The scream rose from the far end of Mill Street.It was short, cut off, like a throat crushed before it could finish.
Clara heard it as she was walking home. She froze, clutching her coat tighter around her, the fog thickening until the lamps along the street were no more than blurred halos. For a moment, she thought of running back to the café. But something—curiosity, or perhaps the subtle pull of fear itself—drew her forward.
She found nothing but silence.No body. No blood. Only the echo of footsteps retreating into the dark.
When she turned back, he was there. The stranger. Standing where no man should have been able to stand, not without her hearing him approach. His coat hung around him like a shroud, his eyes reflecting the faint light with the hunger of a wolf.
"Best go home, miss," he said softly, voice deep enough to shiver in her bones.And then he was gone.