The moon hung full and high in the sky, casting the trees that stood tall like raised lances in a bluish, foggy light. The inspector knew that tonight was the night. The man called the Beast of Baskershire was here. He had terrorized the surrounding villages for months, his attacks notorious for their diabolical savagery. Throats ripped out, bodies torn asunder, internal organs removed and missing. But very soon, whether at the end of a noose or in these very woods tonight, he would meet his end.
The hunt was on.
The inspector tried to move quietly, but each foot fall sounded like a shattering glass to his ear. The old, atrophied muscles used in the woods stirred to life, as if from a deep sleep - groggy at first but warming to the exercise. The rifle he held was heavier than the revolver he was used to, but the wilderness was no place for elegance. It respected only power, and the weight in his hands helped to slow his racing heart.
Movement and sound ahead.
The inspector lowered himself and stalked on. The trees parted and, despite his preparations, he was surprised. Ahead there was a small girl. She wore a white, mud speckled dress and was cowering in the hollow of a fallen tree. He rushed to her side.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” He asked in an urgent whisper.
“*He’s out there…*” The girl shuddered, pointing a thin pale arm towards the fog. “*He killed father…*”
The inspector turned and nodded. “Stay here. I will protect you.”
He moved forward into the gloom, and soon he heard a wet squelching. The inspector advanced, the sound growing louder, until the fog abated slightly, and he saw the opaque form of a man’s back, crouched before something on the ground. His hand rose and fell trailing a syrupy ichor, the act punctuated by the sucking sound. The inspector raised and cocked the rifle. The mechanical click caused the man to start and turn back sharply, and then the silence was shattered by the explosion at the end of the rifle.
The figure jolted, as a burst of crimson misted before him, and collapsed forward over his victim. The inspector kept the rifle trained on the body as he approached. He kicked it over to reveal a grizzled man staring sightless and dead at the sky, with a necklace made of long claws around his neck. The thing he had been crouched over was a wolf the size of a pony. Something clutched in the man’s hand glinted in the moonlight, and through the blood the inspector could see that it was a dagger of silver.
A twig snapped from behind, and the inspector wheeled around to see the little girl approaching from the fog, smiling much too widely. With each step forward her arms and legs grew and tufts of black hair sprang from her tearing white dress. She opened her rapidly elongating mouth, full of sharp, yellow teeth, and barked in a mockery of human speech.
“My... hero…”
The hunt was on.
The inspector tried to move quietly, but each foot fall sounded like a shattering glass to his ear. The old, atrophied muscles used in the woods stirred to life, as if from a deep sleep - groggy at first but warming to the exercise. The rifle he held was heavier than the revolver he was used to, but the wilderness was no place for elegance. It respected only power, and the weight in his hands helped to slow his racing heart.
Movement and sound ahead.
The inspector lowered himself and stalked on. The trees parted and, despite his preparations, he was surprised. Ahead there was a small girl. She wore a white, mud speckled dress and was cowering in the hollow of a fallen tree. He rushed to her side.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” He asked in an urgent whisper.
“*He’s out there…*” The girl shuddered, pointing a thin pale arm towards the fog. “*He killed father…*”
The inspector turned and nodded. “Stay here. I will protect you.”
He moved forward into the gloom, and soon he heard a wet squelching. The inspector advanced, the sound growing louder, until the fog abated slightly, and he saw the opaque form of a man’s back, crouched before something on the ground. His hand rose and fell trailing a syrupy ichor, the act punctuated by the sucking sound. The inspector raised and cocked the rifle. The mechanical click caused the man to start and turn back sharply, and then the silence was shattered by the explosion at the end of the rifle.
The figure jolted, as a burst of crimson misted before him, and collapsed forward over his victim. The inspector kept the rifle trained on the body as he approached. He kicked it over to reveal a grizzled man staring sightless and dead at the sky, with a necklace made of long claws around his neck. The thing he had been crouched over was a wolf the size of a pony. Something clutched in the man’s hand glinted in the moonlight, and through the blood the inspector could see that it was a dagger of silver.
A twig snapped from behind, and the inspector wheeled around to see the little girl approaching from the fog, smiling much too widely. With each step forward her arms and legs grew and tufts of black hair sprang from her tearing white dress. She opened her rapidly elongating mouth, full of sharp, yellow teeth, and barked in a mockery of human speech.
“My... hero…”