10 Dec The Beast of Cairn Gorm

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on December 10, 2020

“The Beast of Cairn Gorm”

Written by Mick Dark
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 20 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.

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Just over a 100km north of Inverness, Scotland in the small village of Braemar, on the Berriedale River, lived a Gaelic-speaking people of approximately 800. Raising cattle, farming and being good neighbors was the village’s primary mission statement. Winters remained dark and bitter but pints were rarely without gripped hands, thirsty gullets and high spirits. On one such night, a dozen or so frolicking and drunken Braemar folk kept a late hour at the Ox and Yolk Pub; an establishment in Braemar that was the pearl of the town. The pub, owned and operated by most the popular Braemar proprietor and primary instigator of Braemar wives’ angst Angus John MacDougall, rarely had its guitars and fiddles silenced and the laughter was perpetual. In the corner of the pub opposite the raging fireplace, Angus kept a piano that was rarely played and mostly used as a spot to lay your empty drinks. Angus saw to it that a doily was placed atop it to prevent any water damage. He bought it in Aberdeen at an auction and felt that it gave the place a bit of style but residents knew, as did he, that piano had no place in proper fiddle tunes. At least not here. Aila Gillis, the server kept the drinks flowing and was on her feet for hours from the opening when dinner service started and the stews filled bellies and the chips never stopped, post-dinner. When Colin Kenworth laid his fiddle down to the boos of the few left, he did so with a smile and an apology. This was the dance. This was the routine each night. The music had to cease at some point and it was always to the yells of resistance of the patrons but they also knew that this signified their time to get the coats and hats on and head out into the crunchy snow and howling wind. After all, the wives would let them play for a while. Farming and cattle keeping was hard work and it was a trade-off. They would keep the peace and ensure that they had their nights of pints and repeated Gaelic tales of northern prowess in hunting and iron guts that held their drink like no other.

The remaining din was a collective of goodbyes, stools scraped about the floor, the clanging of dishes and pint glasses collected and coats being slipped on. A few laughs for the remaining 8 patrons that typically saw to the close of the place and cutting through the jolly ambience was a shriek that some would claim to have shook the tables and the empty glasses upon them. This unknown noise repeated one more time, seconds after, and this time, it already had won its silence as to remain as clear as possible. Heads turned to each other with a look of shock and disbelief.

“What was that, does anyone know”? Colin spoke up. Being the most sober of the bunch, outside of Aila and Angus, he knew that this was not a trick of the mind and it was clear to him that it was no sound that he’d ever heard before.

“My Jesus, Angus…is that Edward MacLeod’s cattle next door being attacked? Those fooking wolves have been growing some big bollocks on them since we started working on the turbines” Aila shouted. Angus, who had stopped frozen in his nightly closing bar wipe down. “Jesus, Aila, I dunno…that’s not a cow, no…more like an eagle but they aren’t that loud and aren’t around at night” He replied.

The patrons stopped and there seemed to be no rush to get out into the night. Gordon Allen Logan, the youngest of the crew had been working for the past year with his father, Glen, on the new wind turbine that one of the big companies had started installing into the countryside. It provided dozens of new jobs for the folks in Braemar and surrounding villages across the river. They were hearty folks and could be relied upon for the tough jobs that no southerners would go near in the winter. Gordon exclaimed, “Well, I’m to gittin’ home and fetching my rifle and I’ll find out because if it’s wolves, we can’t lose more livestock.” Gordon started moving towards the door. His arm was firmly grabbed by Colin. “Shrink yer bollocks down, lad…nobody should be getting out there yet. Just wait a second, there”. The shriek repeated loudly and with a higher tone and it was followed by the scream of a man…a scream that had as much fear washed over it as you could imagine. This made knees buckle inside the pub. Angus had not seen any of these lads afraid before. Not like this. It was not meant to be obvious but they were caught off guard. The shriek and the scream ended. It was hard to tell the distance but it was no more than 300, maybe 200 meters away. It was distant but none of them had ever heard a man scream that loud. That was pure terror in his heart.

