Lighthouse Horror Podcast - 3 SCARY Monster Hunter Stories | Compilation

Episode Date: May 3, 2026

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People never call it what it is. They say big dog, bear. They say something got into the livestock. They don't say werewolf. My name is Matthew. I'm 41 years old, and for the last 12 years, I've made a living, killing werewolves for counties that don't want headlines, and families that don't want reporters on their lawns. I'm not military. I'm not part of some secret order.

I grew up outside Ashland, Kentucky. My dad ran a tire shop off US 23. My mom worked nights at a hospital cafeteria. I hunted deer every fall, starting at 13. Then that's about as dramatic as my origin story gets. The first werewolf I saw, it wasn't during a full moon in some fog-covered forest. It was behind a dollar general outside Grayson. Sheriff's Department called it in as a rabid animal.

I was 29 and still doing contract pest control. coyotes, feral hogs, nuisance bears. I shot it twice before I understood what I was looking at. The second time I didn't hesitate. Word travels in rural counties. After that, I started getting different calls, quiet ones. The kind where deputies don't file reports. The kind where farmers hand you cash in an envelope.

And don't ask for a receipt. That's how this job works. No uniforms, no badges, just a truce. truck, silver rounds, and five rules. That night we were parked off Kentucky Route 10, half a mile past a rusted farm gate that leaned like had given up. The property belonged to a man named Curtis Henson, 62, retired machinist, three goats missing in two weeks. One found opened up behind the feed shed. Sheriff rode it up as feral dogs. Curtis called me anyway.

I shut the engine off and let it ticked down in the dark. The quiet out there was not natural. No insects, no distant highway hum. You hear that? I asked. The kid in the passenger seat shook his head. His name was Brandon Ellis, 24, fresh out of the academy, volunteer deputy.

He still checked his rifle every five minutes, like it might disappear if he didn't look at it. That's the problem. I said. You, um, you think it's here? He asked. It's always here, I began. Question is, whether it's alone.

He shifted in his seat and adjusted the sling on his rifle. Silver-plated rounds in his magazine. I had 12-gauge slugs in my lap, each one hand-loaded and dipped clean. Thermal monocular hanging from my neck. Red lens. flashlight clipped in my vest. Turniquet in my left cargo pockets. I don't pack light.

You said there were rules, Brandon said. Sheriff didn't mention rules. The sheriff thinks this is animal control, I began. It isn't. I opened the door and stepped out into gravel. The ear smelled like cut hay. The farmhouse sat 200 yards up the drive. Ports light off.

Windows black. Beyond it, the barn crouched low and square against the tree line. Brandon came around the hood and joined me. His boots crunched too loud. Roll your feet, I said. He adjusted and tried again. We walked halfway up the drive before I stopped and raised the thermal to my eye. One large heat signature right behind the barn.

Not moving much, elevated temperature, roughly the size of a giraffe horse. if you were generous. Brandon leaned in. You see it? I see something, I said. We cut left instead of heading straight in. Always change the angle. If it's watching, and it probably was,

it expects you to walk right up to the barn door like an idiot. Brandon kept his light low. So, you've been doing this 12 years? "'Closer to thirteen,' my son. "'And you've never messed up, huh?' "'I lowered the thermal and looked at him. "'I've messed up, kid,' that began. "'That's why there's rules.'

"'A wooden plank creaked from inside the barn. "'Brandon's breathing changed. "'Before we get any closer,' I began, "'you need to understand something.' "'I'm listening.' There are five rules. You break one and you don't get a redo. He tried to smile, but it didn't stick.

What kind of rules? Well, the kind you follow, even when you think you don't need to. The heat signature inside the barn moved. It paced once among the interior wall. The outline through the boards wasn't clean, but the height was wrong for a dog. shoulders too wide, head carried too high. Brandon raised his rifle halfway. Not yet, I said.

It looks big. Yeah, big isn't the same as shifted. He glanced at me, confused. Rule one. Never shoot until you confirm the target is fully shifted, I said. Metal scraped inside the barn. A chain clinked once. Then a low sound rolled out through the slats.

Steady. Not a bark. Not a howl. More like someone clearing their throat before speaking. Brandon flinched. Stay calm, I said. The barn door moved just an inch. Not swinging open, just pressure against it.

I stepped sideways for a clearer line of fire, and I felt the gravel shift under my boot. Safety off, I said quietly. Brandon clicked his off. Inside the barn, something heavy, exhaled. Welcome to the job. Now listen carefully. The rules are the only reason I'm still alive.

And the first one was about to matter. Rule one. Never shoot until you confirm the target. has shifted fully. You don't fire on movement. You don't fire on size. You don't fire because your nerves are screaming at you to do something. You fire when the shift locks. That night behind Curtis Henson's barn, Brandon almost learned that the hard way. The barn door flexed inward again. Not much. Just enough to show something heavy was leaning against it from the inside. I lifted the thermal and adjusted the focus ring. The heat signature was tall. Too tall. It moved with a slow, uneven sway.

One shoulder dipped lower than the other. That's the first thing people misunderstand. They think werewolves snap into place like movie monsters. One clean transformation and poof, done. It isn't clean or mechanical. Brandon whispered, That's it, right? Maybe I began, but not yet. The door slid another inch, and a shape pressed into the gap. At first it looked human, torso, arms, head bent forward. But the proportions were wrong.

The spine curved too far. The arms hung too long. Brandon brought his rifle up. Don't, I said. But it's coming out. Not. Fully, I replied. The thing inside the barn shifted its weight, and the door jerked open wider with a sudden snap.

Wood splintered, where something crawled through the inner brace. A hand came through first. Not a paw. A hand. Five fingers. Too long. Nails dark and thickened. The skin looked tight over the knuckles like had been stretched.

Brandon's breath called. It's still human. It's not, I said. It's mid-shift. The arm convulsed. I saw the elbow joint snap backward at a wrong angle and then correct itself with a grinding motion. The fingers curled and lengthened.

The nails split and peeled forward into black claws. Brandon's rifle wavered. Shoot it now, he said. If you shoot it, now, you're just going to make it angry, I replied. The head pushed through next. At that stage, they still look wrong in a way that tricks you. The jaw starts to extend, but hasn't finished.

The nose flattens and pushes outward. Teeth lengthen unevenly. Some still human, some already fanged. The eyes cloud over and then refocus. Half human. Half wolf. And that is the worst version. The door tore free of one hinge, as the body forced its way out.

Its shirt was half shredded and hanging from one shoulder. Ribs were visible beneath skin that stretched and tightened with every breath. Brandon's finger tightened on the trigger. Wait, I said sharply. The creature dropped to one knee and let out a low, wet growl. Its spine rippled under the chest. the skin, like something was crawling beneath it. The shoulder blades pushed outward, forming ridges. The forearms thickened. The sound it made wasn't a howl. It was a choke. Like it was swallowing

gravel. That's the moment most rookies break. The sound triggers something in the back of your brain. Fight or flight kicks in, and you want to end it? But sober against a half-former. body doesn't kill clean. It shocks. And when you shock something mid-shift, the pain hits every nerve at once. I know because I did it once. Years ago, outside green up, I fired too early. The slug caught it in the ribs before the rib cage had finished widening. It didn't drop. It convulsed. And then it came at me with both arms still half human, and it tore open my left thigh before I got a second shot off. I still limp when it rains. Inside Curtis's yard, the creature's jaw snapped forward with a wet crack. Teeth settled into place. The ears pulled up and back against the skull. The torso expanded and

unlocked. You can see it when it happens. The shift reaches the end of its cycle and stops adjusting. The movements become coordinated instead of chaotic. The creature stood to full height, close to eight feet, fur now fully grown across its chest and shoulders. The eyes were clear yellow, focused. That's when it's a werewolf. Not before. Now, I said. Brandon fired.

The first round hit high in the chest. The impact jerked the creature back. backward a step. Silver burns through them, like acid through tin, smoke lifted from the entry wound. I fired a half second later, and I put a slug through its open mouth. The head snapped back. Bone and fur sprayed across the barn door. It staggered forward anyway. They always do. Brandon fired again. This time the shot caught the shoulder joint and blew it apart. The arm hung useless. The creature lunged on three limbs and hit the gravel hard enough to crack it.

I stepped in close, and I put the final round into the base of the skull. It went still. We stood there in the dust and smoke, both breathing too hard. Brandon lowered his rifle slowly. If I had shot when the arm came out, it would have hit mid-rib, I interrupted. And it would have felt every knee. nerve and its body catch fire. He looked at the torn gravel, imagining it.

It would have covered that distance before you chambered the next round up again, and it would have used what was left of its hands to open you up. Brandon gulped. I walked forward and nudged the body with my boot. No movement. The jaw hung slack. The fur was already losing its sheen. You don't shoot until the shift locks, I said.

Full height, full structure, eyes focused. He nodded, but his hands were still shaking. I wiped the barrel of my shotgun with a rag and began reloading. The barn behind us creaked as the hinge gave way, and the door fell flat into the dirt. Brandon stared at the corpse. How do you know when it's finished? You watch the spine.

I began. You watch the shoulders, and when the movement stops looking painful and starts looking deliberate, that's when you fire. He looked back at me. And if you're wrong, then you're dead, I said. The wind picked up slightly and carried the smell of blood across the yard. Brandon took a long breath and studied himself. Well, that's rule one, I continued. You wait until it's fully what it's going to be. Never before. Behind the barn, somewhere deeper in the tree line, a branch snapped.

Brandon's head turned. I didn't move. Because one heat signature rarely tells the whole story. Rule two. Never let one lure you indoors. If it goes inside, you don't follow. I don't care if it drag something in. I don't care if it screams.

I don't care if it looks wounded. You keep your boots outside. Curtis Henson thanked us three times before we left his property. We loaded the body into the bed of my truck under a tarb, and told him to lock his livestock and the steel pin for a few nights. I didn't tell him about the branch snap and the tree line. There's no point in giving a man something he can't fix. Brandon rode quiet on the way back toward town.

