Lost Creek Hollow mr. ghost goes to town

He came from the east, slavering as he ran. He glanced over his bony left shoulder, tongue lolling from his misshapen muzzle, jack-o'-lantern eyes combing the dark landscape behind him. Rigor didn't see anyone; perhaps he had outrun them. Sloppily licking his wet chops, he faced forward and accelerated. He swore he could hear his old bones creaking as he darted through the night.

At long last, he began to slow to a bumbling trot. Then he began to walk. The cold, stiff grass tickled his twenty-eight toes as he skulked across an open plain. He lowered his head and hunched as he crept forward. His docked tail gave a few idle flicks and his lazy eye rolled as he scanned his surroundings. He neither saw nor smelled anything of interest.

He was about to slump into a weary heap when a chilly October wind blustered against him, ruffling his ashy fur and bringing to Rigor the powerful scents of wolves. His ears fell back and he peered shrewdly in the direction from which they came, a moaning, groaning noise reverberating low in his throat.