“CHRIST ALMIGHTY, WHAT IS HAPPENING, LADS? WHO WAS THAT??, WHAT WAS THAT?!” yelped Danny Christie. Danny was a Northern Irish expat engineer from County Armagh that had moved to Braemar to take up the management of the energy center being used to monitor the wind turbines. “It’s fookin madness! That would have awoken the town”

“Me by’s, I need to get back to the missus! She’s alone! I need to get out of this place and back home!” added David MacCullough…a part time guitar player at the pub and manager of the local grocer…”the wife is alone with the baby and for sure as Christ, she’d be off her tits with this racket. I have to go, lads…”

And with that, he grabbed his coat and pushed through the door before anyone could protest or hold him back. The wind forced its heavy whistle into the pub on the door opening and with a slam, forced by the same wind…David was heard running through the snow. The crunching was fast and his panting almost as loud…and after a half a minute, it all faded into the distance. He couldn’t be seen for the frost on the dirty stained-glass windows. Others had the same idea but were more interested in attempting to decipher the mysterious animal. It was a beast, for certain.

Michael Coy, the oldest of the residents was a longtime resident farmer that spent nearly 8 decades watching Braemar grow into the village it is today from thick woods and spacious meadows and rolling hills, alongside a rushing river. Back then it was home to only 28 residents, 6 homesteads including his own up on the village’s highest point. His father built the home in the early 1900s and Michael made it a point of pride to take very good care of it along with the 40 acres of farm surrounding it. He built an adjacent barn for the ox and chickens. The other original residents had passed away many years ago.

Michael slumped into his seat, clutching his long tobacco stained beard. He was staring onto the floor, seemingly distracted and clearly nervous and distraught. He was shaking enough to be noticeable but not out of sorts to those that new him. Shaking was a human disorder you accept when you are a man of 78. Danny seemed to have been the only one in the pub that noticed the distress of the elderly man. A distress that was beyond a mere rumbling of nerves.

“Michael Coy, by jaysus…are you alright, old man?” Danny leaned in and whispered to Old Mick Coy.

Slowly rotating his wide-open gaze, he moved to meet Danny’s concerned face. “I’m fine, just a bit tired, son and I’ll have to be moving on. I may have left the barn door open and that wind is a real bastard tonight. I… I don’t want to risk the livestock freezing overnight if this snap freezes up the generator” Danny found this explanation to be quite cosmetic. There was something in Coy’s voice, the tremble and slow, measured words that made it sound a bit made up. “Coy, tell me what’s botherin’ ya…it’s not the chickens, I know this b’y. You are not one to leave anything open or prepared” Danny added.

Just then, from just outside the pub at what must have been just inside no more than 50 meters inside the tree line…a deafening shrill, a high pitched beastly scream that put everyone into their seats and some with a bright whimper from a fear, unexpected. The lights seemed to have flickered but from the sudden fright, it could have been a trick of the eye. This time, it was accompanied by a constant panting and low growl. Whispering as loudly as possible but with clear intention, now, that detection is not favorable. Angus asked young Gordon to turn off the light at the front door while Angus turned off the kitchen light, leaving a lantern burning on the piano. Gordon decided that bolting the door wouldn’t hurt either. The latch slid shut and the group knew that this was something new, something extraordinary and something terrible and dangerous. The silence filled the pub if you didn’t count the collective din of hard breathing and beating hearts. Angus reached under the bar to the bottom and slid out a rifle that was once used for deer and Elk but found far more practical for the threat of wolves that got too close to the visitors outside in the summer when he had a few tables in front.

Michael Coy pulled his wool hat down and covered his eyes. This went unnoticed by no-one.

“For the love of Jesus, Michael…what’s eating you?” said Colin. The rest vocalized their concern also. Michael was afraid of nothing. Hard as the peak of Ben Nevis and as fearless as a Hebrides Bull. He was being devoured by fear now. This was a canary in a coalmine for the lads that watched this pillar become a puddle.

Michael pulled up his wool stocking cap to reveal his deep, blue bloodshot eyes, awash with a light mist of tears that he wiped as quickly as he could. He took a slow breath and wiped forward on his lap as a distraction reflex…”I’m alright by’s…just had a bit much of the drink and the tummy is not feeling too good from the fish” he proclaimed. “I’ll have you know that Tommy Dylan and Raymond Campbell caught that fish fresh today out on the ice! There was nothing wrong with the fish!” Aila protested. “Speak up, old man,” Angus said. “What’s gotten into you?”

Michael slowly stood up, holding onto the shoulder of Danny Christie and his cane in the other hand…made a little “oof” sound and slowly walked towards the bar and leaned into it, his back to the group…a light growl and branches snapping was heard outside from the same distance as before. This turned all heads and made Michael grab a bar stool with his squeezing, white knuckled hands.

