It's a dark night, with even the moon itself dim in the sky, its light incapable of piercing the veil of darkness that hangs over you. Your heavy boots trudge along stones as you stroll up the path to the old log cabin ahead of you. A pump-action shotgun sits in your hand, a solid determination clear in each of your steps.


You survey the cabin, eyes watching for any movements ahead of you. The cabin looks run-down, and you'd have guessed it'd be abandoned if you didn't know better. The cold air prickles your face, so you grab your balaclava, pulling it up over your mouth and nose.


You reach the old wooden door at the front of the lodge. Quickly checking your safety and checking you have everything for the third time, you loosen your shoulders and take a deep breath. Raising your hand, you rap your knuckles against the door. A few moments later, you hear a raspy voice call out through the door, as an eye peers through the eye hole at you.


"Minski Kuzkin?" you ask.


"Hello?" a thick Russian voice answers.


You step back, raising your shotgun and blasting it through the door. You hear a horrified scream, and have to actively suppress any trace of empathy that peaks through. You pump your shotgun, the shell flying to the ground as you blow away the door hinges, before booting the door. You step through the door, finding a pathetic looking figure in tattered, filthy rags, blood soaking through them and pooling on the floor around him. The stench hits you then, the air so heavy with rot and pestilence that you have to gag. The man seems to be in his mid-to-late forties, although you know he's barely in his thirties. His ogre-like frame, no doubt intimidating normally, is now huddled up as he desperately tries to stem the bleeding. You stroll forward, pressing your boot against the man's neck as you aim your shotgun at his chest.


"If you have any weapons on you, it'll be a lot easier if you tell me now."


"You twisted fuck! You goddamn...!"


You pump the shotgun, a shell flying to the ground. The noise quietens Minski's complaints to a pained whimpering.


"I don't," he answers, his voice a mere whimper.


"Good," you answer, grabbing a pair of silver handcuffs from your belt. 


You grab Minski's arm, forcing them behind his back as you cuff him. He screams again as you roll him onto his stomach, but a quick knee to the head quietens him again.


You stand, taking a deep breath, your resolve in your duty strengthening.


"Wh-who are y-you?" Minski asks.


"I hunt monsters, Mr Kuzkin. Vampires, banshees, werewolves, wraiths, changelings, demons... you get the drift."


Minski lets out a cold, cruel laugh, his demeanor changing.


"Aah... I see. You've finally found me, after all these years. You've sensed my presence. You're after the demon that burns inside my soul. I've been waiting for someone like you."


You don't even bother to look at the man, instead taking a step into the lounge kitchen, your fears confirmed. At that moment, you're glad you're wearing a balaclava.


A badly burned body lies on the kitchen table, its face mutilated beyond recognition. The body's small, the victim not much older than fourteen. The smell is unbearable, filling the house. You look away, the sight burning into your retinas even after your years of doing this.


"You twisted fuck," you mutter, gritting your teeth.


You blink long and hard, trying to regain a semblance of your cold, methodical, professional demeanor, before looking down at Minksi.


"The demons tear at me, scream at me to do it! It's how you make them stop!"


You sigh, fingers dancing on the trigger as you aim it at the man's head.


"Demons are real, Mr Kuzkin, but they're rare, and they don't plague you. I thought they might've. It's why I investigated you. But you're not one of the poor souls cursed to deal with them. You're an animal. A pathetic creature so wracked with insanity and hatred that you take it out on the world. You're a mental case, an animal that needs to be put down, a... a..." you pause, looking to find the right words. "A monster." 


"No, no, they're here! They talk to me, they tell me things, they...!"


"Quiet," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but still controlling the room.


The man's lost in his deluded fantasies, he's not worth talking to. Even though you doubted you would, you'd hoped that you could find some traces of demonic possession here, so you could help the poor man, but no, unfortunately you've only found yourself on the trail of another psychopath rather than any real supernatural presence.