An hour later my phone rang. Another call. Different county line. Edge of Portsmouth, Ohio. A deputy named Aaron King said a woman had reported something huge running into a vacant house off the street. House had been empty six months. Bank foreclosure.

Windows boarded, but one side door busted open. I didn't hesitate. Still there? I asked. We heard movement inside. King said. Then it stopped. Don't go in, I told him.

Silence. You hear me? I mean, we were about to clear it. King replied. Do not go in, I repeated. Brandon looked over at me. We're doing another? You want sleep?

I asked. He didn't answer. We crossed the river into Ohio, just before midnight. The vacant house sat back from the street behind a Chingling fence, porch sagging, one upstairs window missing its boards. Streetlights threw long yellow shadows across the lawn. Two cruisers were parked crooked in the drive.

Deputy King stood near the front steps with a flashlight in his hand and his pistol already drawn. "'Year Matthew?' he asked when I stepped out. "'That's me.' He jerked his chin toward the house. We saw something move past the kitchen window, big, not a dog. Anyone inside? I asked. Well, house is supposed to be empty.

Supposed to be, I repeated. Brandon came around the truck, rifle slung. King eyed him. He good? He'll be fine if he listens, I said. And we walked toward the house. house together. The front door hung half open. Inside, the living room was dark except for a sliver of streetlight, cutting across the carpet. Old furniture still sat in the room,

covered in dusty sheets. King lifted his pistol. We were about to sweep. No, I said. He frowned. We can't just let it sit in there. Yes, we can, I said. I stepped to the side of the doorway, instead of standing in it. Always offset. I leaned in just enough to shine my red lens across the far wall. Scratch marks. Four long grooves running down from the ceiling toward the floor. It's in there, Brandon whispered.

Of course it is, I said. A heavy thud came from deeper inside the house. that another. It wanted us to hear it. King stepped toward the threshold. I grabbed the back of his vest and pulled him hard enough to rock him off balance. You don't cross that line, I said. He looked offended.

It's just a house? It is not just a house anymore, I replied. Rule two exists, because walls compress space. Werewolves don't need distance the way we do. They don't need clean lines of sight. Inside a house, they use door frames like cover. They use stairwells like funnels. They break through drywall instead of using hallways.

Out here, I control distance. And there it does. The fudge stopped. Silence. Brandon gulped. What if it's high. It is hiding, I began, and it wants you to come find it. A board creaked upstairs. King's jaw tightened. We can't just wait. We don't wait, I said. We move it.

I circled left along the exterior wall, keeping space between me and the windows. Brandon mirrored me. King followed. Slower now. We reached the side yard. The kitchen window was broken out, glass scattered across the dirt. I lifted the thermal and angled it through the opening. Heat signature inside.

Crouched low behind the kitchen island. Not moving. See it? Brandon whispered. Yes. Why isn't it coming out? Because it wants us to step in. in, I said.

King exhaled hard. So what do we do? I stepped back and handed Brandon the thermal. Watch that window. Then I moved to the back door, and kicked it open. The sound echoed through the house. Still no movement. I picked up a brick from the flower bed, and I hurled it through the living room window.

Glass exploded inward. Still nothing. I grabbed a metal trash can lid from the side yard, and I slammed it against the siding three times, loud and sharp. A growl rolled out from inside, low and irritated. And there it was. The kitchen window frame splintered as something large shifted behind it. A flash of yellow eyes.

Fur along the edge of the counter. Back up, I said. We retreated five. steps into open yard. The back door shuddered once, and then it burst outward. The werewolf exploded into the yard in a spray of wood and dust, full shift, tall, leaner than the one at the barn, and faster. It didn't charge straight. It juked left, then right, testing angles. And that's what happens inside houses. They get used to tight spaces. They learn to bounce off walls and redirect. Brandon fired first. The round clipped the hip. The creature stumbled but kept moving.

King fired his pistol twice and missed both times. The werewolf lunged toward the porch, using the railing as leverage to change direction again. If we'd been in that hallway, it would have hit us before we got a second shot. I dropped in one knee, and I waited for the turn. When it pivoted toward Brandon, I fired center mass. The slug punched through the sternum. The creature faltered. Brandon steadied himself and put a second round into its throat.

It collapsed in the grass ten feet from the front steps. King stood frozen, pistol still extended. That's why, I said. He lowered the guns slowly. Brandon looked at the shattered doorway. If we'd gone inside, it would have come through drywall, I interrupted, or down the stairs from above you.

Or from the crawl space, who knows? King stared at the broken porch railing. It led us hear it. Yes. It wanted us to clear the house. Yes. I said. He wiped his sweat from his forehead.

We almost did. I nodded. The body twitched once and went still. Brandon let out of breath he'd been holding. So if it runs into a building, you don't follow, I said. You flush it out. He nodded slowly. I walked to the edge of the porch and looked at the gouges carved into the doorframe.

fresh wood splintered outward. You give it walls and you give it control, I said. The cruiser's lights flashed red and blue across the front of the house. Neighbors were peeking through curtains now. King holstered his pistol. That's rule too, huh? That's rule too, I said. I reloaded and stepped back toward the truck.

If it goes inside, I continued. You let it come back out on your terms. Behind us, the house stood open and broken, but we were still standing in open ground. Rule three, never hunt alone during a full moon sweep. You don't do this job by yourself. Not on a full moon. Not when sighting starts stacking up in the same county.

Not when tracks overlap. You think you're tracking one, you're not. Two nights after the house in Portsmouth, the call started clustering along the edge of Wayne National Forest. Chicken's gone. A calf dragged 20 yards from a fence line. Something seemed crossing a logging road near Ironton just after midnight. Full moon was due up at 9.14 p.m. That timing matters. Brandon showed up at my place before sunset. His shoulder was bruised from recoil and laxswain. of sleep. He didn't complain, though. You think it's connected? He asked while loading fresh, silver rounds into his magazine. Always assume it is, I said. We drove south and cut into the gravel

access road that feeds into the forest. The trees out there grow tight. The canopy blocks more light than people expect. Even under a full moon, the ground stays dark. At the ranger gate, we met Deputy Aaron King again. He'd brought another volunteer, a guy named Trevor Scott, early 30s, big guy, confident in a way that comes from not having seen enough yet. You, uh, you sure we need four of us? Trevor asked. Yes, I said.

He smiled like he thought I was exaggerating. We parked the truck's nose out for a quick exit and cut our engines. The moon was already rising over the tree line. Bright and round and wrong, and that way it gets when it's too clear. I lifted the thermal and scanned the ridge line. One heat signature. Large. Moving parallel to the logging road about a hundred yards up.

There, I said, handing the monocular to Brandon. He looked. Just one. Right now, I said. Trevor shouldered his rifle. So we circle it. No, I said. We move together.

He frowned. If we split up, we can box in. No, I said. Rule three exist, because werewolves understand flanking better than you do. They don't talk. They don't signal. They read each other's movement by instinct. You split up.

You become four isolated targets. We moved into the trees in a tight, staggered line. Brandon behind Maine, King behind him, Trevor bringing up the rear. The forest floor was dry, leaves crunching under boots, no matter how careful we stepped. I didn't like that. Noise covers approach. The heat signature crossed the ridge again.

Trevor leaned forward. We've got it moving. It's letting us see it, I said. The shape disappeared behind a thick stand of pines. Brandon whispered, lost it. I took the thermal back and adjusted the angle. Two new heat blooms appeared. One to our left and one to our right.

They hadn't been there 30 seconds earlier. Stop, I said. Trevor stepped forward anyway. It's splitting up. No, I said. We're being split. The original signature reappeared ahead of us and broke into a run across the ridge, fully visible now in the moonlight. Tall and lean and fast. Trevor raised his rifle and took a step toward it. The left side heat signature started moving. Fast.

Left, Brandon shouted. A massive shape burst from me. behind a fallen log then. It had charged straight at Trevor. He barely had time to pivot before it hit him in the chest and knocked him backward into a tree. King fired once and missed. The wolf snapped at Trevor's arm and tore fabric but didn't get flesh. The third heat signature flared bright behind us. The decoy on the ridge had stopped running. It turned. And now all three were oriented toward us. Back to back, I yelled.

We tightened formation. That's the difference between living and dying in a pack encounter. You don't chase or pursue. You hold center, and you force them to come through you. The left wolf lunged again.

I fired into his shoulder joint. The silver slug ripped muscle and spun it sideways, but it didn't drop. Brandon pivoted and fired right, catching the second wolf across the ribs. It staggered and snarled. The one on the ridge let out a long, rising howl. It wasn't random. It was coordination. The injured wolf pressed in again, not retreating. Trevor finally got a clean shot off and blew a chunk out of its flank. The third

wolf came downhill. Fast. I felt the ground vibrate before I saw it fully. Down, I said. Brandon dropped one knee and fired upward as the creature cleared a fallen branch mid-leap. The round caught it in the lower abdomen. It crashed short of its target and it rolled hard across the forest floor. King moved to finish the injured one on the left. Don't chase, I said. Too late.

King stepped forward to paces to get a better angle, and the right-side wolf used the gap instantly. It slammed into him from the side, and it drove him into the dirt. I fired it near point-blank range, catching it behind the ear. The skull cracked, and it went limp across King's legs. The third wolf, the one Brandon had hit mid-air, was already scrambling to its feet. It wasn't retreating. It was recalculating.

Trevor, bleeding from a shallow gash on his forearm, raised his rifle and, fired twice in quick succession. The first missed. The second hit center chest. The wolf staggered, but didn't fall. Full moon. They don't feel pain the same way under a full moon. I stepped forward, planted my feet, and waited for the charge. And it ran toward me, head low, arms wide. I aimed for the mouth and fired. The slug punched through the upper jaw and exited behind the skull. The body folded inward and skidded to a stop less than ten feet from us. Silence dropped back over the forest.

Trevor was breathing hard. King rolled onto his side, groaning. Brandon kept scanning with a thermal hand shaking. One more? he asked. I swept the tree line. Nothing. Just residual heat from our bodies. King pushed himself up.

