But they hadn't stayed on the road. The map was useless in this soup, and the path had long since vanished underfoot.
"Stay on the road," the old man had whispered, his hand trembling as he gripped his ale. "Keep clear of the moors." An American Werewolf in London
"David," Jack hissed, his voice cracking. "Did you hear that?" But they hadn't stayed on the road
Voices drifted through the mist as the men from the Slaughtered Lamb appeared, their faces grim as they lowered their rifles. David lay on the cold ground, gasping for air and clutching his shoulder. Jack was shaking but pulled himself toward David's side. As the locals gathered around them, a strange, pulsing heat began to radiate from David’s injury, a sensation that felt far deeper than a simple wound. The moon, though hidden by clouds, seemed to exert a sudden, heavy pull on his very soul, marking the beginning of a nightmare that would follow him all the way to London. "Keep clear of the moors