A biting wind swept across New Haven as George, Lucy, Jackie, Stephanie, and a handful of trusted fighters took up their positions around the cemetery's edge. Each of them clutched makeshift wooden stakes, the pointed tips carefully whittled and soaked in holy water, their surfaces gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The air felt thick, charged, as though the land itself held its breath.
The silence pressed down on them, so absolute that even the faint rustle of leaves sounded ominous. Then, from the depths of the cemetery, an unnatural chill swept over them, carrying with it the faintest stench of decay. It was a scent that didn't belong here, a vile mixture of mold and rot, mingling with something metallic, almost like old, stale blood.
George tightened his grip on his stake, casting a wary glance around the graves. "Stay sharp. They could come from anywhere."
