The hound took a step forward, and Mortimer felt his knees buckle.
Not in words. In memory.
Mortimer did not believe in hellhounds. But he believed in the terror he saw in young Sir Henry’s eyes, the way the heir’s hand shook as he held the yellowed family manuscript. Il Mastino Dei Baskerville
Mortimer stood shaking, his hand reaching for the revolver he had forgotten to load. The hound took a step forward, and Mortimer
The fog rolled off the Dartmoor like the breath of a dying beast, cold and thick with the scent of peat and decay. Dr. James Mortimer tugged his collar tighter, his boots sinking into the saturated earth. He had walked these moors for twenty years, but never like this—never with the weight of a legend pressing against his ribs. Mortimer did not believe in hellhounds
The figure raised the whistle to his lips. No sound came that Mortimer could hear. But the hound flinched, its burning eyes flickering, and then it turned and loped back into the mist, vanishing as if swallowed by the moor itself.