The village of Blackthorn lay smothered in fog, its thatched roofs hunched like old beggars beneath a pale, sickly moon. The church stood at its heart, a squat stone relic with a single bell tower that loomed above the cottages like a watching eye.
No one dared enter the churchyard after dark—not since the incident.
It began with the old bell ringer, Thomas Gray. He had tended the tower for thir...
