The Gentleman Time Tramp, a gaunt figure wrapped in rags and wisdom, stands beneath a flickering lamplight. His cardboard sign declares doom, yet his eyes twinkle with mischief. The air carries whispers of old legends, and as I approach, the city’s past seems to awaken around me. "THE WORLD IS AT AN END!" His voice rings out, startling a flock of pigeons into flight. I walk past, heart pounding, and he shouts after me, "Oh NO, he’s here!" My footsteps echo as I reach the church’s grand façade, only to find the great doors somehow too small, an impossible illusion that unsettles my senses.

Nicki (Mary), draped in a heavy black cloak gown, arranges pictures for a school event. Her presence is magnetic, her English accent crystalline and regal. As she presses a pin into a glass case, our thumbs brush, and I glimpse a strange, biblical giant in the artwork—a sign, perhaps, of the supernatural forces at play. "It’s a beautiful church, even with its scars," I remark, watching her scribble my name in a pristine black book. When I protest, "Don’t ruin that lovely book for me," she only smiles. Suddenly, a privileged student appears, shutting the side door with reverence, insisting "This door has always been locked!" The church seems to breathe in secrets as I leave for home, the city’s shadows clinging to my heels.

Cloaked Intruders hiss with inhuman authority, "YOU ADULTERATED JESUS WIFE!" The words slice through the night, foreign in my own tongue. Anger and fear wrestle within me, but before I can gather my thoughts, a monstrous roar splits the air and a shadowy hound—The Black Shuck—pins me with its spectral weight. The Black Shuck snarls, its breath icy on my face. I try to plead, "Do you speak English? Do you know the Queen?" but it only roars louder. Paralysis seizes me as the beast’s handler—a cloaked police officer—emerges from the gloom. With all my remaining strength, I whisper, "Bless you," and the duo vanish, leaving me trembling and furious.

The cries of my family echo in my ears as the assault intensifies, anger stoking my resolve. On the third night, the demon dog’s tail pierces through my body, and seven spectral puppies materialize on my bed. With desperate, paralyzed limbs, I force them off one by one, the last—an undersized runt—lingering beneath the bed as the mother bangs and lifts the frame in a supernatural display. Even as terror threatens to break me, compassion flares for the demon runt, hoping it survives the ordeal. Dawn finally breaks, and with pay day’s arrival, I steel myself for a return to Cambridge, determined to confront whatever haunts the city’s hallowed halls.

Rev. Paul greets me with a gentle nod. I pose my challenge—"Are you the priest here?"—to which he replies, "Yes, I am Paul." Our conversation turns to scripture and fate. "The Bible is a non-Campus," he declares in Latin, explaining that it can never be rewritten, not even by another god. I press him, but he only smiles, unfazed. Before leaving, I warn, "Tell your boys: I turn up to every fight!" The church seems to exhale, and the demonic apparitions never return.

Our adversaries—Lion Shuck and their cohorts—await on their own ground. But we stand undaunted, knowing that only by facing futility can we reveal its face. In the hush before confrontation, I rally my companions with Latin resolve. "Melior Fortuna," I murmur. "Audentes Fortuna iuvat. Revenio!" The night is ours, and though the odds are long, we march forward—undaunted, unbroken, and ready.