The birds did not sing that morning in GreenTown. They didn’t chirp sweetly, nor did they trill gentle melodies like the sparrows or pigeons that once populated the power lines at dawn. No. Those birds cawed, harsh and hard, like rusty knives scraping over worn stones. It was a disquieting, dry sound that echoed in every corner of the square, bouncing off the old brick walls and sinking into the bones of those who heard it.


    Everyone in the square felt that cawing as an unbearable weight, a cruel, silent mockery from above. No one mentioned it yet, but every soul present in that crowd was sure of one thing: the birds were laughing. They laughed from their elevated perches, their bodies black and gaunt, their eyes small and bright like burning embers in the darkness. Yet no one dared break the heavy silence that had settled like a shadow at the heart of the town.


    It was then that Western Brooks appeared, staggering from a corner as if he had been wandering through nightmares for days. His pants were muddy, his shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled, his face pale and drawn. He looked like a corpse risen from the earth to torment the living. And perhaps, in a way, that was exactly what he represented.


    He stopped beside the old, dry fountain in the middle of the square, slowly raising his head with an unsettling tremor in his jaw. The town watched him with a mixture of expectancy and pity, for they knew Western talked a lot but rarely said anything that mattered. Yet something in the way he trembled sent shivers down their spines.


    “I saw her!” he suddenly shouted, his voice broken and eyes wide with terror. “I saw the Beast! That damn thing everyone speaks of in their homes but no one dares name out here! It wasn’t a man, nor an animal… it was something else! A huge shadow with eyes like glowing embers… and it’s watching us! It watches us like it watched the Hudsons before tearing them apart!”


    A chill ran through the entire square. No one openly admitted the existence of that Beast, but deep down everyone feared the same thing. GreenTown was a town that had grown too fast. Progress had come at the cost of something older and darker, something that slept beneath the ground and in the deep roots of the trees that were now being mercilessly cut down.


    “It was us who brought her!” continued Western, his eyes wild, fixed on nothing in particular. “Every damned tree we cut down, every stone we lifted from virgin soil, every new piece of cement—it was all like calling her forth at the top of our lungs! And now she is here, stalking, ravenous!”


    The murmurs slowly spread, a rising wave of uncertainty and fear. Some hands clenched, seeking solace in the warm flesh of those nearest to them. No one moved. No one dared leave, trapped by the same sick fascination that had drawn them to the square from early morning, lured by whispered rumors, spoken hastily and with fear on every corner.


    And once again, the birds cawed, louder, darker, and someone finally uttered the phrase that everyone had clutched in their throat:


    “They’re laughing…”


    Then the silence shattered, torn apart by uneasy, trembling voices, questioning what those strange black birds—ones they had never seen before in GreenTown—were. They were no ordinary birds. They were not pigeons, sparrows, or swallows. They were living shadows, thin and grotesque, watching from above as if they had been waiting for that precise moment to appear.


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    “They’re not from here…” murmured a woman, holding her child close in despair.


    “I’ve never seen them in my life,” added another man, his voice broken and choked with fear.


    Western let out a smile that froze the soul of everyone watching him. A smile that knew too much, a smile that seemed to confirm all their worst nightmares.


    “Of course they’re not from here,” he replied with a terrible calm. “They came with her. They are the heralds, the messengers who come to announce the arrival of the hunt.”


    No one dared move. Some began to pray softly, others made the sign of the cross. The fear was palpable, thick as a black fog that even obscured the sunlight.


    “Don’t you feel it?” roared Western, pointing accusingly at the sky with a trembling finger. “Everything is waiting! The air, the earth, the wind! The Beast is already here, watching us just as it watched the Hudsons… before tearing them apart!”


    A collective shiver ran down every spine, every heart. The glances turned paranoid, suspicious, poisoned by the words of the madman or prophet that was Western Brooks.


    For a moment, everything was silent. But as if Western’s words had cracked open a fissure, the first voice emerged from the crowd, broken by fear.


    “It’s the sawmill workers’ fault!” accused a trembling man. “You were the first to cut down the forest, to awaken that thing!”


    “What are you saying, you idiot?!” another shouted. “We were only following orders! The fault lies with those who signed the permits!”


    “The merchants, those who brought in those outsiders! They were the ones who brought progress to this town!”


    “And you didn’t say a word when you were paid well for the wood!” came a retort from another. “Don’t act innocent now!”


    Accusations flew like stones in the air. Names began to be mentioned, direct accusations, old grudges mixing with recent fear. Families who had known each other all their lives began to look at each other with distrust.


    “And don’t forget the Herdson’s!” bellowed a man from the back, his face flushed with fury. “They always thought they were better than everyone else! They filled their pockets with the lands they sold to the mayor and those outsiders!”


    “Look at how they ended up!” spat another. “The Beast ripped them from this world as if they were nothing! And that’s what will happen to all of us if we continue letting the ones on top play with our lives!”


    “The Beast comes because of the same old culprits!” someone shouted. “Those who have been fattening their pockets while the rest of us swallow the earth!”


    Western smiled, showing yellow, crooked teeth, as chaos grew.


    “See?” he spat. “I didn’t even need to come to tell you! You already knew… you always knew. The Beast did not come alone. You brought her here… with every brick and every damned coin that filled the mayor’s pockets.”


    The name resonated like a dry toll. For a second, the crowd fell silent. And then, as if everyone had been waiting for that permission, the tide turned.


    “The mayor!” someone screamed. “He sold us out to the devil for four coins!”


    “He promised us progress, and all he brought was death!” roared a woman.


    “Let him come and face us!” howled another. “Let him stand here and tell us what the hell he brought to GreenTown!”


    The entire square roared now, voices merging into one desperate, furious shout. The birds cawed from above, as if celebrating men’s downfall in their own trap.


    The cawing resounded again, even deeper—a sentence from on high. And at that very moment, GreenTown left behind what little sanity it had, plunging into the absolute darkness of deepest fear. It no longer mattered whether the Beast was real or merely a figment of imagination.


    Because now, the fear in GreenTown had taken on a life of its own.


    It had learned to walk alone.