Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Monster Hunter. People Are Going MISSING in the Appalachian Mountains | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 13, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioartsOriginal YouTube link: I'm a Monster Hunter. People Are Going MISSING in the Appalachian Mountains.      Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonSocial MediaINSTAGRAM - @lighthousehorror FACEBOOK -  Lighthouse HorrorTIKTOK - Lighthouse HorrorMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

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 know. red, 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 blaze and 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 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, and 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 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 them. 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. 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. He was older, maybe in his 50s, with gray sideburns and tired eyes. We'd met once before around the nether 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 boys 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, arms, bigger hands. He swears it looked like a troll. I didn't answer right away.

Because trolls, they are 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 100 feet away. Saw the old 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, 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. I 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, 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, half a few, way 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 where 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 grimly.

We'll keep calm in the area. 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 day. 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 gate, 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. Humming. 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.

13 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 traps. 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, laced with old wool. Sane. 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. Through the net, it hit its shoulders and clung like wet cloth. The wolf's bang worked fast.

Burned 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 him 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. old friend from college tying 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 swayed 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. 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, Kellyanne needs your help. Kelly Ann, that 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 on past 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. Kelly Ann 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 it mildly, 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.

And it 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 at a time.

They are 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 do you look 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 he already owned me. That 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 rum and dug through my back. 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 saltwater, 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 salt water. 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.

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 monitoring. 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. 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 caught 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 arms around me in a hug, a real one, the kind that says more than words ever 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, worked 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 complain. But when something threatens the land, when the soil they depend on turns strange or starts

to take instead of give, that's 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. Fifty's or sixties, maybe. Long frame, 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 up. 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 me. 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 sent me. 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. Cornstalks 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 try 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 sunpy. soil. It felt dry, 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 had told him something, and he'd filed it away 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 saw. 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 waiting. Crow demons. 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 were. He just nodded and spit in the dirt. I figured. The birds have been 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, then I began to chant. It was an old tongue, one I 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 scream the crows made as they were forced back. It didn't sound like birds anymore. 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, eyes. 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, they're getting stronger. Meaner. The past. The past. patterns are shifting, and I don't think it's random anymore. The association didn't argue. They didn't offer 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 creak 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, laid it in a night. night when the work is quiet and my gear's been put away. I imagine someplace peaceful, not too far from town, a 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 booths. We spent hours there, talking about class, 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 I 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, too. 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.