All was quiet in the village, save for the wind in the trees. Overhead, the full moon shone, bathing the town and surrounding forest in an eerie yellow light. It was a perfect night.

And perfect it would have been. That all changed when scouts came back from the forest, bloodied and panting. Bombarded by questions, they made their way to the Governor’s manor. Soon after their entrance, Jack, the town crier, could be seen swaying his pumpkin lantern, shouting, “By Governor’s Order, all doors are to be locked. Windows will be shuttered and barred. Children are to stay in the cellars. We are under attack.”

And so, preparations had been made. Doors shut tight and windows sealed, the townspeople huddled in basements with their children. When asked why, the parents hushed their little ones; it was all a game. If only it were so.

They waited. For what, exactly, couldn’t be certain. All that was know was the fact that something was coming, and it was dangerous.

Hours passed. With each minute gone by, the fear grew. If only they knew what was coming. Then they might seek to reassure themselves. But no word had come from the Governor: They were alone.

Tension rose. The people were near rebellion. Before much longer, the thread would snap, unleashing the hound.

Reveries were broken as the wind picked up. It threw itself against walls, seeking entry. Finding none, it screamed its frustration. Shutters rattled, threatening to be ripped from their hinges. Then just as it seemed the gale was victorious, it stopped.

Villagers looked at the ones sitting next to them: Is it over? Have we won? A howl pierced the stillness. On all sides, it was answered.

A single collective thought passed among the villagers, along with a sense of cold dread: Werewolves. We are going to die.