Over the western hills the sparse, silver clouds are tinged with red. The sun, not yet set gives up it’s daily battle with the revolving Earth.
A slight breeze starts vibrations in the tall grass heads previously still in the heat of the day as the first chill wind from the shore heralds the onset of evening.
The rain-washed, sun-bleached skull lies on the path of low foot-worn grass between the heather tussocks.
Tonight there will be no moon to cast it’s glow over the silent tors. The evening air remains curiously warm, almost sultry.
Imperceptibly, as if guided by some gentle, unseen hand the skullbone is turne to face the darkening Eastern sky. d
In the distance, a low unearthly sound as of the moaning of the wind in the mast of a storm-tossed sailing vessel can just be heard. The skull shudders and begins to roll to the side of the path. Like the growth of moss but vastly accelerated, a black downy growth begins to form a shadow on the stark, white surface. The black down grows longer until it resembles the short, thick fur of a dog. An impression helped by the impression of long limbs and thickset body of a hound which appear to be forming around the single skull.
At last there stands a large hound. Saliva drips from the muzzle as the jaws open showing a row of strong teeth where once were just sockets. Red, unblinking eyes like cinders stare out as snorting nostrils flare and a snarl escapes the shaking head.
Darkness reigns but the black fur is embued with a dull, green lustre. If anyone was near they would start to sense a foetid smell, increasing in strength with each shake of the thick flanks.
While out over the darkening hills the previous low moaning is now distinguishable as the baying of a pack of hounds.
The newly reborn beast raises it’s head turning to the right and left. Upraised newly grown ears point straight up, cocked, listening.
With a snarl and a huge leap the beast runs off in the direction of the approaching pack.
Across the moor a dark-cloaked rider sits atop a heavy black steed. His hood rolls back allowing a glimpse of a white, gaunt cadaver-like grin. He frowns. he struggles to control his rearing horse, while in his free hand he holds a horse-whip which with every flick emits a stream of red and gold sparks. Around the horse’s feet a pack of identical black hounds snarl, circle and fight, cowering at every crack.
Soon the pack will be complete again and the Heath hounds will start their nightly hunt seeking out the souls of the wicked.
When the pen takes control. 