“I’ve heard this before” Michael said softly…then slowly turning to meet the eyes that had just settled back on him, from the direction of the door. “It was a long time ago, maybe 50 years or so but I know this sound and it’s been imprinted in my brain b’ys.. Not something I’d soon forget although would give anything to be able to” Michael continued. “When my father’s father broke ground here for the very home of mine that you’ve all been to, up on the hill…it took a grand deal of wood and diggin’. We cleared out a lot of wood and spooked away a lot of wildlife and my grandfather used to tell me that we take the space that we need and not a shovelful more. We kept to that until my father passed away. After he was buried, we came home and the first thing that came to mind was to extend the farm and make space for the barn that now lies 40 metres from the house and being a 25 year old young man that never really paid much attention to my elders…I declined my father and grandfather’s wishes of not expanding or using more of the highlands to stake my claim on the rest of the land that we owned by deed but did not exploit. I felt that this was my damned lot and I wanted to use it for as much as I could reap from it. So, I did, with the help of some hired local boys from nearby Brora that had the tools and carriages that I needed to get the job done” Michael, stared into the door ahead of him and paused. He walked slowly back to his seat on the bench next to Danny and blew some heat into his hands. Not a sound was made from the lads.

“I was warned to not take more. I remembered only then, in my twenties, a story that my grandfather told me about the Beast of Cairn Gorm – he called it – that lived in the caves on the highest point of the Cairn Gorm somewhere nearly a kilometer up the mount. It terrified me as a child…but even as a cheeky story that I felt was a tale of the retributions of over indulgence, it seemed a bit extraordinary and one that, to me, was clearly crafted within the mind of an old Highland man. It was an old Gaelic tale that was whispered about between the kids and when brought up, in fun, the faces of the adults turned to scorn and sharp shushes. We kids felt that the adults just played the game well.” He continued.

“So, I had forgotten that story for two decades until the first of my 40 acres were cleared away and tills came in to cut up the soil, while I worked on the large barn I focused on… that some very peculiar activities started happening. See, I was the only home in the area of a few dozen residents that wasn’t happy with the confines of the small home and wanted more. I wish that I hadn’t.” Michael took a sip of the forgotten about last bit of his Tennent’s that wasn’t yet collected by Aila. The rest of the folks started to quietly pick up their chairs and get closer to Michael to keep the rest of the tale as covert as possible from any terrible ears outside of the pub. Gordon lightly ensured the lock was in place while Angus came from around the bar with his rifle, stoked the fire to make sure it didn’t go out in this bitterly cold night.

“One night in October, after opening up a bottle of cider that was gifted to us in celebration of the new land development that we completed during two months, my wife and I sat at our kitchen table after a lovely dinner – of what, I don’t remember now – and that was when we heard this terrible sound for the first time – this sound.” Michael pointed to the space beyond the pub. “In utter shock, my wife dropped the bottle onto our wooden floor and it bounced around. I remember being angry at the bottle while it rolled. It seemed illogical but I was focused on the sound and when the bottle had come to a stop at the foot of the wood stove…we could hear loud footsteps and the cracking of large branches. Then, that is when we heard our cows scream. If you haven’t heard a cow scream, then I envy you. This was terror. Pure terror in the animals’ voices. We heard them being slaughtered not 30 yards away. I grabbed my gun, a pocket full of shells and rushed on my boots and ran outside. I was terrified but I needed to do something. There was something killing my livestock. I ran to the newly built barn and the door had been pried open. The animals’ entrails and skin and flesh were strewn across my barn. I could not tell which were pigs, cows or lamb. All were ripped apart. Then I heard this shriek come from just outside the rear of the barn… followed by a guttural roar. I ran outside, my heart was pounding and I thought I would faint from fear… but to the back of the barn, the shriek again! I saw a massive beast bent over with matted fur which could only have been from the blood of my animals… its eyes were shining in the moonlight and it was panting and growling in a low vibration, staring directly at me. It must have been 7 or 8 foot tall, long ears fallen to the side of its head but with sharp teeth that protruded from its maw and down to it’s chin. Then, suddenly, to my left near the house, my wife screamed. She had been standing on the porch and had noticed this monster. It immediately noticed her and began to speed towards her on all fours. This was no animal I have ever seen or knew of its existence. It was fast and was about to descend upon my wife. Why did you scream, woman!?, I had shouted at her in my stress.