"I... I didn't want to! I tried to fight them, but they wouldn't let me stop! I couldn't sleep, couldn't... couldn't eat, couldn't... I... I just..." 


The pathetic figure breaks into sobbing, as you decide what to do. A quick call to the police station, and an officer could come out here to find their job done for them, the evidence lying around the house with their suspect neatly tied up. Minski would no doubt escape with the insanity plea, where he'd be taken to an institution to see if his shattered mind could be pieced together over days and months and years and decades.... of course, with your rifle belies an easier, more just answer.

You kill Minski Kuzkin

You tilt your head, staring down the sights of your shotgun as you still your breath. With that, you pull the trigger. The shotgun bucks, Minski's head shattering as gray brain matter and bits of skull flies across the room. You don't flinch, simply wiping off what bits of skull land upon you. The sight of death and sound of gunfire are both as familiar as old friends to you, and you shan't be spooked by their visit.


"And so ends the tale of Minski the Muscovite," you remark.


You turn, walking to the nearest bedroom, searching for the cleanest sheets you could find. Taking a pair of brown sheets from the bed, you walk back into the kitchen, where the flies are having a feast. Your eyes water, and even you can't tell if it's from the smell or the sight. Carefully laying the sheet across the body, you step back, bowing your head as a matter of respect.


"It's OK, boy. The horrors are over," you whisper.


Your job finished, you turn, heading out to your truck outside. You walk out to the old, beaten gray pick-up, your eyes peering to the back where a pair of red diesel cannisters lie. It's a struggle to know whether to use them. This deep in the woods, you could burn this whole fucking place to the ground, and destroy any evidence of what happened here. Part of you thinks that no one should have to know what happened here. The dull city of Bergen should just continue in its sweet, sweet bliss.


You'd happily burn away any memory of Minski the Muscovite, but the boy leaves a pressing question. Perhaps he deserves a right to have his tale told, to be returned home for a proper burial. And of course, his parents deserve a right to know, don't they? But, then again... perhaps it's better they don't know. Perhaps they live in eternal hope that their boy was just another runaway, or suffered an accidental death rather than the awful fate he held. No parent deserves to see their beautiful boy in the state that that boy is now.

You inform the police of the grizzly scene

You decide it's best his parents learn what happened, no matter what. It's not use hiding the world in shadows and keeping them from knowledge. They deserve to know the cold truth. With more certainty than before, you turn to the old gray pick-up, clambering into the front seat as you start your engine. The high beams illuminate the dark track ahead of you, as you quickly do a U-turn, heading back down the path back towards the city.


Halfway through the drive back, you put in the call to the police, quickly telling them the address and telling them to send police and medical assistance. Hanging up when they ask for your name, you continue driving, trying to forget the memories of tonight. The night's still young, and you have work to do. It's not the time for weakness. 


It's a long and lonely drive, with only the darkness for company. Once you've gotten far enough from the death of the night and that chained up lunatic, you switch on your iTunes, listening to a podcast on cooking. You don't cook, nor do you ever aspire to, but something about it tends to calm you, to normalize your situation. You can almost imagine you're just a normal man for a while. 


You follow the back roads until you're long gone from the woods, at which point you can safely head back to the lodge. The current lodge is situated at an old, secluded country house, dating back to the Victorian manor. You've actually heard rumors of the manor being haunted before, and when you see it illuminated by the pale moon that's broken through the dark sky, you'd almost believe it. Of course, as a hunting lodge, it's probably about the safest place there could be in regards to the supernatural. With two dozen residents armed to the teeth and trained in fighting the creatures of the night, blessed by the holy men of more religions than you could name and with enough silver than the Queen herself had, it was as safe as could be. 


You speed up the long drive of the old house. A flashlight beam illuminates the road ahead of you and a voice yells at you to halt. You slow down, holding your hand out the window as the car stops besides a fresh-faced boy holding a hunting shotgun. He smiles when he recognizes you, a goofy looking face on a man you know to be a cold-blooded hunter. 


"Good hunting, Willy?" Sven asks in his thick Swedish accent.


