- They came, their movements all too human. Whatever drove them touched and tugged at the most basic memories, making the recently dead bodies walk from recollection alone, directing them outward from the town of Eggleton in search of new hosts.
- It wasn’t their movements that betrayed their status as corpse. Nor was it their flesh, torn, pale and ripe with harsh black boils. Some of them were fresh from the grave; those few that had been buried before sheer numbers made the effort of Christian burial futile, and they were dirt encrusted, their hands torn and bloody from having undug themselves from fresh soil. No, it wasn’t this that betrayed them either.
- It was their eyes. And by the time you could see them, it was too late.
Read Part Three of 1665 at The Grey Scribe.