Dirt and blood streaked across his uniform. If we'd split up, you'd be gone, I said. Brandon looked at the dead wolf near his boots. They used a decoy. Yes, they did, I said. Trevor wiped the blood from his forearm. I thought we could box it. You don't box a pack, I said.

You try and survive it. He nodded, slower now. We stood there under the moonlight, just staring out in front of us. Rule three isn't complicated. You don't hunt alone when the moon is full, because when you think you're tracking one, you're already inside a triangle, and triangles close fast.

Rule four. Some of them aren't bad. Don't kill the wrong one. Now, most of them are killers. That part doesn't change. Most of them don't care about fences or property lines. They don't care about livestock tags or porch lights. They hunt wood moves, and if it's smaller than they are, they take it.

But every once in a while, you find one that isn't hunting. And if you shoot that one, you don't just make a mistake. You create a problem that follows. you for years. We got the call outside Vanceburg, Kentucky, just before dusk. A couple in their late 50s reported a giant creature in their backyard. The husband said it was standing upright and holding something long and sharp. That description puts your pulse up fast.

Long and sharp means weapon. Brandon and I pulled into the gravel drive and cut the engine. The house sat back from the road with a small fenced, garden beside it. Wooden tomato cages, fresh-turned soil, a stack of bagged fertilizer near the shed. The husband met us on the porch. His hands shook while he talked. It was big, the husband said. Standing in the garden. Did it attack anything? I asked. No, no. It was digging, he said.

Digging? Brandon asked. Like it was burying something. The husband added. Brandon looked over at me. We walked around the side of the house and stopped at the fence line. I shut off my flashlight and let my eyes adjust.

And there it was. Full werewolf. Broad shoulders, thick fur down its spine, standing over a row of freshly turned soil. in its hand was something long and metallic. Brandon lifted his rifle. Hold, I said quietly. The creature bent forward and drove the metal object into the dirt.

I raised the thermal monocular and scanned the yard. One heat signature. No movement beyond the steady rhythm of digging. The metal object caught a bit of face. lighting light. Shovel. This is our chance. Let me shoot it,

Brandon said. The creature stopped digging, and it turned its head slowly in our direction. Its eyes reflected the last bit of sunset. It straightened to full height, still holding the shovel.

Brandon tightened down the trigger. Don't, I said. The werewolf looked at us for a long second. And then it spoke, I'm not a bad one, idiot. What? Brandon said, blinking.

The werewolf shifted the shovel in his hands and scowled. I'm planting my damn tomatoes, it said. There was no growl in its voice. I lowered my shotgun slightly. Sorry, I said. The werewolf glared at us another moment. moment, and then it turned back to the soil. It stabbed the shovel into the ground again. Scrape. It paused and glanced over its shoulder.

People see far, and they lose their damn minds, it muttered. And then it went back to digging. Brandon slowly lowered his rifle all the way. And we stood there watching for a few seconds. The werewolf straightened again, wiped dirt off. off one claw against its leg, and walked toward the edge of the yard with a shovel over its shoulder. I can't even go outside for a bit of moon air and plant my damned tomatoes without idiots running about trying to shoot me and whatnot. The werewolf muttered, as it shook its fist at us,

and then it disappeared fully into the tree line. Brandon exhaled hard. We almost shot him. Yeah, I said. He was holding the shovel, Brandon said. He looked toward the dark trees where the werewolf had gone. What if we'd kill them? he asked. Be glad we didn't, I replied. He nodded slowly. Now, remember, most of them are bad.

But every once in a while, you find one that just wants to be left alone. Rule four exists, because your job isn't a killer. everything with fur and claws. It's to kill the ones that deserve it. Rule 5. If you see two of them fighting, leave them alone. You don't step between them. You don't take advantage of the distraction. You don't move closer for a clean shot. You back up. You wouldn't jump between two rabbit dogs tearing at each other at a yard, would you? Now, multiply that by 10. We learned that one outside Iron Ten, Ohio, three nights after the forest pack encounter. Call came in around 1.20 a.m.

Two different residents reported large animals fighting near an abandoned storage facility off state route 93. One caller said, it sounded like trucks crashing into each other. Accurate. Brandon and I pulled into the cracked asphalt lot and killed the headlights before we reach the chain link fence. The moon was high and bright enough to cast hard shadows across the rows of metal roll-up doors. We heard it before we saw it.

A deep, vibrating snarl. That impact? Metal buckled somewhere in the darkness. Brandon said, that's not one. We moved along the fence line and found a gap where the chain had been torn loose. I raised the thermal, and I scanned over the rows of units. Two heat signatures, both enormous. They weren't circling.

They were colliding. One slammed the other into a row of storage doors, hard enough to dent the steel inward. The second wolf twisted, clamped its jaws into the first one's shoulder, and drove it sideways across the pavement. The sound wasn't howling. It was bone and muscle hitting metal.

Brandon leaned forward. They're destroyed. The two wolves rolled across the asphalt, claws tearing grooves into the surface. One got on top and drew of its forearm down into the other's throat. The lower wolf kicked upward and sent them both crashing into a stack of plastic bins outside one of the units. The bins exploded into pieces. Brandon shifted his stance. If we take the dominant one first, back up, I interrupted.

He looked at me like I was wasting an opportunity. That's the trap. Now, when two werewolves fight, it's not a duel. It's not about territory in a way you think. It's like a violent hierarchy correction. Whoever wins walks away stronger and meaner. And if you interrupt that process, both of them redirect at you. One of the wolves broke free and staggered backward,

chest heaving. The other followed immediately, not giving it space, not letting it disengage. They slammed together again. The ground shook under our boots. Brandon took one cautious step forward through the fence gap. I grabbed the back of his vest, and I pulled him hard enough to make him stumble. Do not go in there, I said. They're right there. And they will both turn on us if we move closer, I replied. As if to prove the point, the larger of the two wolves paused mid-strike and lifted its head. It sniffed the air. The smaller wolf twisted free and lunged again, but the larger one wasn't focused on it anymore.

Its eyes shifted toward the fence line. Toward us. Back, I said. We moved five steps away from the opening. The larger wolf shoved the smaller one aside and took the small one aside and took two deliberate steps in our direction. The smaller wolf came in it from behind and sank its teeth into the back of its thigh. The larger wolf roared and spun, slamming the smaller one into a storage unit door so hard

the metal bowed inward. And that's what saved us. If the second wolf hadn't re-engaged, the first one would have charged the fence. Brandon's breathing was fast now. The smaller wolf's leg bent in an unnatural angle under the larger one's weight. The larger wolf clamped its jaws around the smaller one's throat and drove it down out of the asphalt. There's a moment in those fights where it shifts from struggle to execution. You see the resistance fade.

The larger wolf held its grip and shook once, and the smaller wolf went limp. Silence fell heavy and sudden across the lot. The standing wolf lifted its head slowly. Blood ran down its chest. One eye was half swollen shut. Its rib cage rose and fell in deep pulls. It turned fully toward the fence then. Toward us?

And this is the part rookies get wrong. They think the fight weakened it. It didn't. It thinned competition. The wolf took a step forward. Then another. It wasn't charging yet. It was deciding.

I raised my shotgun but didn't step through the fence. Brandon brought his rifle up. Wait for the angle, I said. The wolf advanced three more steps into the open lot, leaving the body behind. It lowered its head and let out a low growl. If we'd been ten feet closer, it would have closed that distance before we could chamber another round. It crouched.

That was the decision. I fired first. The slug hit high in the chest. The impact staggered in but didn't stop the forward motion. Brandon fired half a second later, catching it across the lower ribs. It charged then. Not straight. It veered left, then right, testing the fence gap.

I stepped sideways to widen my line, and I fired again, this time aiming for the open mouth. The slug punched through the upper jaw. The wolf slammed into the chain-link fence hard enough to make it rattle and sag. Brandon fired one last round into its neck. The body slid down the fence and went still. We held position for a full ten seconds. No movement? No heat shifts on thermal.

Just two massive shapes on the asphalt. Brandon lowered his rifle slowly. He looked through the fence at the torn-up lot, the gouges in the pavement, the bent metal doors, the body lying twisted near the storage units. They weren't ignoring us, he said. They were prioritizing. Well, you don't break up a fight between dogs, I began.

You don't get between bears. And you don't put yourself into a werewolf fight thinking it's your moment. Brandon looked at the dead wolf slumped against the fence. They multiply everything by ten, he said quietly. Now rule five isn't about courage. It's about survival. If you see two of them fighting, you let them finish. And then you deal with what's left.

Well, by the time we left the storage lot, the sun was lifting over the trees. The chain-link fence still sagged, where one of them had slammed into it. The storage doors were bent inward, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. Two bodies lay under tarps in the bed of my truck, heavy and still.

By midday, deputies would file a report about wild animals. The dents would get blamed on vandals, and life would keep moving. Now, like I said, most werewolves are bad, most of them don't try to live quietly. Most don't plant gardens. Most don't mind their own business. They move at night.

They test fences, they circle houses. They kill. That's the part people are right to fear. But not all of them are the same. Every once in a while, you find one that isn't prowling, isn't stalking, one that looks irritated more than predatory when you shine a light on it. You learn to see the difference. and how they stand, how they move,

and whether they're coiled the strike or just trying to be left alone. You don't learn that from stories. You learn it from standing in enough yards and enough forest and enough empty parking lots to know what you're looking at. You learn it by surviving your mistakes. And you always remember the rules. You don't shoot until the transformation is complete.

You don't follow one inside a building. You don't hunt alone on a full moon. You don't kill the wrong one. And if you see two of them fighting, you stay out of it. That's it. Five rules. You follow them. Or you become a lesson.

My name's Abel. I'm a vampire hunter. It's on a job you apply for. No diploma, no orientation videos. It's something you're either born into, where you die figuring out. Me, I was born into it. Born and raised in rural Kansas.

Not near any city people think of when they picture the state. Just fields and fence post. Dirt roads. A few houses spread out like dots on an old map. One diner. Two churches. Three families that stayed put for four generations. Ours was one of them.