"Just a fucking slasher," you say. "Bastard cut up a wee boy."


The superstitious man blesses himself, before nodding.


"Poor boy. Well done to you anyway, Willy. You righted a wrong tonight. Boss is looking for you anyway."


"The hunt never ends," you shrug. 


You drive up the long path, parking alongside the collection of pick-ups, vans, sedans and "heftier" vehicles parked outside. Pulling into your space, you step out of the car, walking into the Lodge.


Walking through the front door, you're hit by the wave of heat and light coming from the roaring fire in the fireplace, illuminating the old sitting room. You walk up to it, removing your gloves and stuffing them in your pocket, holding them out into the fire's heat to try get some warmth into your bones. Wherever the Lodge is set up, be it an old country house, a farmhouse, an apartment block, an ancient Celtic castle, a former military base or anything else there could be, there's always a fireplace there. The fireplace is the heart of the lodge, giving heat, warmth and a sense of safety to the every lodge member. There's something primordial about it, the brightness of the fire acting as a beacon of hope in the dark night of horrors.


You pause, memories flooding into your mind. You remember sitting here as a wee boy, hearing your father tell you tales and stories. The memories take hold of your mind, as you remember sitting there as clearly as you feel the heat on your face now.

You remember your father's lessons on the history of the lodge

You embrace the memory, taking refuge in the past for a moment's rest from the laboring of the present.


Your father was a good man. A hard man, but a good one. When you sat by the fire with him, his already large, muscular frame seemed almost akin to a giant's at that early age. His thick bushy black beard was like solidified smoke drooping down from his chin. He rarely smiled, but he was far from a stern man. No, Dad smiled with his eyes. Whenever he was in a good mood, the man's eyes would shimmer with joy, a sight that could've brought joy to the most fatigued and broken of Hunters. You rarely saw him in your younger days, with his "job" taking him all around the world while you stayed in the miserably wondrous city that was Glasgow with your mother. She gave you your fiery mane, your manners, your demeanor and your think Scottish brogue, and life was easy.


When your father visited, the world seemed to change. He'd always told you that he knew you'd be a hunter from when you first stated kicking in Mum's belly. He taught you how to hunt rabbit and deer, how to fish, how to track... he taught you everything you knew. When you were a wee teen, barely hitting fourteen, Dad took you on a trip to an old manor hidden away in the Scottish hills. The men there were hard-faced and stern, but Dad told you to pay them no mind. He simply sat in front of the roaring fire, and put you on his knee, something the giant man could still do with his size even then, and told you about the Hunters.


The Hunters were born in a time where darkness, horror and superstition reigned over the land. They were simple men with no knowledge of what prowled the nights. They were plagued with mysterious killings from things beyond understanding, and they set out to stop them They soon formed groups to help fight the supernatural, and these groups grew larger and larger, establishing alliances to fight back against the greater threats, be they Vampire Covenants, Werewolf packs, Witch Covens or worse. These groups survived via funding from rich and powerful patrons who knew the threat that dwelt in the shadows as well as heavy support from the Catholic Church, who saw these creatures as demonic enemies of God.


Nowadays, things are far different from the days of men venturing into the darkest woods with torches and pitchforks. Nowadays, the Hunter Lodges had established funding from government grants, private assets controlled by the Lodges and of course, still a considerable helping hand from the Vatican, who had never stiffed in their duty against the demonic. With a flexible support network including suppliers, equipment experts, silversmiths, occultists and the ever-needed "cleaners" who made sure that no trace of this fight was revealed to the public for fear of mass panic, as well as dozens of other roles needed to ensure the survival of the Hunting Lodges, 


Dad inspired you, and when you hit sixteen, you dropped out of school and took to the Hunting Lodge. For the first two years, you worked on simple jobs, doing house work and maintenance, and doing what investigation work makes up most of a Hunter's life, tracking for traces of the supernatural. Eventually, however, you got your chance to go on a hunt when you hit eighteen, and went out with your father. A maddened Vampire Thrall, a Wight and an actual wolf with a taste for flesh all found their bodies burning on the bonfire by the next morning. With your job started, it's been your work ever since.


