Chapter 141

The village of St. Anselm, nestled in the shadow of the Alps, had always been a quiet place. The stone houses were old, their roofs sloped like the hills that encircled the town, and the streets were often empty, save for the occasional farmer walking from his barn or children running through the snow.

Life moved slowly there, untouched by the fast pace of the outside world. But for all its isolation, it was not a place of peace. There was a strange, creeping unease that clung to the village, like a quiet sickness no one could name. The people didn't speak of it, but they all felt it.

It started with the dogs. At first, it was just the sound. A low, rasping growl that would echo through the night, coming from the dense woods that bordered the village. People tried to ignore it, convincing themselves it was just wild animals. But then the bodies started showing up.

One by one, the dogs of the village began to disappear. No one saw them go, but soon enough, there were no more barking, no more playful yips echoing through the streets. Just silence. Then, one morning, old Frau Keller found the remains of her shepherd dog at the edge of the forest, its body torn apart as if something had shredded it with a vicious hunger.

It was only the beginning. The other dogs followed, their corpses appearing in the most unlikely places: a trail of mangled bodies leading from one house to the next, with no clear explanation.

Rumors began to spread. People whispered about the ghosts, the restless spirits of dogs who had once been abandoned or killed by hunters. Some said they had returned to seek vengeance, while others claimed they were the spirits of dogs who had been wronged in some way. But whatever the truth was, it didn't matter. The village was terrified.

Friedrich, a young man who had lived in St. Anselm his entire life, had always been skeptical of such things. He couldn't believe in ghosts, couldn't believe in curses. But as the bodies piled up, even he started to feel the weight of something dark and malevolent pressing against the town.

It wasn't just the bodies of the dogs that disturbed him. It was the eyes. The eyes of the dead animals seemed to follow him, their vacant stares burned into his mind. He couldn't escape them. They were everywhere.

Then the dreams started.

At first, Friedrich thought it was just the stress getting to him. But soon, the dreams became too vivid, too real to ignore. Every night, he would see the same thing: a pack of ghostly dogs, their fur tattered and slick with blood, stalking through the woods under the pale moonlight. They would circle around him, their eyes glowing with an unholy fire, their jaws snapping as they came closer and closer. And always, just before they reached him, he would wake up, his heart pounding in his chest.

But the dreams didn't stop. They grew worse. Each night, the pack grew larger, more violent. Friedrich began to fear sleep itself. He started to avoid the woods, staying inside his house, locking the doors and windows at night. But it was no use. He couldn't escape the nightmares.

One evening, after another long day of work, Friedrich ventured into the village square. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sound the crunch of his boots in the snow. The wind had picked up, howling through the narrow alleys, sending shivers down his spine.

As he walked past the church, he saw old Father Marius standing in the doorway, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as though in prayer.

"Friedrich," the priest said when he noticed him, his voice low and strained. "Have you heard?"

Friedrich nodded. "The dogs, yes. Everyone's talking about it."

Father Marius's eyes flickered with something like fear, but he quickly masked it. "It's not just the dogs, my son. It's something worse. Something ancient. We've angered the spirits of the mountains, and now they are coming for us."

Friedrich laughed, though it was a nervous sound, full of doubt. "Spirits? Ghost dogs? Come on, Father. That's just superstition. There's a logical explanation for all of this."

The priest's face hardened. "Sometimes, Friedrich, there is no logical explanation. Sometimes, evil walks in the world, and there is nothing we can do to stop it."

Friedrich wasn't sure if he believed Father Marius or not. But something in the priest's eyes—something desperate—made him uneasy. He nodded curtly and turned to leave, but the old man's voice stopped him.

"Don't go into the woods, Friedrich," the priest said, his words slow and deliberate. "Not at night. The dogs… they are waiting for you."

Friedrich dismissed the warning with a laugh, but the uneasy feeling stuck with him. That night, as he lay in his bed, the howling wind outside seemed to carry with it a voice, a low growl that seemed to call his name. His heart began to race, and for the first time in weeks, he feared sleep. He tried to close his eyes, but his mind was a storm, his thoughts a chaotic mess of shadows and dread.

When he did fall asleep, the dreams returned.

But this time, they were different. The dogs weren't just circling him—they were coming for him. He could feel their cold breath on his skin, could hear the snap of their jaws as they closed in. They were so close now, so close he could almost reach out and touch them. He tried to scream, but his mouth was dry, his voice caught in his throat.

Suddenly, one of the dogs lunged at him, its mouth open wide. Friedrich felt its teeth sink into his flesh, the pain sharp and intense. He screamed, but no sound came out. The dog pulled back, its jaws dripping with his blood, and then another dog took its place. And another. And another.

Friedrich woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest. But the pain didn't go away. His arm throbbed where the dog had bitten him, and when he looked down, he saw that his skin was torn, the flesh ripped open in jagged lines. He stumbled out of bed, his breath coming in short gasps, and rushed to the mirror.

His reflection was a nightmare. His face was pale, his eyes wild with fear, but it was the bite on his arm that horrified him. The wound wasn't healing. It was getting worse. His skin was blackening, as though the infection had already set in.

Panic gripped him. He stumbled outside, desperate to find help, but when he reached the village square, he found it empty. The houses were all silent. No one was awake. The air felt suffocating, as if the very village had been swallowed by some dark force.

Then he heard it—the growl. A low, guttural sound that came from the woods. Friedrich froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he turned his head, and there, standing at the edge of the forest, was the pack of dogs. They were bigger than before, their eyes glowing with a malevolent fire, their fur matted with blood and dirt.

He backed away, his legs trembling beneath him, but the dogs didn't move. They just stared at him, waiting.

In that moment, Friedrich realized that he was never going to escape. The dogs had come for him, and there was no one left to save him.

With a final scream, he turned and ran. But no matter how fast he ran, no matter how far he went, the dogs were always right behind him. The sound of their paws hitting the snow was like a drumbeat in his ears. They were closing in on him, and there was nowhere to go.

Friedrich collapsed in the snow, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The dogs were on him now, tearing into his flesh with a ferocity that sent waves of agony through his body. But as they devoured him, he couldn't help but think of the one thing that had haunted him all along: the eyes. The eyes of the dead dogs, always watching, always waiting.

And now, he was just another one of them.