My folks were honest about why they had me. It wasn't love or planning or a miracle. They had me because the line needed to keep going. The way other families hand down farmland or debt, mine handed down sharpened stakes and books with handwritten notes in the margins. They told me when I was five that I was the next in line. I didn't go to college, never even filled down an application. My school counselor tried to talk to me once about scholarships and careers. She had this brochure in her hand, something with a smiling kid holding a laptop on a campus lawn.

I told her it wasn't going to happen. She thought I meant we couldn't afford it. I didn't bother correcting her. Let her think it was about the money. The truth would have made her very uncomfortable, and I've never been the type to talk more than I have to. I wasn't raised like other kids. I didn't have baseball practice or summer camps.

I had morning drills with dad. Every Saturday at dawn, rain or shine. He'd wake me up, hand me a wooden dowel the size of a sword handle, and we'd practice. Not flashy, movie-style stuff, just stance, grip, movement. He taught me how to move my feet so I wouldn't trip in gravel. Taught me how to read signs in dirt. Taught me how to tell when a smile is too wide, or when someone's voice is a little too smooth. That's one of the first things you learn.

Vampires don't all act the same. They don't all wear black or slink around like they've got something to hide. They adapt. They learn fast. Down south, they sing a lot. They've got these syrupy voices like honey poured over warm cornbread. Sweet and slow. Folks let their guard down really easy down there.

In Boston, they're a little different, rude even. Talk fast, move faster. Can't waste time when the city doesn't sleep. In Asia, they're more connected, networked, less individual predators, and more like cells in a bigger thing. That part scares me more than anything. Cities, that's where the worst ones hide. They've been there longer. They've learned how to blend, Some run companies. Others work late-night shifts. The longer they're around people, the more natural they seem. You might be wondering if I resented it. The training, the pressure, the strange lifestyle. I didn't. I still don't.

I never had that weird teenage crisis of who am I or what do I want to be. I knew. I always knew. When my friends were flipping through career books, I was memorizing bloodlines. When they went to prom, I was practicing how to disable someone without killing them. I didn't envy them. I didn't even think they were wrong. Just different.

It's not a glamorous life. No awards, no recognition. Nobody throws you a parade when you stop something very bad from spreading. You just pack up and drive to the next place. but there's something clean about it, something honest. When I hunt, I know exactly who I am. There's no guesswork, no pretending. I don't lie to myself about the world being fair,

or are people always being good way deep down. I see things as they are. My mom taught me that part. She wasn't a hunter like my dad. She was the researcher. She tracked patterns, kept logs. wrote down everything they learned what worked

what didn't what changed from place to place she'd sit at the kitchen table late into the night pouring over old cases her handwriting sharp and neat like every letter mattered she'd say things like

they get smarter every year or you have to listen more than you talk dad handled the fighting mom handled the thinking, and I learned both. Some people think hunting's all about strength. It's not. It's about patience, about listening, about knowing when not to act.

Sometimes you wait three weeks in a town without doing a damn thing, just watching, listening, following a trail that might not lead anywhere. But if you're lucky and quiet, and careful. You'll find something. And if you're not careful, it'll find you first. I've been at it on my own for, well, seven years now, since I was a teen. Dad passed away before I finished my training, but he left enough behind for me to keep going. Notes, letters, tips on places to avoid, people to trust. There's a woman in Ohio who makes cusses. Custom weapons.

A trucker who runs supplies across state lines. No questions asked. A preacher in Louisiana who can tell when someone's not quite human. These aren't friends. They're contacts. That's another thing you learn. You don't get too close to anyone. Sooner or later, you'll have to leave or bury them.

I'm writing this down now because, well, someone has to. Mom kept records. She said memory fades, but ink lasts. It's my turn now. Every little thing matters. Patterns, words, faces. Someday, someone else will need this, like I did. So I write it all down. My name is Abel. I'm a vampire hunter. And these are my stories. I was 18, the first time I killed the vampire, that age where you don't feel like a kid anymore, but you still think like one. You're out of school, no longer told where to go or when to wake up, and yet you haven't really lived anything. There's a strange confidence that comes with that in between. You believe you're ready for the world, mostly because you don't know what the world is capable of. My father used to say that 18 was a dangerous age. You have energy and instinct, but your judgment hasn't caught up yet.

He called it the edge and said everyone has to fall off at once. For me, it happened in rural Kansas, inside a church basement that had gone sour without anyone noticing. I was staying in town to help one of my dad's old friends fix a roof and look into some local rumors. Nothing official. Just quiet work watching from a distance. But trouble.

never follows your calendar. It shows up when it wants to. After service one Sunday morning at St. Luke's, the local priest pulled me aside near the gravel parking lot. His shirt collar was loose, and his hands shook when he spoke. He didn't ask questions or explain himself, just passed me a folded piece of paper and told me to read it later. Alone. I waited until I was a few blocks away before I opened it. The handwriting was messy. It read, I believe something is hiding in the basement. Please come after dark, and do not bring anything that looks like a weapon. That last part told me the priest had a gut feeling about what he was dealing with. He didn't know the rules, not in full, but he understood enough to keep quiet and

not make a scene. I returned to the church the next evening, just after sundown. The main doors were locked, but the priest met me at the side entrance near the rectory garden. He didn't say much. We walked through the narrow back hallway, past classrooms and storage closets, and eventually came to the stairs behind the altar that led to the basement. Then he laughed, telling me he couldn't bear to find out what devil had been haunting the basement. He offered a prayer, and back up he went. As soon as I stepped down the first few steps, I could feel the shift in the air. The wood underfoot creaked more than it should have, and the temperature dropped with each level.

I stopped in a narrow door marked storage. I opened it with a brass key the priest had given me, and stopped. There were empty blood bags, medical grade. scattered nearby, torn apart with sharp teeth and carelessness. The light overhead was dim and flickering, but I could make out a figure crouched in the corner, partially hidden by an old wire rack. He was humming. Not a melody I recognized, just a soft, slow sound, like he was keeping rhythm with his breath. As I stepped closer, I saw him more clearly. A man in a tailor, vest with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, kneeling over a half-torn blood bag.

He didn't see me. That's something they do. When they feed, they lose their awareness. It's a moment of weakness, kind of like being drunk. They forget their predators. Forget the world outside is their prey. My father taught me that if you ever catch one in that state, you don't hesitate. and you don't wait for it to turn and recognize you.

You act? I stepped forward fast and drove the sharpened chair leg I'd been carrying into the upper back, aiming low between the shoulder blades. The man jerked violently. His body collapsed onto the floor in a heavy sprawl. I pulled the stake out and struck again, this time straight through the middle. He twitched once, then stopped to. moving. The vampire didn't look special in death. No claws, no monstrous transformation,

just a man in clean clothes with a little blood on his collar, until his body began to break down. Within seconds, the skin cracked, the muscle caved in, and he disintegrated into a pile of fine ash. The smell hit me next, sharp and bitter, like cough. coffee grounds, soaked in cheap alcohol. It stung the nose, clean and unnatural. I left the room and locked the door behind me. The priest was waiting upstairs, pacing in the hallway. When he saw my face, he stopped. It's done. You don't have to worry about him anymore, I said. He opened his mouth like he wanted to ask a question, but nothing came out. And I gave him. him a warning before I left. Don't open your doors to strangers anymore. If someone stops outside and

ask to come in, even if they sound friendly, even if they look like they belong, do not let them pass the threshold. If they were human, they wouldn't have to ask, I said. My father came into town the following day. I didn't go into detail. He could read the aftermath without being told. It wasn't a hard case to solve. Just a simple stray vampire with no backup and no real plan, the kind that slips into a place unnoticed and feeds quietly until someone gets wise. It was more like taking out a nest of bugs than anything else. No mess, no moral knots to untangle. We spent the day reinforcing the church, replacing logs, spreading salt, and in the corners and fixing the window frames.

When it was done, he dusted off his hands and looked at me. Then he gave me a single pat on the back. And that was the moment I knew that I wasn't on the edge anymore. I'd gone over. There wasn't any going back to before, not mentally, not spiritually, not in any way that counted. I'd cross the line. The next one happened when I was up north in Chicago.

I was there on business. But I'll admit something. I like the city. The lights made everything glow like it was on fire, and the buildings stretched so tall. They looked like they were leaning over you. I love the buzz of it. The mess, the noise,

the way everyone always seemed just a little pissed off, but never surprised. The people don't hide who they are, and that went a long way with me. They'd curse you out, cut in front of you in line, and maybe even shoulder you without an apology. But they meant what they said. You didn't have to waste time figuring them out.

And the food? The best I ever had came out of a kitchen that could barely fit the chef himself. I ate standing up in an alley behind the place because the shop had no seating. Didn't matter. The bread was still warm and the meat had this spice that stayed on your tongue

like it was making a case for itself. Even now, I remember the taste better than most of the faces. But I wasn't there for a vacation. I'd been tracking a vampire that had slipped out from Oak Brook. Mid-level parasite. Smart enough to relocate before people caught on. I followed its trail to a nightclub on the west side, the kind that didn't bother with signage or security.

You only got in if someone thought you were cool enough or dangerous enough. I wasn't either, but I knew how to look like I belonged. The place was packed, people sweating under pulsing lights, music thudding loud enough to blur your thoughts. I was on the second-level walkway, keeping eyes on the far corner where my mark had disappeared half an hour earlier. He was the type that moved slow in crowds, like it was walking through fog. Real vampires do that sometimes. They never rush anymore. not like us humans living on borrowed time. And then, just as the bass dropped into another song,

I heard a gunshot from the alley outside. It cracked against the back wall like a whip, sharp and unmistakable. Some people turned. Most didn't. I didn't wait. I slipped out the back entrance. In the alley, I saw two figures. One of them was already running.

fast and crooked, stumbling down the narrow lane toward the street. The other was standing still, silver gun raised, smoke still curling from the barrel. I moved in quickly and looked down at the pavement near the doorway. The blood on the ground wasn't pooling. It was sizzling where it hit the concrete. And that was all I needed to see. Only one kind of blood does that. You shot a vampire, I said.