Dad didn't last too much longer after that. While tracking a Wendigo in the Rocky Mountains, he found out that the beast was stealthier than him, and a better hunter. His remains were found weeks after when a Hunter relief team came to find him. The Wendigo was caught and eliminated, but it had managed to kill a Hunter of twenty seven years experience and dealt your Lodge a serious blow.


At thirty four years, you've given sixteen years of your life to the cause. In that time, you've completed a dozen hunts, with this being your thirteenth. The others have pointed out that the unlucky thirteen might not be the best omen for your odds tonight, but you're not a man of superstition. You're a Hunter.


With that, you're reminded of your duty to the Lodge, and remember it's time to get going. You have a job to do. For the cause. For the Lodge. For Dad.

You get back to work

You quickly get to work, preparing your truck for the night's next hunt. You get a few more shells for your shotgun, knowing by now what a necessity it is to carry all the ammo you can on the hunt. You fill up your truck's gas tank from the diesel cannister you've left in the truck, before getting two replacement cannisters from the house's shed. You double and triple check every detail you've got on your next target. For him, your regular shotgun shells won't do, so you replace a few shells for incendiary rounds. The beautiful thing about fire is it doesn't distinguish between psychopath or demon, monster or beast. 


As you prepare for the next target to hunt, you watch the other grim-faced, stern Hunters arrive and leave off, silently preparing for their missions. Few Hunters can deal with the horrors of mutilated corpses and brutal beasts without hiding inward, losing any joviality and become stern and determined stoics, although black humor is common among your types. A few men manage to survive their time with grins and jokes to cover up their pains, but they're few and far between. Most of the Hunters you pass just give you a nod and continue on their way, a single, thread-bare sign of support and brotherhood. It would seem cold and dark to outsiders, but to you, you know the respect that these men hold for you, and you hold for them.


Your next target of the night is a traditional Lodge target, a young vampire. The target, to your knowledge, is barely thirty years old, with only nine of those years plagued by the red thirst. That young, he should barely have a grasp of his powers, and should be easy prey. In addition, the vampire has a single Thrall, a human either so mad, so desperate for something, so lustful for power that they're willing to sell out their humanity and their very soul to a Vampire, serving them as a servant to be used for day-time work and tasks beneath their Vampiric master.


With your target set out, you head back to your truck, ready to head out and kill what's already dead.

You head off to the take out the target

After clambering into your pick-up, you head off down the road, speeding along the streets as you head towards your target. The target house, due to the nature of what happens there, is very secluded. This means that it'll be all the easier for you to hit, as you won't have to worry about avoiding witnesses or police detection. You sure as shit don't want another police officer walking in on you mid-execution. You've dealt with it before, and things got... well, best not to let the mind dwell in the shadows. 


It's a long drive to your target, so you take the time to mentally prepare yourself, running through the plan again and again. The Vampire's secluded nature means he wakens to feed every two to three nights, before retiring to sleep. It seems the creature still struggles with fatigue, meaning he's particularly untrained in his power. He fed last night, so he should be easy prey. Kill the Thrall, and simply kill the beast in it's coffin.


You pull up far enough away from the target house so not even an awakened vampire could hear its engine rumbling or see the flickers of its light. You kill the lights and leave the engine running, just in case you need a quick get away, before stepping out of your car, grabbing your weapon and making your way up the road.


The veil of darkness that hung over the early night sky has been pulled from the sky, revealing the beauty of the stars. The moon shines bright, big and round like a light, surrounded by a billion shining stars that dot the heaves. It's stunningly beautiful, you must admit. The moon almost seems full, but you know it's not. The full moon has a tendency to alight some passion into the hearts of beasts, so the Lodge never has a hunt on those nights. However, nights lit by the moon are often the safest and brightest, so you tend to pick nights close to it. Best to have a bright sky watching over you when venturing into the shadows.


