Garrett wasn’t sure whether the slimy tentacled abominations crawling from the woods were part of the festivities or not. When they started to devour cultists it became quite clear that they were not.
Rollins was running around like a headless chicken. Instead of sacrificing a bounty hunter to some unspeakable cosmic horror, he was shitting his pants and scrambling for cover.
While the monstrosities enjoyed their midnight snacks, Garrett slipped free of his bonds, got back to the cottage, recovered his Mossberg and found his clothes. The screaming outside had started to die down when Rollins burst through the door.