Hungering Teeth.

IX.

APRIL 24th, 1791

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As night descended, a thick fog crept over the water's edge, licking at the shoreline, tempting the daring with its damp, chilling embrace. A gathering formed, silhouettes huddled against the winds, low murmurs echoing against the stillness.

They spoke of the macabre discovery—a body, claimed by the sea's voracious maw. A body, now picked clean by the carrion of the night, save for the stark marks that marred its skin.

The body, mutilated, was but a husk of what it once was, the wounds ghastly and merciless. The horror!

A woman wailed, collapsing onto the sand.

He remained still, taking in the commotion from a safe distance. The thick fog hid his movements as he stealthily circled around the group, enveloping himself in the mist. A figure, veiled by the night, slowly closing in on the newly bereaved.

Such turbulent emotions, such ripe energy to drain—these were the nights he fed on most.
The night was still young, after all.

Humanity, so fragile.

He tuned into the new talk. Demonic? Curse? Bah! An engaging folly to be played upon.

In the hushed corners of the taverns and the quiet, winding alleys of the town, whispers spread like wildfire, igniting fear in the hearts of the townsfolk. But the facts were undeniable: too many had died under mysterious circumstances, too many had simply vanished, leaving behind only cold beds and unanswered questions. The town was no longer safe.

No one ventured out after dusk, and even in daylight, there was tension in the air— a sense that something unseen was lurking just beyond the edges of vision.

The town, fallen under a pall of unease, the kind that settled into bones and made every sound more sinister. The recent spate of deaths—bodies found drained of life, twisted in terror— had rattled even the bravest souls.

People were afraid to speak too loudly, as if the very air had ears and might carry their fears to whatever dark force had taken hold of the town. Talk of a curse, of a demonic presence lurking in the shadows, spread like a sickness, infecting every conversation, every thought.

He leaned close to the nearest individual, his breath warm and ghastly on the poor soul's ear.

"You know the tales, don't you?" he whispered. "What goes around must come around, as the old ones say. The blood moon, it's always been a specter haunting these shores..."

His words sent shivers down the shivering spine and, with practiced skill, he leaned away, leaving the person to ponder the alluring menace of his tale.

Children's lore, of course.

With a grin, he trailed off, leaving the imagination to fill in the blanks. He eyed the woman wailing, her sorrow enticing, and he slipped into the mist once more, slowly circling closer for a more intimate encounter.

"Mark my words, it's no man doing this," a grizzled old fisherman declared, slamming his mug on the table. "No man could leave a body like that, torn to shreds."

"And what do you think it is, then? A ghost? A ghoul?" a younger man scoffed, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

"Whatever it is, it ain't natural," another chimed in, glancing nervously at the darkened windows.

"My mother used to tell stories of curses, a demon summoned by those who dabbled in dark arts. Maybe one of them is walking among us now."

Agnus raised his eyebrows, a chill down his spine as he listened on to the surrounding conversations.

The tavern, usually filled with the raucous sounds of laughter and song, subdued, the patrons huddled together as if trying to stave off the encroaching cold. Each creak of the floorboards, each gust of wind outside, set nerves on edge, and everyone spoke in hushed tones, as if the very walls were listening.

At the local shops, a small group of townsfolk huddled together, faces drawn with worry.
"Have you heard what happened to old Mr. Graves?" one man whispered, leaning closer to the group.

"Aye," another replied, voice tinged with fear. "They found him dead in his bed, his face twisted like he'd seen the devil himself."

A woman, clutching a rosary, shook her head. "And Lily's boy— gone without a trace. She swears he was taken by something unnatural."

The seller, overhearing the conversation, set down his glass with a grim look. "It's the curse, I tell you. The old folks used to warn us, but we didn't listen. Now the evil's come back to claim its due."

"Nonsense. There's no such thing as curses. It's just bad luck."

"Bad luck doesn't explain the disappearances," the seller shot back. "Or the strange markings they found on the church door this morning."

Silence fell over the group, each person lost in their own thoughts. The fear was palpable, a living thing that slithered through the town, coiling tighter with every passing day.
"They say it's a demon. Feeds on our fear."

"I've heard the same. Comes out at night, taking those who stray too far from the light."
The seller sighed, wiping a hand over his face. "We've got to do something before it takes more of us. The priest's been praying day and night, but it don't seem to be enough."

"What can we do?" someone asked, voiced heavy with despair.

The seller paused, eyes darting around the room, themselves might be listening. "We've got to find the source— where it's coming from. Only then can we hope to stop it."

As the group exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the room grew thick enough to cut.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows as though echoing the unease that had settled over the town.

Agnus released a weary sighed, boots crunching on the threshold as he stepped into the warm home. There, he stumbled over a crying Mabel being comforted by Larry. Her body trembling. His heart constricts at the sight.

"Mama?"

"Uncle Lester, they found him, dead this morning washed up by the river." She cried.

Is that why Uncle Lester didn't show up to work today?

"Oh, God." He pulled out a chair, and sat down, feeling lightheaded suddenly.

Whatever was out there, it wasn't finished. And until it was, no one in the town would sleep soundly again.

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ripedsins.