Low rode the outrider, pale and shorn. From out of heavy fog came he to a village, shattered. The dead lay in carrion comfort, the acrid scent of decay hanging like wool on the air. Then came clawing, sharp nails on stone. From the well rose the Haunt: sodden, cloying, hulking. The outrider drew and fired. Cracking booms split the silence; silver slugs punched through the beast and sent it roaring and plunging to its watery death. From one of the corpses, a keepsake: a locket, by which to remember this place, and the haunting that would outlast its passing.