Arkham Mill. Once the pride of a small, tight knit community these days it is just a grim reminder for the few remaining citizens of what had once been and the great horror that destroyed the town.

The year was 1762 when I first met John Samuels. He was the new miller for Arkham and with much help we raised the mill in record time. Soon after John married Abigail Newson. The troubles began with the birth of their only son, Malcolm. Abigail died in childbirth which was sadly not uncommon but her death was remarkable as those present recall the whelp appeared to be trying to eat his own mother as she died. As a young boy he was an evil child. He would torture lesser creatures, befoul crops and bully the others. Malcolm would disappear deep into the wood and often come back covered in mud, blood or worse.

One early spring morning when Malcolm was 9 John arrived at the mill to find his boy inside, alone but speaking to someone (or thing). The boy ignored his father's repeated inquires and when John reached out to touch the boy he found himself thrown across the floor by an unseen hand. Malcolm turned and John said his eves appeared to be on fire. John retreated and waited for his boy to leave the mill. Malcolm stayed. The next morning a guttural chanting could be heard from inside and the townfolk began gathering. One man, Hesikah Porter suggested the boy was possessed and the others seemed to agree. As day passed to night the chanting grew louder and strange glowing light could be seen from the mills high windows. Hesikah handed John a torch and the men of the village surrounded the mill. Each dropped a torch near the base and quickly the whole building was a flame. Inside the chanting turned to screams, John tried to run and save his boy but the other men held him strong. The door of the mill burst forth and there stood John's son. Or what had been John's son. The creature screamed in agony as it's flesh burned and the mill fell about it. It was a hideous, hoovened creature with a long face, no ears. Or perhaps it was Malcolm horribly mutilated by the fire. Either way it moved quickly, screaming as it ran through town. The fire seemed to follow the creature and soon many building were alight. Impossibly the burning creature was still alive as it came back to the mill and to John. Most of the others had left in a futile attempt try to douse the flames now burning their own homes but John remained, weeping. I watched as the creature approached John and stroked his cheek almost tenderly. John didn't make a sound as the burning hand left melting flesh behind with one leap it plunged into John chest and the flames seemed to consume the pair. John stood, he never made a sound even as the burnt skin gave way. Finally he collapsed and the fire began to die away. The mill was gone. John was gone and I was the only one to see. To see Malcolm, or what had been Malcolm, leave John's body and flit away into the forest. To see those piercing, burning eyes stare back at me. Watching, waiting. Waiting to consume something more...