I raised my shotgun as quickly as I could and landed a shot into its lower back which sent it rolling across the yard of my house and I added another to its neck. It sounded a piercing yelp and looked at me with a malice that reduced me to jelly. Then quickly reloaded with the shells from my pocket and shot again, this time missing it entirely. I was shaking. I was physically vibrating.

It was down and not moving except for its head that was intent on me and while I took aim with my last shell, it roared at me with its fanged mouth wide open. It was certainly perturbed with the holes I had put into it. The surprise of the shriek made me drop my gun. My hands were drenched in sweat and I was lucky to have landed any shots at all with my shakes and sweat covered hands. My wife ran inside and it rose to its feet and took a step towards me as I scrambled for the shotgun on the darkened grassy yard. Then I finally felt it and picked it up. When I looked up, the beast had run off. It was moving fast away from us and it was emitting yelps of pain and growls of rage. I didn’t care. It was gone.” Michael then let out a long sigh, reliving his night those 50+ years ago feeling the relief that he felt that night and then rose his head suddenly to attention and looked towards the door of the pub. He then came back to reality.

It was back, Michael knew this. It had obviously killed…that one man whoever it was in the distance. It doesn’t matter. For certain, they would have known him. He would have been a friend. All the village were friends. The community ousted no one. No even Ethel MacDonough, the town loudmouth and gossiper, would no one want any harm to come to… but how many more lives were lost this night?

Michael continued to an attentive storytelling session of listeners “It came back three more times during that month but seemed to remain a spectator…we heard its growls in the night and the crashing of the brush and branches within the tree line beyond the crops. We had our gun at the ready and had some folks bring me up a new rifle that was semi-automatic from Glasgow that I don’t think was really legal.”

“I know what you mean,” Danny added. “I lived a few years in Belfast, Michael. Remember?” and tried to attempt a cheeky, comforting smile. Michael hardly paid any attention as he continued.

“We had been told…warned… to leave the land alone. We were told tales of a bogeyman that were laughable, at best, but were told to leave the land alone and take only what was enough for you and your family. I want you to know, I was not being greedy. I wanted to provide food for mine and was just glad that the beast had disappeared for years after and that was when I had my daughter Isabelle. She was only 5 years old around the time when the area attracted new settlers and…they started to build the town” he explained.

“But, Michael…you mean your son, Michael, Jr.… Micky Alexander… your son that works at the docks now in Liverpool… Right, you don’t have a daughter,” Angus interrupted.

“Please, Angus,” Michael hushed Angus with a calming hand gesture, “let me finish.”

The old man observed the faces around him, with a final glance to the space around the front of the bar. Listening. Seems that only Michael could hear the low breathing that accompanied his survey.

“That damn thing would not give up!” Michael insisted. “The villagers did not help the situation with the constant build and razing of meadows, woodland and river space. I did not blame them. They were not aware. If I had told them, how would they accept this fairy tale when a child of 5 thought it to be pure haver…gibberish? I asked them, during one town meeting, that perhaps they leave some of the natural space for the habitat of the wildlife so we don’t drive away the elk, rabbits and deer. We would need food and they also help the fertility of the land for crops. I was voted down. They wanted mills and lumber yards and needed to pull in the riverbanks for boat passages. This was not going to end well. I hoped that mine was not connected to my childhood warning and this monstrosity was a one-time occurrence. It was not” Michael’s head bowed. He had trouble catching his breath and coughed twice. This brought about a sound much closer to the pub that sounded like a demonic recognition of an old friend. A low mooing sound. Deep and unnatural. The group inside froze and trembled. Angus gripped his rifle and pulled it close to his chest. There was silence for nearly 10 minutes after this…Michael wanted to hurry back to his final bit of the story. His cautionary tale that was past caution.

“The wind turbines. The town had grown so much back then in such a short time and remained unmoved for so long that I had not considered this until I heard this thing tonight. We have just ripped apart untold stretches of land – at least 80 km – to install cabling and these behemoths for the energy of a few Glaswegians. I didn’t think about this. It would have been through many villages now to make its way here tonight. I promise you that lives were lost this night. It is not finished. The destruction of the land it surveys creates a seething rage. I’ll be honest, I am not sure why it has stalled outside. It is what I tell you. This is beyond doubt. The question is if we will survive as I did that night long ago. My daughter did not. It took her away from me” Michael lamented, glossy eyed.

