The rain lashed against the windows of The
Crow’s Nest, a grimy pub on the edge of
Blackmoor Vale. Inside, Detective Eliza Hart
nursed a halffinished pint of bitter, her eyes
fixed on the flickering gaslight. She had been
suspended from the force for taking a bribe—
though she’d rather have said she’d taken a deal—
and now found herself in a place where no one
asked questions. Not even the barmaid, who
served her without a word.
The town had changed since she last walked its
cobbled streets. Once a bustling market hub, it
was now a hollow shell of itself, its people
wary, its air thick with something old and
unspoken. A new name had spread through the
village like poison: The Hollow Pack.
Eliza had heard the whispers before, but only
now did they feel real. A man had been found
dead in the woods, his throat torn open, his
body arranged in a circle of stones. No signs of
struggle. Just a clean, vicious wound. And a
single silver coin pressed into his palm.
She knew what that meant. Silver killed the
cursed.
Her phone buzzed—a text from her expartner, DI
Tom Granger. “You’re not going to like this. The
coroner says the victim was bitten before death.
No trace of the bite. But the blood… it’s not
human.”
Eliza’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just a
murder. It was a message.
The Hollow Pack had been a myth, a tale told by
firelight to scare children. But if they were
real, they were hiding in plain sight. And
someone wanted her to find them.
That night, she followed a trail of bloodstains
from the woods to the abandoned chapel at the
town’s edge. Inside, the air reeked of damp
stone and something metallic. At the altar lay a
journal, its pages brittle with age. The entries
spoke of a pact made centuries ago, of a curse
passed down through generations, of a price paid
in blood.
One passage stood out: “The hunter becomes the
hunted when the moon turns red.”
The next morning, Eliza visited the town’s
oldest family—the Velders. Their estate, once
grand, now stood in ruin, its gates rusted shut.
She climbed the overgrown path to the front door
and knocked. A woman answered, her face pale,
her eyes sharp as blades.
“Eliza Hart,” she said, her voice low. “You
shouldn’t be here.”
“I need answers,” Eliza replied. “About the
Hollow Pack. About the murders.”
The woman’s expression hardened. “You don’t
understand what you’re meddling in.”
Before Eliza could press further, the woman
turned and vanished into the house, leaving the
door ajar. Inside, she found a room lined with
mirrors, each reflecting a different version of
herself—some older, some younger, some with
fangs.
A trap.
She barely escaped, the house collapsing behind
her as if it had never existed.
By the time she returned to the pub, the town
was in chaos. A second body had been found, this
time near the railway station. The same silver
coin, the same lack of struggle. And this time,
the victim was a woman—known to Eliza as a local
historian, one who had written extensively about
the Velders and their secrets.
The Hollow Pack was hunting.
That night, Eliza tracked them to the old
cemetery, where the moon hung low and red. There,
she found a gathering of figures cloaked in
shadow, their faces obscured. In the centre
stood a man with silver hair and a crown of
thorns. He raised a hand, and the ground
trembled.
She had no weapon, no backup. Only her wits and
the knowledge that silver could kill.
She ran.
The chase led her through the town, past
shuttered shops and silent alleys, until she
reached the riverbank. There, she waited. When
they came, she struck first, hurling a shard of
silver from her pocket. One fell, howling in
pain. The others turned, snarling.
But she had prepared for this. She had studied
the journal, had learned the rules.
As the moon dipped below the horizon, the pack
retreated, their leader vanishing into the mist.
Eliza stood alone, breath ragged, heart pounding.
She had survived. But the town would never be
the same.
The Hollow Pack was real. And she had become
their enemy.
The silver coin still clung to her palm, warm
and heavy.
