Harold's body hadn't even cooled down when new reports arrived at the police station. An entire family, the Marrows, had been found dead on their farm, a few kilometers from the first scene. The officers who answered the call came back mute, empty-eyed, as if they had seen hell itself.
On the kitchen floor, the remains of the Marrows formed a mosaic of horrors. The entrails were arranged in a spiral, as if the creature was playing with the flesh of the dead. Little Jacob, only five years old, had been nailed to the wall with his own ribs, broken and nailed to the boards. Mrs. Marrow's head lay on the table, her mouth torn into a grotesque smile, exposing her gaping jaw.
The smell was unbearable: a mixture of early putrefaction and a strange, metallic odor that filled the air like an invisible plague. On the floor, in addition to the dark blood, there were circular marks, as if something gigantic had dragged itself across, smearing everything with a sticky slime.
In the center of the room, on the blood-soaked carpet, someone - or something - had drawn the symbol again: three parallel claws, deep, freshly made, vibrating slightly on the still damp ground.
Sheriff McCoy, hardened by years of service, vomited before he even left the house. Something was wrong. This was no ordinary beast.
And now Glastonbury was just the beginning.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
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