Story 1053: Last Howl of the Hollow Pack

In the deepest folds of the Mourning Pines, beneath a sickle moon, a cursed lineage stirred.

They were once men—hunters, trappers, outlaws—but greed led them to a forbidden grove where the veil between man and beast was thin as spider silk. There, they drank from a silver spring said to belong to Lyka’ru, an ancient wolf god of ruin.

That night, the Hollow Pack was born.

Gnashing, slavering monstrosities bound not by blood but by hunger. Their howls echoed through generations, tethered to the land by ancient rites and unfulfilled oaths. They vanished during the first zombie wave… or so the tales claimed.

But now, they’ve returned.

And they are starving.

Salem Locke, cryptozoologist-turned-ghoul-hunter, found himself following mangled corpses into the Pines—victims shredded, not bitten. The signs were wrong. This wasn’t the work of zombies.

This was older.

Deeper.

Feral.