David’s breath hitched in his throat as the fog rolled over the Yorkshire moors like a thick, grey shroud. Beside him, Jack was already shivering, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. They were miles from the Slaughtered Lamb, the pub where the locals’ eyes had followed them with a mixture of pity and warning.
They scrambled across the uneven ground, boots slipping on slick grass and hidden rocks. Behind them, the sound of heavy paws thudding against the peat grew closer. David could hear the creature’s labored breathing, a wet, rhythmic huffing that sounded like a steam engine. An American Werewolf in London
"Stay on the road," the old man had whispered, his hand trembling as he gripped his ale. "Keep clear of the moors." David’s breath hitched in his throat as the
Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the damp earth itself. It wasn't a dog, and it certainly wasn't the wind. It was something heavier, something ancient. They scrambled across the uneven ground, boots slipping
Jack tripped, falling heavily onto the damp earth. Before he could scramble up, the massive shadow was upon them. David lunged toward his friend, swinging his heavy pack to distract the beast. The creature let out a fierce snarl, turning its yellow eyes toward David. In a flash of movement, David felt a sharp, searing pain across his shoulder as he was knocked backward.