It weren’t often I ventured so far north, but whispers of a grisly harvest in the Scottish Highlands couldn’t go ignored. Me da’d told tales o’ the supernatural up them parts, so I knew it’d be a devil of a task.
‘Twere a bleak night, snowdrifts piled knee-high, as I trudged towards the village. My senses prickled, somethin’ rotten in the air. When I finally arrived, the scene before me sent chills clear to me bones.
Crops twisted and black, livestock drained dry, their eyes vacant as empty sockets. Folks gone missing, too, save for a few shiverin’ souls who pointed me toward the source of the misery - a wretched farmhouse, its windows aglow with hellfire.
Me hammer rang out, splinterin’ wood and bone as I burst inside. Fiendish figures danced among the corpses, reapin’ the harvest of the innocent. They didn’t stand a chance against the wrath of the Holy Mother. By dawn, the last of the abominations laid still, and the villagers could sleep safe again, thanks to Sister Annabelle’s steel.
>Soulkyn