"Hahahah," the creature laughed.
The sound of his voice did not resemble Hans' laughter. It was distorted, stretched too thin, a mixture of so many voices blending into one , layered with something unnatural.
"I know you are stupid," it continued mockingly, "but please don't tell me you're blind. It's clare I look nothing like your so called best friend."
"Hahahaha!" It laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing strangely in the open air. The second laugh was worse than the first—deeper, more frightening, vibrating with something inhuman that made Conor's stomach twist.
"You're a de…de…demon?" Conor forced the words out, his tongue heavy, his throat dry.
"Close," the creature replied with a slow, curling smile.
As it spoke, it retracted its clawed hand from Conor's neck. The sharp pressure vanished, but the burning line it had left behind remained. Conor stumbled backward and fell hard onto the ground, landing on his butt. He didn't even attempt to stand. He simply sat there, frozen, staring upward in frightened disbelief at what was happening before him.
In the next moment, thick dark shadows began wrapping around Hans' body in distorted, shifting patterns. They moved like living smoke, spinning and twisting with violent intent. The flesh that covered his skin began to rip—not in a clean tear, but as if shredded by invisible blades. The spinning darkness devoured it piece by piece, stripping away the human exterior and replacing it with something far more sinister than normal human skin.
The darkness slowly enveloped the whole of Hans' body. It climbed upward, swallowed him completely, and when it began to recede, what stood there was no longer even human.
When the transformation was done, the creature's full form could be seen.
It revealed what it truly was,and the sight alone felt like a violation of the natural order.
It stood upright, vaguely human in shape, yet every proportion was wrong. Its limbs were elongated, stretching just a little too far, the joints bending with an unnatural looseness as if bone and muscle had never agreed on how they should fit together. Its posture shifted constantly, never fully settling, as though the body itself was undecided on what it wanted to be.
Its skin hung loose over its frame, pale and lifeless, draped like a garment stolen from the dead. It sagged at the shoulders and clung too tightly around the ribs, marked with faint creases and discolorations that suggested it had been worn, removed, and worn again. Beneath the thin flesh, dark veins traced slow, unnatural patterns, pulsing with a sickly rhythm that did not match any heartbeat Conor had ever heard. The air around it carried a stench—old blood, damp fur, and rot mingled together, heavy and suffocating.
The face was the most disturbing part. It was almost human, close enough to invite recognition, yet flawed in ways that made the mind recoil. The features seemed unfinished, as if sculpted from memory rather than flesh. The eyes were deep-set and reflective, catching the faint light like those of a nocturnal predator, watching him with cold awareness that held no warmth. The mouth stretched a fraction too wide, lined with uneven teeth that looked reshaped over time, never quite settling into one design.
Sparse strands of coarse hair clung to its scalp and limbs in irregular patches, while the rest of its body remained bare, exposed, and terribly wrong. When it stood still, it resembled a corpse propped upright. When it moved, the illusion shattered. Muscles shifted beneath the loose skin in strange ripples, the body jerking and flowing at the same time, as though another form was pressing desperately against the surface, waiting to emerge.
"I'm what you humans commonly call skinwalker," it said, another creepy smile forming across its loose, sagging face.
This was a skinwalker without a mask. Not a creature in disguise, not a friend wearing another's face, but a hollow thing built from stolen shapes, trapped between what it once was and what it would become next.
"No… it can't be," Conor muttered to himself, his breathing uneven. "So the rumours were true… they have managed to get into our…"
His words trailed off. He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to.
"Where is Hans? Where is my friend? What did you do to him?" Conor demanded, though fear still wrapped tightly around his voice. Worry and dread were beginning to suffocate him. He didn't want to admit it. He didn't even want to think about it. But if this creature was truly what it claimed to be, then it meant only one thing for Hans,and Conor was not ready to accept that. He didn't want to believe that his friend was…
"Are you seriously asking that?" the creature said.
This time it spoke in its real voice.
It didn't sound friendly. It didn't even sound singular. It was a mixture of many voices layered together, each with a different pitch and frequency. Some were deep and gravelly, others high and sharp, overlapping and merging into one horrifying chorus. It sounded like something dragged straight out of a nightmare.
"That's not an answer! Where is my friend?!" Conor shouted, his fear momentarily overtaken by anger. Despite everything, despite the terror clawing at his insides, he found the courage to raise his voice.
"You dare raise your voice against me?" the creature hissed, its many-toned voice sharpening. "You lowly human… how dare you…"
It completely ignored his question.