Adventure of Butch 1

The crossroads sits dead under a low moor fog. A lone man paces at the center, coat torn, boots slick with peat.

He stops short when he sees Butch, swallowing hard, eyes flicking to the dark hedges.

The fog tightens around the stones, curling in slow rings like something circling its prey.

A wet rustle moves inside the mist, close enough to breathe on the back of Butch's neck.

Butch lifts the shotgun and sights straight into the mayor's chest. The man freezes, breath snagging in his throat.

The fog bulges between the stones, and a slick, horned shape shifts within it, drawn by the mayor's words.

The mayor staggers backward, hand clawing at his collar as if it has gone tight around his throat.

A dark mass surges from the mist, low and fast, fixing on the mayor alone.

Butch lowers the shotgun. The muzzle dips out of the mayor’s chest line and hangs toward the mud.

The dark surge breaks from the fog, a horned mass shouldering through the stones. It hits the mayor with brutal speed, and he vanishes under it.

His shout cuts short in the mist, swallowed under a heavy crack of impact and a wet scramble of claws in the ruts.

The air slackens at the crossroads. The fog closes in again, hiding the beast and whatever remains beneath it.

Where the mayor stood, there is only a dropped shoe turning in the mud.