“After the town had been built up and there were dances and fiddles blaring and the newly erected halls were alit with merry and cheer…it made its way to us. It was always in the dark of night. Never in the day. It came to us while the town was asleep. Screams rang out across the village as it tore from home to home. Some homes were smashed into and we lost 6 of our folk. When it came to me, I heard it first outside, howling…I heard the claws raking across the trees. It wanted my attention. I knew what it was. I know that it remembered me. My wife peeked outside and I begged her to hold her stress. We could not risk this beast getting inside. We turned off the lights. It wanted revenge I have no doubt. Not just for the raping of its land but for the wounding of it years before. I believe that the reason it held back was also because I believe that it had some small measure of fear which caused its hesitation.

My little girl woke and began screaming. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight and ran outside to make some attempt to take this thing on. Whether I was killed or not, it would not get to my family. I got to the front porch. There is was, staring into my little girl’s bedroom. It was as massive as I remembered. I screamed at it in such a rage that I frightened myself. I was ready to wrestle it to the ground if I had to. I shot at it again. It shrieked at me and slammed its claws at the house as the bullet hit. This time, the shoulder. It seemed to make it more enraged,” Michael grit his teeth and spit out the next sentence with tears.

“It smashed my little Isabella’s window. The window exploded and it rushed into the room while I scrambled after it screaming, crying, wailing while my wife screamed from behind me and raced behind me, falling into the mud at the bottom of the steps…I got the window in less than a second, it felt. The beast had my daughter in its claws” Michael paused, wiped a tear, another sip from a now empty pint. Danny handed him his for that final sip. Gordon and Colin placed arms around Michael Coy while he finished his tale.

“There was blood covering its right arm as it spread a wide fanged grin across its face. This thing was a mass of rage filled instinct, I knew but at this moment, it was personal. I knew this. I pointed my gun at it and because Isabelle was small, I knew I could get its leg or foot to disable it for a moment to reach Isabelle. I raised the gun and immediately, it let out a scream as it stretched its head towards me to focus its anger towards me. My wife and daughter screamed in unison while I fired. I barely grazed its leg. It didn’t even flinch. It rushed towards me while I raised my Enfield for another shot and it knocked me to the ground and sent my rifle flying. It flew off into the forest. I could hear the screams of my little Isabelle fading into the distance. I gave chase as long as my legs could and I heard nothing. Was beaten down by branches in my face and roots tripping me up in the pitch dark. I lay in the bog, wailing uncontrollably. Screaming for my little girl for hours until I had to get back to my wife that was beyond comfort. We spent years in a haze. We could not stop considering the hundreds of versions of Isabelle’s fate. It plagued us. 7 years later, Mary got pregnant with Michael Alexander. We put up a large fence but we vowed to stay and not give up our land. I have added to my gun collection and we raised Michael without incident for the rest of our lives, until now” Michael concluded. The lads were all tear filled and with heads bowed and felt Michael’s pain. Aila, head in hands, wept quietly near the fire with her back to the rest.

“Fook sake, Michael… I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t know,” Angus declared. Colin, Danny, Angus, Aila, Gordon and the other boys Arthur and Dennis, brothers who patronized the pub every Saturday evening, looked at each other and asked Michael what could be done and what are we expecting.

“We must make a stand. We cannot let this get any further. We cannot let it take any more innocent lives,” Michael asserted. “What weapons do you have, Angus?”

“I have a pistol in the drawer of the desk in back and this here rifle. I have some knives in the little kitchen in the back if they are of any use but can’t imagine you’d get close enough to use, by your account,” Angus replied.

The group each took whatever they could. Michael refused a weapon while Danny took the pistol and various items – knives, a cricket bat and a fire poker and snow shovel were grabbed up. They moved towards the front. The low breathing was not far from them, on the other side of that paint chipped, three-inch-thick cedar door. The lads tried to get a peek again through the stained-glass window but could see nothing.

Danny took a deep breath, paused and slowly unbolted the door and gripped its handle. There was a paralyzing fear amongst the group at what they would see and less of what it could do.

The door creaked open. Angus and the others had never heard that creak before. The pub was usually full of life and song and laughter that this unwelcome noise had not existed. The door slowly fulfilled its action to bring in a bluster of wind and light snow. The snow in front of them was illuminated white and shining from the one light that positioned itself at the start of the lane that had guided so many staggering souls back to their safe and warm beds.

There was nothing outside but the blackness of a tree line and the last steps of David’s rush home. David never made it home, it was later learned. Found in a ditch off the path, less than 150 meters from the pub. The group scanned the perimeter and listened. Nothing.

