you haven’t eaten properly in three days, even lemons start to look flirtatious. I woke to the house’s usual dawn playlist : a steady drip from the kitchen, a low groan from the staircase, and my stomach performing percussion like it had artistic ambitions. The blanket I’d found in an upstairs trunk was rough as sandpaper, but at least it was warm enough to stop my soul from leaving my body overnight. “Morning,” I told the ceiling. “Try not to collapse before coffee.” No reply — unless you count one lazy creak. The house had timing. I checked my wallet. Still tragic. Checked the cupboards : one fork, two spoons, a pot, a dusty jar that once held peaches, and pure disappointment. Coffee remained — the instant kind that tastes like burnt rainwater. I boiled actual rainwater from the buckets I’d placed under the leaks and tried not to think about it too hard. The second sip hit and my brain rebooted. That’s when I saw it — a flash of yellow through the kitchen window. Fruit
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Welcome to Willow Creek
When you’ve hit rock bottom, even small-town gossip sounds like background music. Three days of eating canned pears and pretending to be emotionally stable had convinced me of one thing: I needed a job, coffee, and ideally, food that didn’t come from a tree. So, I brushed my hair into something vaguely legal, grabbed the keys to my dying car, and headed toward civilization. The fog was thick enough to taste. Pines hunched over the narrow road, whispering secrets I didn’t care to hear. Finally, a weather-beaten sign emerged from the mist: > WILLOW CREEK — POPULATION: 1,203 (Give or Take a Tragedy) Cute. The diner squatted at the edge of town, its neon OPEN sign flickering like it had trust issues. Inside smelled like bacon, burnt toast, and second chances. The bell above the door jingled, and every head turned. Small towns: where personal space and privacy come to die. A waitress with teased hair, kind eyes, and a name tag that said MARGIE waved me over. “Well,
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wine & woe
Morning arrived like a debt collector with a bullhorn and a grudge.Light barged through the warped kitchen window and stabbed my eyeballs with all the subtlety of a toddler with a plastic sword.My tongue felt like it had been wrapped in carpet.My hair had evolved into a sentient tumbleweed.And somewhere in the Varyn House, a pipe wheezed like a dying dragon rehearsing its final breath.I lay on the couch, cocooned in a moth-eaten blanket that was definitely crocheted during a historical plague, and tried to remember if I’d slept at all.Spoiler: I had not.Not after the breathing I heard beneath the floorboards.Not after my survival instinct politely suggested I stop exploring the murder basement.Something slid under the front door with a genteel shfftt.Mail.I stared at it the way one stares at a spider—if I didn’t move, maybe it would reconsider existing.It didn’t.Fine. I crawled across the floor like a stunned crab.Ivory envelope. Gold edges.The kind of paper that smelle
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The Man in the Coffin
I needed tools. A crowbar. Courage. And maybe a priest who charged by the hour. Instead, I had Brenda, a flashlight with commitment issues, and half a bottle of 1834 Bordeaux whispering, go on, girl, make poor decisions. The stairs creaked beneath me like I’d just announced I was bringing emotional baggage to the afterlife. Each plank groaned, turn back, but I’d already committed—and nothing sobers a woman faster than pride. The air grew colder as I descended. It smelled like dust, iron, and unresolved trauma. Somewhere above, Varyn House moaned in a long, judgy sigh—as if she were the old aunt at a wedding muttering, “this won’t end well.” “Noted,” I muttered, flashlight shaking. “I’ll add that to my Yelp review.” Halfway down, a cobweb tried to mug me. I walked straight through it, squealed, then did the world’s least dignified tap dance. “Fantastic,” I gasped. “Ambushed by interior design.” --- The basement opened around me like a secret the earth had been hoarding.
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The Vampire King Awakens
(From Lucien’s point of view — dark, sardonic, and suddenly starving) --- Death had been quiet. Faithful. Predictable. For two centuries, silence was my only companion—velvet and infinite. When I finally woke, I expected thunder. The tremor of magic. Perhaps even a song from the abyss. Instead, I awoke to snoring. Human snoring. Something warm and soft was sprawled across my chest, breathing loudly, drooling slightly, and—worse—smelling faintly of my 1834 Château de Montclair. I blinked. Slowly. The absurdity of my resurrection sank in. I had not been awakened by destiny or ritual— but by a drunk woman wearing mismatched socks and the scent of stolen wine. She muttered in her sleep, “Five more minutes, Dracula.” …Dracula. Who in God’s forgotten name was Dracula? I moved. She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and she blinked blearily up at me. Our eyes met. Her pupils dilated. Her body went still. She whispered, “Oh my God.” “Yes,” I rasped. “
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Hangovers, Hot Vampires & Brenda’s Boundaries
I woke up to the distinct smell of dust, despair, and possible homicide.For three seconds, my brain floated in blissful blankness.Then memory punched me square in the frontal lobe.Coffins.A heartbeat.A man in said coffin.A vampire.“Oh my God,” I whispered. “He’s real.”Every cell in my body turned into a tiny screaming emoji.I froze on the couch, cocooned in my blanket like a terrified burrito. My gaze darted to the kitchen doorway — shadows. Too many shadows.“Okay,” I breathed. “Let’s think this through. He didn’t kill me last night. Which statistically suggests he’s either friendly, vegetarian, or waiting for marination.”Brenda, the house, creaked gently above me — a sound halfway between you’re fine, sweetheart and run while you still can.Then, from the kitchen, came the low, unmistakable sound of a man moving.Measured. Graceful. Predatory.I peeked around the doorway and immediately regretted every life decision that had led me to this point.There he was — Lucien Vary
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Ring Around the Coffin
By the time night fell, I’d accepted three things. 1. The Varyn House had a mood. 2. My crowbar, Brenda Classic, was my closest friend. 3. I was officially cohabiting with a vampire. Honestly? I’d had worse roommates. The lights above the kitchen table flickered lazily. The bulbs hummed even when the switch was off — like Brenda herself was breathing through the wires. I was surrounded by three coffee mugs, one bleeding pen, and a notebook labeled Operation Anti-Crispy. “Alright,” I muttered, tapping my page. “Goal: find one sunlight-proof vampire accessory, return it to His Royal Broodiness, and maybe stop the house from flirting with me.” “Flirting?” a voice echoed smoothly behind me. I jumped hard enough to spill coffee. Lucien Varyn stepped from the pantry shadows like a full-course gothic hallucination — black coat, perfect posture, and an expression halfway between curiosity and condescension. “You move like a cat burglar,” I hissed. “Do you have to appear out of nowh
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