The kid turned to me, probably around 17 or 18, wearing a jacket with too many pockets and a patch on the sleeve I didn't recognize. His hands were slightly shaking, not from fear it looked like, but from adrenaline. He was riding the high of it. Damn right, I did. I clipped him, I think, he said. I stepped closer, yeah, you don't shoot in a crowd. You don't fire in a nightclub alley where they're still feeding. and you have no clue how many are inside. You shoot, it runs,

and now it's hungry and pissed off with no leash, I said. He raised an eyebrow like I just insulted his mother. You a hunter? Vampire hunter, yeah, you? I replied. He gave a half smile, then pointed to the patch on his sleeve. Institute. Monster Division. Names Milo. And that was when it all made sense.

Vampire hunters and monster hunters, we don't mix well. We're cousins, not brothers. Same family tree, but on branches that don't speak unless they have to. I was homeschooled, in a way, trained by my father, who was trained by his father, tested by small town cases and long drives. These institute cans, they go to training camps and. sleep in bunk houses, write field reports, and do test on werewolves and glass cages. I mean, come on. I've never liked the way they walk into a place with their heads already full of theory.

Dad said they'd increased their efforts in recruitment the last seven years. In my opinion, that just meant the newer ones were more full of shit. Milo looked to me and shrugged. Whatever, man, it's handled. No, dude, it's not. It got away, I began. That's not handled. You left a live one with no plan, no tail, no scent trail,

and a wound to remind it who burned it, I said. He made some smart-ass comment I don't remember word for word, something about how I sounded like a dad who used to walk uphill both ways. I didn't respond. There wasn't any point. I spent the next four days tracking the one he'd let slip. I followed a missing person's report that matched the profile. The vampire had holed up in a shuttered apartment complex near the edge of Little Village,

a place scheduled for demolition that never quite got there. No one checked it anymore. The door was chained shut from the outside, but the inside told me everything I needed to know. The smell of decay was thick. There were drag marks on the floor, dry blood trails leading down into the basement. I marked the door frames, set the garlic smoke canister near the stairwell, and laid sage at each window crack. When the time came, I lit the fuse and waited.

The smoke went down first, thick and sharp, designed to disorient and sting. I followed right after, steak in hand, ears tuned to movement. He came out of the dark fast, but not fast enough. His face was half burned from the herbs, eyes watering, body uncoordinated. The steak hit home on the second try. He made a gurgling sound and collapsed without ceremony. I stayed for a long while after that, just to make sure no one else was high. I never saw Milo again in Chicago. He probably got sent to some other city, or back to whatever

institute dorm they were keeping him in. Now most of my tips come from people, regular ones. A bartender who noticed a regular stopped drinking. A janitor who found weird stains in a school basement. A pawn shop owner who swore a guy pawned a Rolex soaked in something that wasn't water. But when I'm in a city, I have one guy I go do first. Zazzo. He's a goblin. Lives in the sewer systems under the city. Says he likes the smell, and I don't question it.

Zazzo's not exactly friendly, but he's reliable. You give him what he wants, and he tells you everything. He doesn't take cash, and he doesn't care about favors. He only wants two things. Fresh apple beer and full-size sauce, Snickers bars. Has to be both. One without the other, and he'll throw it back at you. He's done it to me a couple times. This time, I brought two six packs on a plastic bag with six bars, still cold from the cooler. He sniffed him both before he even looked me in the eye.

You finally bring me the real kind, but did you get that light crap again? He said. Yeah, it's regular apple beer and six whole snickers full size. You counted last time, I said. Zazzo let out a wheezing sound that might have been a laugh. He took the bag and popped one of the beers open using his sharp little teeth. He drank half of it in one go, foam sticking to his chin like shaving cream. All right, all right. You brought what I like. What do you want? He asked. I told him about a small suburban neighborhood on the edge of the city. Quiet place. Nothing remarkable. But lately, the police blotter had started filling up with low-level crimes. Break-ins, missing pets, theft, minor arson. More troubling was the spike in homeless disappearances. People thought

it was a coincidence or maybe a serial killer. I knew better. When the most vulnerable start disappearing first. It usually means something is feeding. Zazzo nodded slowly as I spoke, his eyes narrowing with each word. Yeah, you're right. Something's in the water. Word is a coven's been growing fast, got too big for their old holes, so they've been spreading out. City to city, tasting what's new. Try and take in. get smarter, he said. He licked chocolate off his fingers before continuing. Hmm. Well, they're not all together. The coven, it's like a big tree. You've got the root,

but a hundred branches. You're looking at one of those small branches, a side group. Greedy little freaks, didn't wait for orders, just marched in and started feeding. Where? I asked. He grinned. Abandoned laundromat. He sighed.

It's a front. No one washes clothes there. Not even the rats. It's the entrance to their nest. And your problem is only going to get worse. They're sloppy. They're high on blood. And they think no one's watching.

I nodded and stood up. You watched me gather my things. You know, other hunters come to this city, but none of them respect the value of the informant. They think they can all do it themselves. Kick doors, swing swords, shoot monsters in the middle of the street, bunch of amateurs, he said.

I handed him in other Snickers. Well, that's why I come to you first. He tucked the candy into a pouch on his hip and looked proud, like a king getting tribute. He didn't say goodbye. He never does. I spent the next three days planning the bust. These things can't be rushed. Monsters in groups are more dangerous than alone.

They get confident. They start organizing. If you take them head on without prep, someone dies. And I've buried too many someone. already. I scouted the building first. It looked dead from the outside. Half the windows boarded, signage faded to the point of invisibility. The door was changed shut, but I could see movement inside at night. Not much, just enough to confirm they weren't keeping normal hours. I called in a few people I trusted. One of them was a gear tech who specialized in detection

equipment. Old Institute dropout who preferred freelancing. Another was a field medic who'd patched me up more than once. I reached out to an Institute hunter for backup. I try to avoid working with them unless I have to. But a good hunter is a good hunter, even if he files reports after. We met twice before the operation. We had garlic canisters, UV flash units, steaks, blades, and enough salt to make the whole place unfriendly for anything with fangs. I went over every escape route, every possible complication, and what to do if the place turned out to be deeper than expected. When the day came, it was God's good Sunday.

Morning fell clean, bright sun, families out walking. A perfect day to pretend nothing was wrong. We ruled out quiet. Three vehicles spaced out over six blocks. The laundromat was in a pocket of old buildings and empty storefronts. The kind of spot people pass without noticing. As we approached, I felt that shift again, that sense that something lived behind the walls that didn't belong to our world.

I felt it before. Never gets easier. I stood across the street for a moment, looking at the chipped paint and rusted siding. The windows were dark. No sound came from inside. No movement either. But I knew better. I could feel it in my teeth.

The whole place was tense. You ready? The Institute guy asked. Tightening his vest straps. I didn't answer right away. I was looking at the cracked sign above the door, Spin City laundry and faded red letters. Probably hadn't run a washer in ten years.

I adjusted the strap on my pack. check the steak at my side and gave a single nod. We surrounded the place just after noon. Streets were mostly empty. The kind of quiet that makes you second guess how loud your boots are. There were five of us. I took point on the front door with the institute guy watching my six. Two others circled around back to seal off the alley.

The last stayed posted on the side in case anything tried to slip out through the basement windows. We laid garlic along the back wall and window cells. It burns their lungs and eyes, but that's not always enough. Silver is better. Some say real silver is God's metal. That no matter what kind of monster you're dealing with, it burns them the same. Vampire, ghoul, siren, even the nice ones that just want to be left alone, doesn't matter. Silver makes them bleed and scream. It's like we were given one thing, just one, to defend ourselves with, something they can't undo or outgrow. Their speed, their teeth, their unnatural power doesn't mean much when silver touches them. I loaded my gun with silver rounds and gave the signal,

a sharp wave of my hand down, and a short nod. Then we moved. The front door, led straight into the laundromat, cracked tile floor, three dead machines, a broken vending unit, and fluorescent lights that blinked. We cleared the front quickly. Nothing there but mildew and bad wiring. The real action was behind the false wall through a busted outdoor frame where the plaster had been torn off and a narrow hall led into the attached house. It was hotter in there, thick with smoke. Someone had been burning incense non-stop, a heavy mix of dried herbs that clung to your skin and made your head swim. The air stung my eyes. I pulled up a cloth mask over my nose and motioned for the others to do the same, and then I saw them. People, least ten, maybe more,

scattered through the living room and into the hallway. All of them were unconscious or close to it. Some curled into cushions like they'd passed out mid-conversation. Most were women and unhoused men. All of them had pale skin and dark stains at the neck. Not fresh wounds. Just slow, steady feeding. They were being kept in a fog, breathing in sedatives while their blood was taken little by little. I gave the signal, sharp and short. We moved down. We moved in silently, each of us grabbing one person at a time and carrying them out. I watched every exit as my team moved back and forth like clockwork. One by one, the bodies were hauled out and laid onto tarps in the lot out front, where the medic could check vitals and prep IV drips. Most of them would

live, though I'd bet a few wouldn't remember much beyond a blur of heat and sleep. Once the last victim was out. I motioned for two men to follow me. We cleared the hallway and turned the corner where a stairwell climbed to a second floor. The carpet was matted with dirt and dark spots. I stepped lightly, gun raised. At the top of the stairs was the master bedroom. The door was halfway open, and something inside moved. I stepped in first. The room was dim, thick, and fixed. The room was dim, curtains blocked out the sun. In the corner, crouched low over a figure, slumped on a stained mattress, was a vampire. It didn't turn when we entered. Its face was buried against the victim's neck, body hunched, back rising and falling as it drank. The victim was still twitching. A young

man, probably homeless, dragged off the street like the others. We didn't speak. I fired first. The silver round caught the vampire in the shoulder. The second man fired a moment after me, catching it in the hip. The creature howled and turned towards us, blood still dripping from its mouth. Its eyes were wide, more animal than human. It lunged. The third bullet missed.

It knocked my partner down with a blow across the head and leapt from me. I didn't wait. I pulled the trigger again. The fourth bullet hit straight through the heart. It froze mid-motion, mouth still parted, then it dropped. We stood still for a moment, guns still raised. My teammate on the ground cursed under his breath and sat up slowly. I pulled him back toward the wall and told him to sit still until the medic arrived.

