Sherlock Holmes And The Hound Of The Baskervill... Instant

Sir Henry Baskerville stumbled ahead of them, a lone figure acting as bait on the desolate path. From the depths of the Grimpen Mire, a sound emerged—not a howl, but a low, guttural vibration that rattled the ribcage. Then, through the mist, it appeared.

"Watson, keep your revolver ready," Sherlock Holmes whispered, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. "The game is no longer afoot; it is at our throats."

The fog clung to the Dartmoor tors like a damp shroud, muffling the rhythmic thud-thud of heavy paws that seemed to echo from the very earth itself.

It was a creature of nightmare. Huge, coal-black, and wreathed in a flickering, ghostly blue flame. Its eyes glowed with a feral hunger that defied natural law. As the beast lunged, Holmes didn’t flinch. He fired.

Holmes stepped over the carcass, poking the glowing muzzle with his cane. "Phosphorus, Watson. A singular touch of melodrama by our friend Stapleton." He looked out toward the treacherous mire where their villain had vanished into the bog. "He sought to use an ancient fear to mask a modern greed. But even a legend must leave a footprint."