Altitude -384
Deep underground lies a place that should not exist: the Backrooms, a maze of wrong corridors and endless rooms folded somewhere behind the world. Its terror is the Howler.
Speed 200% · Health 255%
A Howler is tall, gaunt, and wrong — a slender stick-figure of a humanoid, half-decomposed and nearly black, wound all over with metal wires, with unnaturally long arms made for catching and no face at all. A thick, rotten stench often announces one before it is seen. Its strength, speed, and endurance are wildly beyond what its thin frame suggests; for all practical purposes it is immortal, and ordinary weapons do nothing to it. Left alone it roams the Backrooms emitting low, distorted groans — or mimics a human voice to coax a victim into the open. The moment it notices prey it looses an ear-bursting scream and gives chase, and it does not stop until its quarry is dead, has slipped beyond its reach, or something it hates even more crosses its path — a Howler will always abandon a chase to destroy another creature first.
It fears exactly two things: fire and explosions. It recoils from open flame, and a direct hit will stun it for a short while — very nearly the only way to make one stop at all. If one is near: move away as quietly as you can, listen for its howls and steer clear, throw a small object to misdirect it only when you must, and never, ever try to fight it with a blade. To be caught is fatal.
Were you able to sample the tales of a 100 campfires, even then you would find that no one knows where Howlers come from, why they are shaped as they are, or what the wires that lace their bodies are for. None has ever communicated with anyone, they appear to need neither food nor drink, and as best anyone can tell, they kill for sport. The Backrooms resist explanation as completely as the thing that hunts them.