He nodded, eyes glassy. I was about to call it in when I was. I heard something small from across the room. A faint thump. I turned and followed the sound to the bedroom closet. Inside, curled up on a pile of old towels, was a girl. Twelve maybe. Thin arms, scraped knees, dirt on her face.

She wore a UCLA T-shirt that was much too big for her, the kind of shirt you might find in a donation bin or on a sale rack for 50 cents. She didn't scream. She just looked at me with wide eyes and didn't move. You're safe, my son. She didn't answer right away. Her eyes went wide, and her hands gripped the hem of the oversized shirt. I kept my voice low and steady.

What's your name? I asked. Maya. Hi, Maya. I'm able. She nodded, still not my name. blinking. Can you tell me how you got here? I asked. I, I, I don't know. A man said I could wait inside for my mom. He said it was warm. And then I, I woke up in the closet. You did good, Maya. You stayed quiet. I held out my arms. Is it okay if I carry you? She nodded again,

slower this time. When I lifted her, she wrapped one arm around my neck, weak, but sure, you're going to be all right. We're taking you to someplace safe, my son. Outside, the team cleared a space. We laid her gently onto a stretcher. She was breathing steady. The medic looked over her and nodded. I stayed long enough to ride with her to the hunter-s sanctioned hospital on the edge of town. The staff knew what to do, discreet, fast, trained to handle situations like this without asking questions they didn't want answers to. I stayed until she was stable, then slipped out before press or family could show up. The case was closed, victims rescued, threat eliminated. Everyone would sleep a little easier, at least for a while. But I made a note in my journal that

night. There was only one vampire in the house. One that didn't sit right with me. A whole coven doesn't move in and only leave one behind. That's not how they operate. After the job, I stuck around for a few extra days, worked with the Institute guys to access their older reports, cross-check missing persons cases, feeding patterns, relocation logs. Then I called my mom. She said, still keeps tabs on movement trends, even in retirement. Between her notes and what I saw, the pattern was clear. Covens have been moving more, not just growing, but spreading out, shifting territory, faster and more coordinated than before. That means one thing. There's more work ahead. Well, I'm 30 now. My friends, the few I've kept, like to Joe.

that I'm going gray around the sideburns. They say I'm aging like a war veteran, ten years ahead of schedule. I tell them it's just the lighting. Truth is, they're right, I don't mind. You don't do this job expecting to look young forever. You do it knowing every year you get is earned.

Zazzo's still around, same as always. Still in the sewer, still picky about his apple beer, still counting the Snickers bars before he talks. He says, I'm the only one who brings the good kind, the kind with crunchy peanuts and no funny labels. I bring him what he asked for, and he keeps me in the loop. There are worse arrangements. As for me, I'm still out there, still chasing things that most people don't want to know exist,

still watching alleyways, checking basements, taking quiet calls from voices that are too afraid to go to the police. The cities change, the names, the faces, the news cycles, they move fast. But the monsters don't. They're patient. They wait. And as long as they're out there. I'll be hunting. My name is Samuel Carver.

I'm 42 years old, and I have one of the most important jobs in the world. No, I'm not a president or a scientist trying to cure cancer. I am something else entirely. I'm a cross between a doctor, a historian, and a soldier. I, my friends, am a monster hunter. It's not a job you find on the internet or in a help wanted ad. You don't go to school for it. There's no uniform or official badge.

But make no mistake, this work is real and dangerous. And most people will never even know it exists. I grew up in Orange County, California, you know, surfboards, palm trees, traffic, strip malls. I had a normal life for a while. I rode my bike to school, hung out with my friends, and spent hot weekends at the beach. My mom was a nurse. My dad ran a small hardware store. We weren't rich, but we got by.

I always liked books more than sports, especially the ones about things that go bump in the night. When I was a kid, I used to borrow those old dusty books from the library, the ones nobody touched anymore. Folk stories, ghost sightings, weird disappearances. I didn't know it at the time, but I was already training for this job. I didn't believe everything I read, but I believed some of it. I could feel it in my bones, you know. There were things out there people weren't talking about. I left for college when I turned 18, kind of into a decent school in the city, studied history first, then medicine.

I was good at both. I thought maybe I'd become a teacher, or maybe work in a hospital. But then something happened, something I don't talk about often. It involved a small town not far from here, and a family of vampires living in plain sight. That was the turning point. That's when I learned monsters were real, not in a fairy tale kind of way either. I mean real, physical, dangerous, living beside us, without us even noticing. How I got through that is a story for another time, but it pulled me into this life. I didn't choose it, not really. It chose me.

And I've been doing it ever since. The thing is, being a monster hunter isn't what you think it is. It's not wild fights and dramatic music. It's not racing around with crosses and stakes. Most of the time, well, it's paperwork. Research, planning, surveillance, learning every detail about a creature before making a move. If you just run in guns blazing, you'll probably end up dead and fast. I have survived 20 years by being very careful, by learning, by remembering. And lately, I've been haunted by things I can't forget. So I started writing this journal, stories from the job, people I don't want to forget,

creatures, I wish I could, rules I've picked up along the way. if you're reading this. Well, maybe it'll help you too. This journal will serve as a documentation of my life, my work, my failures, my lessons, and the monsters I've faced. When I finally hang it up, when I retire from the field for good,

I'll leave it with the Institute. Somewhere deep in the archives, it'll sit, maybe gathering dust, or maybe someone like me will find it and learn something that saves their life. My name is Samuel Carver, and I hunt what goes bump in the night. These are my stories. One of my earliest missions wasn't one that was assigned me. I chanced upon it by accident. I was maybe five years into the job at that time, still green by some standards, but but I knew how to keep myself alive, and I wasn't afraid of walking into dark places.

I was deep in the Appalachian Mountains, tracking something whose name I couldn't pronounce, some old spirit with roots in Cherokee myth, something that moved between trees faster than any animal should. I never ended up finding it, by the way, got sidetracked. That happens more often than you would think. It was customary back then, still is, for hunters to check in with ranger stations or fire lookouts when passing through

national parks, not just for safety, but because most of the rangers are in on the joke, so to speak. They know what we are. They know what we do. Most of them don't ask too many questions, and in return we keep them informed if something strange is happening in their territory. I have a lot of respect for those guys. People think they just hand out trail-mobile. maps and deal with lost hikers. They do a hell of a lot more. They are the first line of defense when it comes to monsters. Whether the public knows it or not, a lot of these rangers have seen things they will never speak about. Things they don't want to believe were real. The station I stopped at was small, more of a wooden lodge tucked between trees than anything

official looking. It had a wrap-around porch, a stone chimney, and two flags out front, one for the state, one for the Forest Service. When I walked up, I expected a short chat, maybe a few handshakes. Then I'd be on my way. But the second I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. Inside, the air was still heavy, like people had been holding their breath. There were a few rangers inside, standing near the main desk. They looked tense, alert. But what drew my eye first wasn't then. It was the couple in the middle of the room.

A man and a woman sitting on the floor near a pile of folded blankets. The woman was sobbing, not crying, sobbing. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking hard enough that she couldn't keep still. The man had one arm around her, trying to hold her together, but I could tell he was struggling himself. His face was pale. His jaw locked so tight, it looked painful. He wasn't crying, but he was not okay. One of the Rangers spotted me. He was older, maybe in his 50s, with gray sideburns and tired eyes. We'd met once before on another case, something involving a cave system, and lights that moved on their own. He walked over

quickly and pulled me aside, out of earshot from the family. Carver, yeah, didn't expect to see you here. Just passing through, what's going on? I replied. He glanced back at the couple, then leaned in. Their boy is gone. Jameson, nine years old. disappeared off the trail near rattlesnake ridge about two hours ago. I waited. That wasn't enough to bring me in. He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, The father saw something take him, a creature, nine feet tall, gray skin, rough like bark, big.

arms, bigger hands. He swears it looked like a troll. I didn't answer right away. Because trolls, they're not common around here. Scandinavia, sure, the old countries. But the Appalachian range, you don't see trolls unless something is very out of place. Was he sure? I asked. The Ranger nodded once. Said he was a hundred feet away. Saw the whole thing.

Said he grabbed the kid and walked into the woods like he weighed nothing. Father tried his best to run after it, track it. He even shoot at it. But it was too fast and he lost it. And nobody else saw the thing? I asked. Well, no one else was close enough, but they found broken trees,

uprooted stumps, big footprints, he said. How big? He pointed to a nearby floor tile. About that wide. I did the math in my head. That was not human,

not even close. Where's the rest of your? team, I asked. He shook his head. Already searching. We got men in the woods, but it's too dense. And if this thing doesn't want to be found, oh, you know how that goes. I did. I looked over at the parents again. The mother was still shaking. The father had both arms around her now, trying to keep her from falling apart completely. There was a backpack beside them. A kid's pack, blue, with a worn Spider-Man patch sewn under the front. And that's when I made the decision.

I didn't need an assignment. I didn't need clearance. I just nodded to the Ranger. Show me the trail, I said. And that's how it started. The Ranger led me out of the back of the lodge and toward a narrow dirt path that disappeared into the trees. We walked in silence at first, our boots crunching over dead leaves and gravel. The sun was still up, but it was fading fast.

In the woods, that meant the dark would settle in soon, quicker than you'd expect. We call this one the ridge trail, loops around the western edge, maybe four miles long. The family set up their camp off a clearing halfway through, the ranger said. Any idea how far the creature got? I asked. He shook his head. Nah, nah, the trail cameras, they're useless. Whatever took the boy, moved low and moved fast, like it knew where not to be seen.

Our guys found tracks, but they just stop after a while, like it walked right into the ground. That sounded about right. Now, trolls aren't smart in a usual sense. but they know how to stay hidden. They know how to survive. The camp was quiet when we got there. A single tent stood in the clearing,

the kind you get at any outdoor store. Blue, simple. Zip up front. There was a fold-out chair and a half-cooked meal still on a camping stove. No one's touched it since. The ranger gestured toward a broken patch of dirt near the tree line.

