Chapter 1: The Cry in the Mist
The year was 1939. The mist tore through the roads of Glastonbury like rotten fingers, and in the thick silence of the early morning, a screech pierced the woods. It wasn't human. It was a scratchy, wet sound, like leather being torn by force. Young Harold Pickett, a farmer from nearby, held his rifle shakily, his gaze fixed on the forest ahead. His mare neighed nervously, her hooves slipping on the dirty ice. Another screech echoed, this time closer. Harold smelled it: something sour and ironic, like stale blood mixed with mud.
When the creature emerged from the mist, Harold fired without aiming. The first shot only enraged the monster. It was huge - an unholy amalgam of feline and dog, covered in a skin drenched in a dark, oily fluid. Its eyes, blue and pulsating, gushed tears as thick as mercury. It advanced in a grotesque leap. Harold tried to reload, but the creature's teeth dug into his arm, tearing flesh and exposing bone in seconds. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed up by the night.
When they found the body days later, Harold no longer had a face. His bare skull still oozed blood, and deep claw marks decorated his broken ribs like a macabre embroidery. Etched into the frozen earth next to the corpse was a strange symbol: three parallel claws, each trembling slightly, as if they were still pulsating.
The hunting season had begun.
But it wasn't the man who was hunting.
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