The creature's impact was brutal. The schoolhouse door exploded into splinters, hurling Jonathan against the wall like a rag doll. Screams filled the dark hall—cut short, choking, tangled with the sound of flesh being torn apart.
The traps had failed. Wooden stakes embedded in the Glawackus’ limbs, but it didn’t even falter. In response, its fury became transcendent. Each swipe of its claws tore pieces from the survivors, spraying hot blood across the stained walls.
Maggie, one of the children, tried to run. She didn’t make it three steps. The creature reached her with the speed of thunder, smashing her head against the ground until her brain spread like a gray puddle.
Jonathan, half-conscious, watched helplessly. In the corner of his vision, he saw the medallion—that cursed artifact—glowing in the pocket of Malloran, the deranged priest who muttered ancient hymns as the massacre unfolded.
The Glawackus, now covered in human flesh, turned toward the medallion. Something in it changed. A primordial roar—more sorrow than triumph—rose from the monster, so powerful the candles went out in an instant.
In the darkness, the last sounds were wet chewing and ragged breathing.
By dawn, nothing remained of the school but ash, broken bones, and a trail of claw marks leading back into the forest.
Glastonbury’s debt was far from paid.
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