That's what the... the dad saw it, said Jameson was picking flowers, turned around to put him in a jar. When he looked back, the boy was gone, and something huge was stomping into those woods. I crouched beside the patch. The footprints were deep, wider than my own boot by a few inches. Whatever it was, it was heavy. I followed them with my eyes. Watching how they cut a jagged path through ferns and underbrush, then I saw something else. Torn cloth.

A strip of red fabric caught on a branch, low to the ground. I plucked it gently, turned it over in my hand. It looked like a piece of a kid's jacket. He's heading north, I said. The ranger nodded grinly. We'll keep calm in the air. you want backup? No.

If it's a troll, you'd only slow me down. No offense, I said. None taken, he replied. I gave him a pat on the shoulder and stepped into the woods. Tracking at night. It's a whole different game.

You move slower, listen harder. Pay attention to things most people ignore. Crushed. mushrooms, bent grass, the sound of a bird stopping its song too early. I followed the trail for about an hour. It wasn't easy. The troll had a strong gait, wide steps, but light on the edges. I found broken branches, scrapped bark, and once, a single smudge of blood on a rock, it was enough to tell me I was close. Then I heard it.

A low sound coming from ahead, not growling, not breathing. Humbing. Trolls love to hum. It's not music, really. It's more like a slow rhythm they keep when they're thinking about food, when they're waiting. I moved slower now, one foot in front of the other. The humming grew louder. then I saw the pit.

It was tucked behind a tangle of roots and moss, about ten feet wide and six feet deep, lined with stones and wet leaves. At the bottom, curled up against the mud, was a boy, Jameson. He looked terrified but alive. His hands were tied in front of him with some kind of fibrous vine.

The kind of grows high in the trees and hangs like ropes. His face was streaked with dirt, and his eyes were red from crying. But he was breathing. About ten feet away, the troll sat on a rock. It was huge, thirteen feet tall at least, with skin like cracked concrete. Its back was hunched, and its arms hung nearly to the ground. Its nose was fat and bulbous, and its mouth hung open just enough to show teeth like broken gravestones. It didn't see me yet.

It was sharpening its claws on a rock, dragging them slowly back and forth, making a dry scraping sound. Every few strokes, it hummed. I checked my belt. No weapons, no tribes. I'd packed light, planning for a scouting trip, not a rescue mission. All I had was a pocket knife, a small emergency flare, and a net I'd tucked in my bag last minute, leased with old wolf's bane. That would have to be enough.

I stepped carefully behind a tree, got the net ready, and pulled the flare from my jacket. I counted to three. Then I lit it and threw it hard at a pile of dry brush to the troll's right. With a loud crack, the flare exploded in a shower of light and sound. The troll roared, staggering to its feet, covering its ears. I ran. In three steps I was at the edge of the pit.

Jameson, look at me. He blinked up, dazed. I jumped down, cut the vines with my knife, hoisted him onto my shoulder, and climbed out. He held on tight, no words, just clinging, like he thought he might disappear again. The troll was still stumbling, growling, blinded. I threw the net. It hit its shoulders and clung like wet cloth. The wolf's bang worked fast.

burn the skin, slowed its movements. It howled, swatted at it, stumbling in circles. We didn't wait around to watch. I carried Jameson back through the woods, step after step, mile after mile, until I saw the first flicker of lantern light through the trees. When we reached a lodge, his mother screamed his name and ran to us. his father followed close behind. They pulled them from my arms and held them like they never planned to let go again. Jameson didn't speak.

Not that night. He just kept holding on. I gave the parents a nod. They were crying, thanking me over and over. I didn't say much. I never did in situations like that. I just made sure the kid was safe, gave the ranger a brief rundown and started packing my things.

I filed the report with the Institute the next morning. I told them everything about the troll, the boy, the pit in the woods. I left nothing out. They weren't thrilled. Technically, I'd broken protocol. I wasn't supposed to engage without clearance, and I definitely wasn't supposed to go in without backup. The Institute has rules about these things.

And for good reason, hunters who go off mission tend not to come back. Well, I got sanctioned for it. Slap on the wrist, not suspended, but close. I hated it, but I lived with it. Because the important part wasn't what I did. It was what I found. Trolls don't belong in Appalachia. They just don't?

That's not their range. If one showed up here, it meant something had gone wrong somewhere else. The Institute confirmed that a few weeks later, monsters had been migrating. Not just trolls, other creatures too. Ones that hadn't been seen in decades. Centuries were turning up in places they shouldn't be. Some were crossing borders. Others were crossing oceans. The reasons weren't clear. Some scientists blamed rising temperatures, lost habitats, disrupted hunting grounds. Others weren't so sure. They thought it might be something else. Something older. Something bigger? No one had answers yet.

But everyone agreed on one thing. Whatever was happening, it was just the beginning. This next case was maybe seven years after the troll in the woods. I was in Louisiana at the time, in town for a wedding. A civilian event. An old friend from college tied the knot. I wasn't there on business, not at first. I just wanted to eat good food, hear some live jazz,

and have a drink that didn't taste like it came out of a bottle shaped like a novelty. You don't get many breaks in this line of work, and when one comes, you take it. Besides, I like New Orleans. Always have. It's a strange city, and I mean that in the best way. Music everywhere, people dancing in the street, lanterns swaying above narrow balconies. But underneath all that, just below the surface, There is something else.

Magic lives there. Real magic. Not the card trick kind. The kind that lingers in alleyways, rides in on the fog, and listens when you speak its name. Voodoo's part of it, sure. But it goes deeper than that.

Some places breathe the supernatural. New Orleans doesn't just breathe it. It sings it. I was only supposed to be in town for four days. Two for the wedding. One for recovery. And one for good luck. But the association sent me a message on day two.

Local case. Urgent. Personal request. Now, I don't usually take jobs while I'm technically off the clock, but when someone requests you by name, you don't ignore it. The message was short, just a name, a location, and one sentence. Kelly Ann needs your help. Kelly Ann, had heard of her. She was a jazz singer.

The kind people went quiet for. She sang at the small club near the edge of the French quarter. Old place. Wooden stage, soft lighting, velvet curtains. I'd been there once or twice, unpassed. trips. Her voice had a way of stopping time. I showed up at the club after hours. The place was closed, lights dimmed. Someone let me in at the side door. Kellyanne was sitting at the bar, a glass of bourbon in her hand, and a scarf wrapped tight around her neck. She looked tired,

not just physically, tired in her bones, like something had been pulled out of her, and she wasn't sure. if it was ever coming back. Your carver? She asked, voice thin. I nodded and took the stool beside her. Yeah, that's right. You asked for me. She gave a weak smile.

They said you handle unusual problems. That's putting in mild blame, I answered. She didn't laugh. Just sipped her drink, then pulled the scarf away. Her throat looked fine, but when she spoke again, it was barely audible. I'm losing my voice, and I don't mean sick. I mean something's taking it. I leaned in a little.

Start at the beginning. She told me everything. It had started two weeks earlier. After a show, she was approached by a stranger. A man, handsome, soft-spoken, with a voice like smooth smoke. He said he wasn't music, wanted to help her break out bigger, said he could make things happen. She'd heard that line before, but there was something about him, something easy to trust. They talked for hours, nothing physical, she said, just words.

But afterward, things began to change. Her voice felt weaker. Some notes didn't come out at all. She went to doctors. Nothing wrong. No infection, no strain. Just silence. I think he did something to me.

I think he took part of me. And... That was all I needed to hear. Now, sirens don't always live in oceans. Not anymore. They've learned to blend in. It's a move among people. In the old days, they sat on rocks and sang sailors to their deaths.

Now, they walk into clubs, whisper promises, and steal voices one conversation in a time. They're thieves, sirens. But they don't want your money. They want your essence. What makes you special? In Kelly Ann's case, It was her voice.

You remember anything else? His name. What he looked like? I asked. She hesitated, thinking hard. Tall, dark suit. No tie. His eyes were strange.

Not in color. Just the way he looked at me. Like, like he already owned me. Matt tracked. I told her to stay at the club, keep the doors locked, and not to speak to anyone she didn't recognize. Then I headed back to my room and dug through my bag. I didn't have much, like I said, this wasn't supposed to be a working trip, but I had a few basics, my travel kit, some old tokens, a charm or two, and I had the thing I needed most, a small tin vial of soft

water, drawn from a place I can't name, and a silver-framed compact mirror I'd carried since my earliest missions. Sirens are weak to saltwater. It reminds them of what they used to be, and silver reflects them not as they appear, but as they truly are. I came back to the club just before dawn. Kellyanne was alone, sitting on the stage. Her scarf was off, and she was trying to sing, but nothing came out.

Just breath and effort. He arrived minutes later. He didn't knock. Just walked in like he owned the place. The moment he stepped inside, the room went cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Kellyanne froze. Her eyes went wide. I stepped between them.

Evening, I said. He looked me over, calm and smooth. You're not her manager. No, but I'm what you call a problem. I replied. The siren smiled. It was a charming smile, meant to disarm. But it didn't touch his eyes.

I only take what's freely given, he said. She didn't know what you were, I replied. It doesn't matter. A deal is a deal. He said. I raised the vial and tossed the salt water at his feet. He hissed, skin steaming where it splashed, took a step back. That was enough time. I held up the silver mirror and spoke the verse. an old tomb, one I'd learned decades ago, passed down by another hunter who got too close to a siren and lived to warn others. The siren stumbled. His image flickered. The illusion peeled away. What stood before me wasn't a man anymore. It was thin, long-limbed, with black eyes and fingers

like eel bones. It tried to lunge. Too slow. I slammed the mirror into his chest, and he vanished in a crack of sound and scent, like salt and rotting lilies. It was done. I filed the report with the association two days later.

They mark the siren as neutralized, then flagged the region for increased monitor. Louisiana has always been a hotspot. But lately, things have really been heating up. Creatures showing up more often, and not always where you'd expect them. They didn't reprimand me this time. Technically, I was assigned. But they did send a follow-up note, asking how I managed to banish the siren without a full kit. I didn't reply. Some things don't translate well into files. Kelly Ann made a full recovery. Within a week, she was back on stage.

