Bury the Light - SCP Foundation

Bury the Light

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He didn't think the man could get inside his house. But the man was full of surprises.

Rapidly limping through his manor, the Count grabbed his bleeding left arm with his other hand. He could feel the sweet, sweet aroma of ichor dripping onto his once-beautiful, tiled floor, barely capable of holding back the urge to drink all of it dry. He hadn't eaten in so, so long. If it wasn't for the painfully conscious realization it was his own, already ran-down body he'd bastardize, he would have given into his nearly animal instincts ages ago. But he had no such luxury of choice this time. He couldn't afford for the man to catch up to him.

He thought the people he'd once called his servants would be capable of holding the door down. He thought that, perhaps, all the holy sigils he carved with so much unimaginable pain would hold the man back, for just a split second. But as he stepped foot onto the creaking stairs in front of him, barely capable of walking straight, he realized he should've known better. He had been a fool to think such simple workings would do him any good against the man.

But maybe — just maybe — the man would get lost in the labyrinth the Count had once made his house into before the vampire could get to safety. The arcane maze of never-ending corridors and halls was enough to drive any man insane, even before the Night fell, but he couldn't be certain if the man was a man at all. The stories of him he'd heard, the Count couldn't simply ignore, even if he knew most of them were simply legends made by the commonfolk below in some drastic attempt to make sense of the cataclysm that has come upon them.

He was almost there, the Count exclaimed in his wrinkled head as he reached for the door handle leading to his bedroom. It was an effort so exhausting as to be nearly impossible, but he bit his undead lips and carried through, throwing his long, scungy, and black hair to the side. Just one more step, just one more foot forward, and he'd be safe. He let out an animal-like grunt, falling to the cold ground below, as if he were some common plebian, even despite his royal attire. But that humiliation didn't matter — he was now inside his haven. The man couldn't catch him here. He grinned widely through his rotting teeth as he crawled towards the table where his wine sat, knowing he won.

"I have been expecting you," a rough and cold voice calmly exclaimed, crossing its legs. If the Count still had a working heart, it would skip a beat.

The man was just what he'd expected — a tall and thin figure covered in dark clothing, a wide black hat wrapping his head in a mask of shadows. Next to his waist, two loaded guns, ready to be used at any moment. In his hands, a single knife, flinging between the man's fingers as he played with it, as if it were a toy. He didn't even look at the Count — instead, his barely visible eyes lurking between strains of rancid, black hair were all focused on the blade, so carefully navigated between his appendages. He smirked.

"H-How…?" the vampire could only get out, surrendering to a wave of coughs just a second later. He spat blood upon the wooden table, tainting the parts next to the man's hand. It could just as well be an illusion spawned by his exhausted mind, but the Count could swear he saw just a flicker of lust within the man's grey eyes as the liquid hit the planks.

He simply grinned, skewing his head. "Let's just say I have my ways."

"But, I—" the other tried to say, extending his hand towards the man.

The reaction was near-instantaneous. The second the Count attempted to reach forward, the man thrust his knife onto his palm, piercing his fragile, gray skin, impaling it onto the surface below. The vampire tried to cry out, only for blood to spit out where a voice should be. His eyes turned frantic.

"Shhh, shhh," the hunter mockingly stated, grabbing the glass of wine sitting next to the Count's hand, and sipping on its inside. He grimaced upon realizing its sourness. "No need to cry. It will just take a moment."

"I could… I could k-hill, kheeell you at any fUKHIN mo-ment, you—!" The victim grabbed his chest, trying to stop the hyperventilation from drowning his lungs. He coughed with ichor once more, realizing simple wants weren't enough for that wish to fulfill itself. "I have, have powe-RHfuHL friends, I—"

The man ignored him, putting something out of his pocket. As he threw it into the glass with a single movement, the Count realized the powder looked similar to a mix of arcane dust and heroine. He gave a silent prayer to the god-shaped hole deep inside his soul that the man didn't know what it could do.

"Oh, I do not doubt that," the other simply answered, drinking from the cup again. This time, he moved his head in appreciation for the taste of the explicit that formed within. "What I severely do doubt however is that they will reach us in time. Or that they are still alive, for that matter." He tapped his weapons.

With a step too quiet to register the man came forward, grabbing the Count's face between his cold fingers and forcing what had previously been wine down the vampire's throat. At first, he wanted to resist. He wanted to resist so badly that every cell in his body screamed of rejection, knowing it would be his undoing. But when his taste buds met the unreal flavor of the powder within it, he couldn't do it any longer. He swallowed hard, feeling the poison fill his liver, his body, his mind, and his soul. His sight went dim.

"There you go," the hunter continued his ridicule, backing off as the Count fell down on the floor, trying so desperately to reach for the exit. "Told you it wouldn't be that hard."

He knew he'd underestimated the man, but there was still a chance. Somewhere down there, some of his minions could have survived. And maybe — just maybe — one of them would hear the Count's animal growls of agony and try to investigate, eliminating the man. It was dim and it was nearly implausible, but he had to try. He just needed to buy himself a few more moments of time.

"Wh… Why…?" He spat out, once again spitting on his precious floor. He could feel his lifeline meeting its threshold.

The man came a little closer, catching up to the measly crawling vampire with three clicks of his metal shoes. In his movements, he could feel the man's hand reach for the silver gun tied to his belt. But he could also feel something more — a nearly unnoticeable irk and twitch in his hand upon meeting the metal handle. If the Count could still raise an eyebrow, he would.

"This world is rotten," he gesticulated with the other arm, turning towards the red glass which made up the atrium's only window. Through the almost unnoticeable red rays of the Moon's light spewed to the inside, the Count could see parts of the man's face. It was almost ecstatic, bent in an expression of incomprehensible anticipation. "Diseased to the core. The likes of you were what brought the Night down upon us. Oh yes, that's right, I remember those times," he exclaimed, noticing the Count's surprise in those almost-dead eyes. "When the world was still beautiful and devoid of rancid things like you, and when I could still bathe in the Sun's glory."

The man paused for a second, extending his gloved hand forward to some invisible shape in the distance. After a while, he looked at the white palm of his hand, covered in pentagrams and occult workings, and threw it off, revealing a series of pale and malnourished fingers. They were dancing with adrenaline. "So, there is only one logical conclusion. To bring the Day back, we need to get rid of… you," he spat out with disgust. "And it so happens I'm a man that knows his job."

The powder now reached the Count's respiratory system, forcing a series of seizures upon him. As he flickered up and down the floor he had once treated, the man ignored him, but could feel the question lingering in the air.

"Oh? Who am I?" He rapidly turned back, a wide grin covering his face. "I go by many names. The man. The hunter. The blood-born. But, they don't quite answer your curiosity, do they?" He came forward once more, putting six silver bullets inside the cylinder of his weapon. "Ages ago, when the Sun was still bright, they called me something else. Daniel… Daniel Asheworth, yes, that was it. But that time is long gone. And so is the mercy you could beg for at the hands of that Daniel."

The Count could barely see anymore. As the last sparks of unlife went dim in more and more of him, he threw himself on his back, extending a trembling hand towards the glass of wine on the table. "But… h-h… how dhiD you kn-ow?!"

The man simply laughed, throwing his head back. There was no longer anything covering his face. Where a shadow had once been, now was a series of long teeth, cleaned by a thirsty tongue and eyes so focused on the Count's bleeding arm they almost exited their orbits. The man turned towards his next victim, and took a squat near his head. "It's hard to not know your own kind."

He aimed his gun and fired.