But they hadn't stayed on the road. The map was useless in this soup, and the path had long since vanished underfoot.
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. An American Werewolf in London
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. But they hadn't stayed on the road
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. It wasn't a dog, and it certainly wasn't the wind
"David," Jack hissed, his voice cracking. "Did you hear that?"
Voices drifted through the mist as the men from the Slaughtered Lamb appeared, their faces grim as they lowered their rifles. David lay on the cold ground, gasping for air and clutching his shoulder. Jack was shaking but pulled himself toward David's side. As the locals gathered around them, a strange, pulsing heat began to radiate from David’s injury, a sensation that felt far deeper than a simple wound. The moon, though hidden by clouds, seemed to exert a sudden, heavy pull on his very soul, marking the beginning of a nightmare that would follow him all the way to London.