Harold had heard some of the murmurings behind his back, the rumors and wild accusations of what exactly happened in those dank tunnels. Of who, or what, had sunk their dark influences into his child...spirits of the grave, or beasts from far in the woods, to fiends from the deepest pits below. No matter what the source, it led to nothing but plights and tribulations for the town, all thanks to that little one still growing in Mary. Considering rumors only grew more wild the further away they were from the subject, he could only feebly struggle to disprove anything was amiss.
In all honesty, the axeman's gut had gnawed on many of those brief autumn nights, when he'd still had the luxury of sleeping by Mary's side, wondering if the woman in his arms and the child she carried were the same as before that night. Reginald was symbol enough of what could become of those violated by other-worldliness. "There's gotta be a way to keep Mary and our baby safe...right?" The normally solid tenor of confidence wavered as his gaze went from the other gents with him back down to the azure floral harbingers of doom.