Then a low growl attracted their attention in a cumulative snap of heads towards the left of the tree line, near Angus’ bobcat tractor used for snow removal. There it was. Eyes alight, nearly 8 foot tall. Staring at its prey. Its eyes projected a sense of determination. They stood paralyzed. They gripped their weapons, white knuckled, all. Angus raised his rifle. Waiting for a shot. Danny was first. Danny, a crack shot, fired his pistol at it, hitting it straight into the head. The precision of an IRA soldier. A former life that was extinguished and escaped from.

The beast howled into the sky and clutched at its eye where the bullet seemed to hit. Then Angus fired and hit the snowplow window “Ah fuck!” he shouted. Even during this, he momentarily realized that he had smashed his own window. Then fired another and hit its chest while Danny pushed forward through the snow, pistol at eye level firing every last bullet into the beast while it attempted to run. Courage found itself in the team as they all pushed forward knowing that Danny had provided an advantage. They got close to it. Michael stayed back at the pub door. He watched. He wanted his revenge but he knew that his old legs would not be able to catch up.

“Da…daddy…” a female voice came from behind Michael, in the empty pub. Michael gasped and spun around. This little voice was etched in his memory and it would be if he lived to be 5000 years old. Tears gushed from his eyes and he peered across the pub. Nothing. There was nothing. He fell to his knees, sobbing. He needed closure. This was, certainly, his past begging for him to make amends somehow.

He rose up, he moved outside to the group that had surrounded the wounded beast. It was on its haunches, covering its head. Danny had pointed his final bullet towards its head and was ready to pull the trigger when Michael, who appeared behind him quietly, placed a frail hand on Danny’s and took the pistol.

The beast then uncovered itself and looked directly into the eyes of Michael Coy. Old enemies. A lifetime journey of hell steered by this fur clad nightmare. It grinned with that same wide fanged mouth. Its mouth was covered in blood from its night of savage brutality. Many Isabelle’s were cut down this evening. The beast gave out a final shriek and a sudden swipe of its claw took off Michael’s arm but not before that final blast. Blood filled the air as Michael Coy’s arm flew across the sky. It was hard to distinguish between the shriek of the beast, the gun shot and the scream from old Michael Coy. The beast collapsed to the ground. A fountain of blood gushed from its head while Michael lay in the snow, filling it with blood while Danny and Angus grabbed him and began to pull him back towards the pub. Dragging Michael leaving a trail of blood across the snow. The rest of the group screamed and stabbed and beat the flailing demonic creature until it was nothing more than a hair covered mass in the snow. The group made its stand at the behest of Michael Coy. Michael got his revenge but at the price of his life. The old man, lay bleeding to death. Bar cloths and coats held the blood to a minimum but it couldn’t be stopped. Michael offered the group a last look and a vague smile and looked up, imagining his lovely wife Mary and daughter Isabelle before he joined them. The group then burned the beast and dumped the remains into the river using Angus’ bobcat plow.

The following weeks, there were stories of what the villagers had seen. The pub group had made a promise to leave the story alone. To keep it to themselves forever. It would do no good to cause a furor and also risk being ostracized as drunken fools with wild imaginations. Michael was said to have been attacked by wolves on his way home. An old man that was easy prey for the scavenging packs that had been pushed into the village due to the overextension of the land development. Four years after the night’s deadly occurrences. The Scottish government had decided to bring investment to Braemar and the villages of Aberdeenshire and provide new jobs with a large-scale highway project. There would be a new Council highway moving through the north. The new mayor of Braemar had brokered this deal and was proud to be leading this new development. The villagers that new the truth, including Danny, Angus, Aila, Colin, Gordon, Arthur and Dennis were not against it. They knew that their bogeyman had been dealt with and this was a welcome new chapter for the area. As long as the village kept its community, there was no objection.

Six months into the rapidly moving infrastructure project, 160km of forest was razed and rivers were bridged and Aberdeenshire was hardly recognized anymore. This would make for easier access to the larger towns and cities for supplies and medical visits. Over 200 new jobs were created for the project and it would last another 3 years, it was projected.

It was at the end of this six months that there were shrieks across the countryside. Higher pitched shrieks. This was soon followed by the loss of many project workers, then children. Then sightings of many half human monstrosities with fangs and claws moving very fast across fields and wood. Some claimed to have seen 4 at once moving quickly across the land and some seen feeding on livestock. The beast had been given a family. The slaughter was far reaching, merciless and quick. Their directives were instinctive and none were spared.