Logbook — April 19th, 1891
The train cut across the tracks with a metallic groan, muffled by the cold morning wind. With each jolt, I watched through the window as the fields stretched out like a green shroud — hiding something, a secret the earth itself refused to reveal. I carried my old notebook, and with it, the uneasy feeling that something terrible was stirring behind the fog.
- Conductor: "Mr. Whitaker, another one's gone missing." - Said, handing me yesterday's newspaper. The headline, smudged with soot, spoke for itself.
I disembarked at the small rural station and followed the familiar path. I passed the church and, as always, offered a brief prayer. My fingers trembled against the rosary — not from faith, but from doubt. The disappearances had begun to touch everyone, even my family's trade. Without wool, there was no production. And without production, no livelihood.
My first visit of the day was to old Billy. He waited by his gate, leaning on his cane, his eyes heavy with the kind of weariness that comes from seeing too much.
- Billy: "The sheep seem stronger, Mr. Whitaker. Since… since it started."
- Whitaker: "It?" - I asked, narrowing my eyes.
- Billy: "The bites, the marks… but no open wounds. Only fresh scars, as if something had… blessed them."
He trembled as he spoke, though there was a strange glimmer in his tone — part fear, part fascination. I took note of his words and left him there. I cannot explain why, but that word — "blessed" — echoed in me with quiet discomfort.
Early Morning — April 20th, 1891
Night fell thick and still, as if time itself had stopped to listen. Outside, howls rose from the forest. They weren't wolves. Nor coyotes. The sound had a deeper tone, almost human. I surrounded my tent with a makeshift barricade. No bear could cross that — or so I hoped.
The morning came far too silent. Not a bird. Not even the wind. The calm mocked me.
I decided to continue my investigation and found an elderly woman. Her name was Evelyn. Her gaze was misted, but her voice carried an unsettling clarity.
She told me that her great-great-grandmother once spoke of a tale about a man dressed in black. She gave few details — only that, wherever that man passed, there was always the presence of a dog-shaped creature.
- Evelyn: "It's not the dog that kills." - She murmured. - "But wherever it walks, it leaves traces — bites, scratches. They appear even when no one sees it act."
- Evelyn: "You're chasing what shouldn't be found, young man."
- Whitaker: "I'm only after the truth."
- Evelyn: "Truth has teeth… and sometimes it bites those who chase it."
She served me tea, and foolishly, I accepted. The warmth comforted me — until the world began to spin. Darkness followed.
I awoke in the cellar. Coarse ropes dug into my wrists, the air thick with mold and rust. Still dazed, I slid my arm toward the small knife hidden in the lining of my coat. With a twist, the blade caught the cord, and I cut myself free.
Voices drifted from above. One was Evelyn's. The other belonged to a man — low, deliberate, wearing a mask of white fur and a dark suit.
- Man: "Good thing you caught him before he met the priest."- Evelyn: "I had to draw his attention. Now we can take him out of the way."
A chill crawled through my spine. "Before he met the priest"? What did they mean? I tried to quiet my breathing, but the dust betrayed me — I sneezed.
The man turned sharply. Evelyn gasped, but before she could speak again, he plunged a blade into her chest. The sound was dull, final. Her body fell like an empty sack.
The man descended the stairs slowly. Each step creaked like breaking bones. The lantern's dim light carved his outline against the dark. I hid beneath the staircase, heart hammering in my ribs.
He stopped just a few feet away. His breathing was heavy, animal-like, as if he were sniffing the air. The blade in his hand glinted with the lantern's tremor. When he took the first step forward, instinct took over — my knife cut deep into the tendon of his ankle.
He collapsed, howling in pain, the lantern crashing to the ground and dying in the dark. I used the blackness as my ally and bolted up the stairs, tripping and stumbling toward the door.
The cold air of the night struck my face like a slap. I ran. Didn't look back. I caught the afternoon train, and the rattle of the rails was the only thing that kept my sanity from breaking.
I reached home safely. Yet Evelyn's voice — or what remains of it — still whispers in my mind: "Truth has teeth…"
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps I truly should find that priest.