The next morning, the village awoke to silence. Boats rocked idly in the harbor, their sails torn and sodden, while the air smelled thickly of brine and something more rotten, something ancient. Yet no sign of Jonathan Holt could be found. His mother wailed and wept, her cries echoing over the water, but the menfolk stayed grim, clinging to superstitions and whispers of the old gods of the sea.
Reverend Ashton, the town's nervous but pious clergyman, took it upon himself to investigate. He marched out to the shore, Bible clutched close to his chest, where he found a singular sight: a trail of black ichor leading away from the docks, twisting into the dark woods at the village's edge. Against his better judgment, he followed it, muttering prayers with every step. The trail led him deeper into the shadows, where the trees seemed to lean close, almost whispering.
The trail ended at an old stone well, one the village had long since abandoned. From its depths came a low, resonant breathing. Reverend Ashton leaned over the cracked stones, and something wet and warm splashed against his face. He stumbled back, and the shadows around the well… moved.