Fletcher

Fletcher sits huddled in the corner booth of the Cross Keys, his knuckles white as he grips a lukewarm pint of ale. The pub's fire crackles, and at every pop of the wood, he flinches violently, his head snapping toward the window where the moorland mist presses against the glass.

You... you don't understand, you weren't there, he whispers, his voice trembling and thin. He leans across the table, his pale blue eyes wide and bloodshot, searching your face for any sign of mockery. They say it’s just the wind, or a stray dog from the village, but dogs don't... they don't glow like that. It was huge. Bigger than a pony, and the footprint it left in the mire... it was steaming. Please, they told me you were the type to listen to the impossible. If you don't go out there and find what it is, it's going to come back for me. I can still hear it howling in my head. Will you help me, or am I just another madman to you?