Heading towards the house, you keep the shotgun tight in your hands, ready to fire at a moment's notice, the dragon's breath rounds in the chamber. You see the lights . The thrall should be asleep, as should his master. It's nearly two, and the man's frantic work last night in capturing prey for his master should've left the exhausted bastard craving sleep. Never mind. Him being awake only heightens the challenge. As long as his master's asleep, this should be doable.


Although, if he's awake, it's out of schedule. Perhaps something's afoot, and perhaps his master is too. If that's the case, perhaps you should lean on the safer side of things.


Then again, it is the night of the hunt. Calling on back-up means depriving a Hunter from somewhere else, and that could have lasting consequences. Perhaps another team is short a member, and a Necromancer's flesh hounds get the drop on them. Perhaps a Skinwalker manages to escape the trap set for him, and hunt fresh prey in the safety of the far north, away from your reach. Either way, your actions, as always in this field, have consequences.

You call for back-up

You retreat to the car, calling into the Lodge. They report back that they've a spare Hunter to send out, one who is only acting on stand-by. Father Paul Féval. You know the man well, and have worked with him before. The man's a representative from the Vatican, a priest even, and as adamant in following the laws of the Bible as you are in never leaving the Lodge without a spare, but the man's a professional and an experienced Hunter. The man's permanent cold, professional demeanor means you'd be hesitant to call him a "friend", but you feel it'd be disrespectful to like anything. 


You get in your car, driving back a minute away from the house just for some extra space. Once you're out there, you wait outside your car, your weapons ready in case the vampire or his thrall emerge. The wait is long, but after fifteen minutes, you see a pair of dazzling head beams approaching you. A blackened sedan seems to almost form from the shadows, pulling in behind you. 


The sedan's driver door opens, as a tall, gaunt figure with spectacles and a black jacket and pants steps out. His long, bizarrely slender fingers tap against his side as his lips turn upwards very slightly in the barest facsimile of a smile. You know it's simply a polite sign, the man's professional nature means he takes no joy in this, instead simply seeing it as his religious duty.


"William," Father Féval nods. "The Lodge informs me we're dealing with a thrall and a youth, correct?"


"Correct, Father," you nod. "But they might be up."


"Best not to take risks, William. We have enough risks inherent to our job, don't we?"


Father Féval leans into the car, pulling out a vile of holy water. He dribbles it into his hands, blessing himself, before leaning back in and grabbing a silver crucifix. He affixes it to his belt, before flipping his jacket tails back, pulling out a pair of shining pistols. He looks at them both, examining them for a moment, before nodding. 


"I'm ready and willing, William."


"Let's go."


The pair of you begin walking down the street, ready to strike. You soon come up again to the house once more, walking up the path towards the house. You know from surveillance that the house has the main entrance as well as a back door. The lounge, dining room and basement are located near the front door. The sitting positions would give anyone in there the sight of the door, but it would allow for the quickest contact. If the vampires awake, eliminating the thrall would give you far better chances against the Vampire shortly afterwards. 


"You did the ground work. Suggestions?" Father Féval says unemotionally, seeming entirely focused on the situation with no fear, dread or anticipation.

You go in together, through the front

"We both go through the front, take the fucker out quickly so we'll have time to get the drop on the main target. The longer we take with the thrall, the more likely that the night haunt will wake up and get the drop on one of us." 


"I understand. Best of luck, William."


"And to you, Father."


The two of you walk towards the house, weapons at the ready. Surprisingly for a vampire's lair, your surveillance has said that the house is completely lacking in any serious security measures. Locked doors and windows, sure, but they're lacking the reinforced doors, security cameras. It's a young vampire, so you're not expecting legions of Thralls protecting him or runic blood magic protecting the house, but clearly the power's gone to this creature's head. 


Striding forward to the house's wooden door, you raise your shotgun, pointing it at the lock and firing. Booting the door open with a solid kick as you pump the shotgun, the door collapses to the ground as you quickly step through, making contact with the Thrall.