I stopped by the club before leaving town and called her show. Her voice was clear again, strong, smooth, effortless. The kind of voice that made the whole room quiet down just to hear it float. After the set, she found me at the bar. She didn't say anything at first. Just looked at me, nodded once, then wrapped her up. arms around me in a hug, a real one, the guy that says more than words that her could. She kissed me on the cheek and said,

Thank you, Sam. I tipped my hat, said goodbye, and walked out into the night. Some jobs stick with you. That one did. The next case took me further south than I'd ever been before. hot country, flat and wide and open, the kind of place where the sun feels closer to the ground than it ought to be. Dry dirt roads, endless fields.

People planted corn and wheat here, work the same land their fathers and grandfathers had worked before them. The simple life as all these folks have. They rise with the sun, eat early, fix what's broken, and rest only when everything's done. There's not a lot of noise or nonsense. No one's chasing fame or fortune. They live quiet, rooted lives. Weddings happen in backyards. Babies are born in the same house as their parents were raised in. You grow up with the land, grow old with it too. These people don't trust easily. And they don't come

plain. But when something threatens the land, when the soil they depend on turns strange, or starts to take instead of give, that's when even the toughest old farmer might come looking for help, not from doctors, not from sheriffs, from us. One such man was Darwin. He was older, 50s or 60s, maybe, long fraying, skin like cracked wood. He wore a white shirt tucked into faded jeans, a belt with a silver buckle, and leather cowboy boots that had seen more decades than I had. I met him out by his barn late afternoon. He was leaning on the fence, chewing on a toothpick,

and watching the horizon like something might crawl out of it if he blinked. You carve her? He asked. That's me, I said. He nodded. like that confirmed something he'd been hoping wasn't true. I appreciate you coming, he said. I stepped out of the truck and shut the door.

You called the association? He didn't answer right away. Just stared down the field for a long moment. The wind barely moved the tall grass. I didn't call, I wrote a letter, he said finally. A letter? Yeah, mail still works. Figured if what I heard was true, they'd send someone.

And what exactly did you hear? I asked. Darwin didn't look at Maine. He just kept watching the horizon. My granddad told me once, back when I was a boy, that there were people out there who handle things regular folk can. Said they kept quiet, traveled light. and showed up when the world turned sideways. I remembered that.

When you think your world's turning sideways, I asked. He nodded once. Something ain't right with this land. I waited, but he didn't say more. You want to tell me what kind of not right? I asked. He looked at me, then. really looked eyes like dark glass, not scared, not even nervous, just tired.

You'll see, he said. He turned and started walking toward the fields. I followed. As we walked, I noticed little things, rows that should have been straight but weren't. patches of ground that looked burned, not black but pale, like the life had been drawn out of them. Corn stalks that twisted in ways they shouldn't. You don't use chemicals out here, I asked. Nope, just sun, water, and time, he replied.

And these marks? I asked. They ain't from me, he answered. We reached the edge of the main field, and Darwin stopped. There was a spot dead center where nothing grew. Perfect circle, maybe 20 feet across. The dirt inside it was cracked, dry and gray. Shut up last week. Wasn't there before.

Now he won't go away. Nothing grows in it. Grounds all wrong. He said. You tried digging? Shovel snapped clean in two. He said. That got my attention.

You think it's natural? Darwin gave me a flat look. Son, if I thought it was natural, I'd be drinking a beer on my porch, not talking to a man who looks like he lives out of his truck. Fair point. How long has it been like this? Well, eight days. Started with a dirt gone pale.

Then livestock got jumpy. A couple of them ran off. Dog won't go near it. I crouched by the edge of the circle, ran my fingers lightly over the soil. It felt drying, too dry, like it hadn't seen moisture in years, not just a week.

Has anything come out of it? No, not yet. that last part wasn't comforting all right i'll take a closer look i said standing up darwin didn't thank me just nodded once again that was his way how he knew about us i don't know but i found that the older someone is the more secrets they've dug up about this world some from books some from whispers and some just from paying attention Darwin had seen something once, or someone and told him something, and he'd filed it away in like a tool in a box, saving it for the day he might need it. That day had come, and now I was here. Darwin didn't like the word haunted.

He called it plagued, said the land was sick, said it felt watched. I'd heard that before, plenty of times. Most people dance around the word ghost until they've got no other choice. That night, I stayed on the farm. Darwin offered me the spare bedroom, but I set up on the porch instead. I wanted to hear the land, listen to the way the night moved around it, and it didn't take long. Just after midnight, the crows came, not regular crows.

Not the ones that show up after storms looking for worms. These were something else. They didn't land. They just circled the edges of the field, screaming. Loud, sharp cries that made the wood and the railing tremble. I counted at least 30 of them. Maybe more. All circling the dead patch, watching and wading.

Crow deep. They're not demons in the Bible sense. You won't find them in any scripture. These things are more like spirits, twisted ones, born of pain, murder, or betrayal. They roost in trees, clawed buildings, and feed on suffering like at supper. You don't get them unless something terrible happened on the land, something that never got fixed. Never got forgiven. By morning, the crows were gone, but their damage was clear. The barn roof was torn in places. Crop rows were shredded. A metal tool had been bent in half and left stucking out of the ground like a warning. Darwin didn't say much when I told him what they weren't.

He just nodded and spit in the dirt. I figured. The birds have been left. wrong since the frost. I asked if he knew anything about the land's history. Not his time, but before that. He looked away, then back. Well, this farm,

used to be something else. A plantation. Way, way back. I found old records once. Ledgers, names, dates. Burned most of it. didn't feel right keeping it. I nodded.

You didn't cause it, but the land remembers. And now is the root of it. Crow demons don't just show up. They're drawn to hurt that's been buried. This place had seen pain, and it had never been made right. So I set to work. I spent the next three days on the property. didn't sleep much, didn't leave the fields. I walked the perimeter with a compass, marking where the

crows perched at night. I dug in certain places, soft patches where the dirt felt warmer than it shut. In one spot, near an old oak tree, I found a rusted chain buried under six inches of soil. That night, I started the ritual. Cleansing land It's not like cleansing a house. You can't just light some candles and say a few words. It takes real work, tools, knowledge, and a whole lot of patience. I built a small fire near the center of the dead circle, added dried sage, some cedar chips, and the pieces I dug up, bones, metal, bits of broken pottery,

artifacts from a time that still echoed too loudly in the soil that I began to chant. It was an old tongue, one I'd learned from a healer in Georgia years ago, the kind of words that sound like wind through reeds that don't fit easily in the mouth. They weren't mine, not really, but they'd been passed to me,

and I used them the best I could. The first night. nothing happened. The second night, the crows came closer. They screamed louder. Some even touched down on the edge of the circle, but they didn't cross the line. They couldn't.

Not with a fire burning and the chant still going. Darwin watched from the porch, shotgun on his lap. Not that it would have helped. On the third night, everything changed just before dawn. The crows dove. A full swarm, black wings blotting the sky. I thought they might overwhelm the circle, but the fire surged. The ground shook.

The artifacts burned bright and hot, and the screen the crow, rose made as they were forced back. It didn't sound like birds anymore. It sounded. They scattered all at once, rising high and vanishing into the sky like smoke pulled into a chimney. And then there was silence. Real silence. The kind that presses against your ears, because you didn't realize how loud everything had been until it stopped. The land exhaled. I stayed up until sunrise. When the light touched the field,

the dead circle was gone. In its plays, green shoots had already started to rise. Darwin walked down slowly, boots crunching on dry grass. That's it? That's it? I replied. He looked like he didn't believe me.

Then he looked at the field, at the green, and something shifted in his face. His jaw loosened. His shoulders dropped. Thank you, he said. I packed up my things later that afternoon. He offered me a meal, a place to stay, a fresh bottle of something strong. I turned him down. I sent my report to the association the next day.

I included the usual details. What I found, what I did, how I handled it. But I added a personal note at the end. I told them the truth. The crow demons weren't like the ones I'd faced years ago. They were more aggressive, smarter. They moved with purpose, like they knew what I was doing, before I even stepped down the field. And that wasn't normal. I said what I've been thinking for a while

now, that the creatures we deal with are changing. Year by year, decade by decade, they're getting stronger, meaner. The patterns are shifting, and I don't think it's random anymore. The association didn't argue. They didn't often. a theory either. Their only response was short and direct, accelerate recruitment. Start training younger hunters now. Prepare for a larger field presence in the next ten years. Whether that move will be enough, or even the right one,

only time will tell. I'll keep writing in this journal, as long as I've got ink and time. and hands that can still hold a pen, I'll keep adding stories to these pages. God knows I've got a few more in me, maybe even another decade if I'm lucky. The world hasn't stopped spinning, and the things in the dark haven't stopped moving. So I won't either. Not yet. But I'm not blind to the truth.

I know I'm getting older. The sideburns have gone gray. The knees creek when the weather shifts. After a long run, it takes me a full day to feel right again. That was not the case twenty years ago. I used to bounce back way faster. Now I need ibuprofen and a nap. And yeah, you know, one day, retirements on my mind. I think about it sometimes, late at night when the work is quiet and my gear has been put away. I imagine someplace peaceful. not too far from town small building with a front window

maybe a bell that rings when someone opens the door I always I've always liked pizza back in college there was this little joint right off campus greasy slices cheap beer sticky boots we spent hours there

talking about classes life and things we thought we understood I think I'd like to open a place like that? Simple, warm. Something steady. Maybe I'll call it carvers. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter. What matters is I'm not done yet. There's still work to be done. Still things out there that need dealing with. And as long as I can do it, I will. I owe that much to the people I've helped. and the ones that couldn't. And you, whoever you are, reading this journal now,

remember something important. There's always going to be something in the dark. Always has been. But there's always something standing in its way to, maybe it's me. Maybe it'll be you. The point is, someone always picks up the torch That's the way the world works.

You fight until you can't. And then the next one steps up. That's the deal. Evil doesn't sleep. But neither do we.