The Ossory Wolf

On the eve of All Hallows, when the moon swells red above the Irish woodlands, the villagers of Ossory bar their doors and silence their hearths. For on that night, between prayer and damnation, the howls of men echo across the bog , men who once bore the cross, now cursed to roam in wolfish form until the world forgets their names. In the ruins of an old chapel, one such creature kneels before a flickering candle, claws pressed in prayer, begging Heaven for mercy as Hell draws near.