The Thrall stands in the kitchen, a short, bearded man with crazed eyes and grime and dirt stuck in his beard and on his face. He shakes his head repeatedly, growling and swearing as he divides a pile of crushed and broken white crystals, no doubt a substitute between his feedings on the vampiric blood he's heavily addicted to. 


His eyes dart up to you as he growls, an animalistic sound that could only come from a beast. His blood-shot eyes bulge, as he kicks the table with incredible strength, flipping it onto its side as he dives behind it. You immediately open fire, bullets and shotgun blasts easily tearing through the table, but it was a simply distraction, and the Thrall's already ducked behind the kitchen counter.


Suddenly, you see the barrel of a gun emerge from behind the kitchen counter, as the Thrall attempts to fight back. Father Féval, however, fails to spot it, as he rushes forward. The gun's muzzle flashes and screams with the crackling of gunfire, as Father Féval collapses with a scream, smacking into the floor.


"Zut! Mes jambes!" Father Féval screams.


You look over to the man, whose right leg is now heavily bleeding and torn apart, his right thigh bleeding heavily as well as dark red blood quickly pools around the floor.


"I'm coming over!" you shout to Féval, who breathes heavily in trying to control his pain. 


"Non! Stay there, you fool! He'll get us both!"


You nod, knowing he's right. Going over to try assist Father Féval right now would be suicide, and you'd just end up with a blast of bullets to the chest. The priest's pinned down, and you need to decide what your course of action is. Retreating, as always, seems promising. The racket you're causing has no doubt awoken the vile monster you've come here to kill, and you're going to be hard-fought keeping Féval alive and yourself facing these two foes. Of course, if you can rush the Thrall from his flank and take him out quickly, you'll be able to face the Vampire one-on-one and have some chance.

You fall back to the truck

Knowing that staying there is a slaughter and every second you spend fighting is only going to make it more likely the sound of death and smell of flesh blood is going to awaken the thrall's master, you turn, looking at Father Féval one last time as he lies there, bleeding heavily. His eyes meet yours, and he knows what you're going to do.


"God be with you, William," he says.


The man struggles to raise his arms, the strength clearly sapped for them, but nevertheless the priest opens fire with a burst of gunfire towards the Thrall, giving you your chance. You break for the door, sprinting low and fast as your shotgun swings in your hands. You leap forward with every step, quickly bursting out the front door as you sprint towards your truck.


You're running as fast as you're able, when suddenly, you get hit from the side with the strength of a truck. You're sent flying through the air before you can even realize what happens, as you skid along the cold earth and roll to a halt, feeling your now broken jaw smack into the frozen tundra. You lie there, broken and hurt, as you try to pull yourself to your feet. As soon as you put weight on your knee you're put through incredible pain and forced to do nothing but grit your teeth and bear it.


"You seem tired, Hunter," a voice says.


Your voice chills when you hear the voice, but you know it's not the time for tears. Turning your head, you find yourself staring up at a tall, deathly pale figure. It's skin seems almost entirely hairless except for the thick black hair that hangs down from its head. Its eyes, however... its blood red eyes betray an inhumanity that you'll never be able to comprehend. 


"Hello," the Vampire smiles, revealing a fanged mouth stretching from ear to ear. "And of course, goodbye."


"Fucking... blood thirsty... prick," you say, struggling to keep from collapsing to the ground. 


The Vampire strolls forward, savoring this moment, as his smile stretches further and further across his face, almost seeming to cut it in half. He lifts a polished boot into the air, placing it on your broken leg. He applies pressure, and you grit your teeth and try not to give him the satisfaction of screaming.


"A strong one. Your lodge will weep tonight. You can die quick, Hunter."


The Vampire slowly drops down to his knees, as you struggle to reach for your revolver at your side. You're far too late, though, as she grabs your head gently. You breath carefully, before he snaps your neck in a single motion.