Chapter V

In the morning her father was still able to speak. By the afternoon, he was almost as bad as her mother had been when Sybil had awoken: feverish and barely conscious, speaking only in weak, nonsensical babbles during his few extended spells of consciousness. Her parents spent most of the second half of the day in fitful rest, tossing and turning in their bed as they muttered to themselves or to each other or to the silhouette that either was or was not there the previous evening, all while soaking their bedding through with their hot, acrid, yellow sweat.

Sybil tended to all of the household chores by herself that day; she went out in the morning and fed Misty, then went down to the nearby river and drew three full buckets of water. When she returned home she prepared herself the last egg that they had left and ate it tiredly, barely tasting it; its runny yolk seemed to disintegrate before it even reached her stomach. Around noon she spent close to an hour chopping wood behind their cottage, then came inside and tended to her parents. That was when she learned that Martin had slipped into a similar state as her mother, and that her mother had only grown worse in the short time since she had last seen her. She placed cool, wet cloths upon each of their foreheads in an attempt to quell their fevers, and slowly dribbled water down their throats with the stew ladle.

In the mid afternoon Syble began trying to prepare a meal for the three of them, but quickly realized that, even if they were capable of eating, she did not have much of anything to feed them. The last of their vegetables had gone dry and were covered in mold, and what remained of their meat had already gone putrid. Having no silver to spend, she was unable to go into the village to buy anything to cook. With a terrible pit in her stomach, Sybil realized that they were scarce on luck, and completely out of options.

Or, at least, they almost were.

In the late afternoon, Sybil went behind their cottage, grabbed her horse, her crossbow and her quiver, and made her way out into the forest.

___

She spent hours in that damned wood, watching through the gaps in the canopy as the sky slowly grew dark with the heavy curtain of night. The few animals that she spotted caught wind of her quickly, scurrying into the brush before she even had a chance to raise her crossbow. After a while she left Misty behind in a small glade, hoping that being without the horse would allow her to creep through the forest undetected. This tactic saw little success.

The moon was full and great in a vast, cloudless sky by the time Sybil finally decided to turn in for the night. Her walk back to Misty was miserable: her body shook with equal parts hunger and cold, and each step felt like red hot fire in her legs. A cutting wind sliced through the trees and splashed against her exposed, pink face. Sybil found herself wishing, not for the first time that day, that she had thrown on more layers before leaving her home.

She tried not to think about the consequences of her failure as she walked. Sybil knew she could have gone a number of days without food, but her parents, in their current state, would be lucky to last another night without some form of nourishment. If she was unable to provide them with medicine, she had hoped to at least give them something warm and fresh to eat, but this had proven to be too great of a task for her. She remembered her father’s intention to sell Misty for medicine, and she considered bringing the horse into the village to see if anybody would be willing to trade her for something to eat. Sybil doubted very much that anybody would want the aging animal, and she feared the reaction that the villagers might have if they discovered that Sybil’s parents were unwell; paranoia surrounding the Plague was so great that she thought they were liable to do anything to keep from becoming ill, even if that meant bringing harm to two bedridden infected and their as-of-yet healthy daughter. Sybil shivered, this time not from the worsening cold.

She snapped her head in the direction of a sudden noise in the brush. Her veins turned to glaciers as she thought of the figure standing over her mother, but she shoved this memory back down into her throat and forced her shaking arms to raise her crossbow, aiming it into the gloom. For many long moments, there was only silence, and Sybil began to wonder if she had completely imagined the sound. Then there was movement again, and something crawled toward her from out of the thick brush.

It took her a moment to identify the creature in the darkness, but Sybil quickly recognized it as a fox. It sat down in the grass a few meters away, its back partially turned to her, and began scratching behind its ear. The creature had not yet noticed her.

Sybil cautiously crouched behind a downed tree that stood between her and the fox. She aimed the tip of the quarrel at the resting beast as she curled her palm around the weapon’s slender trigger. After a few long, frigid seconds, Sybil took a deep, steadying breath…

… and found that she was unable to fire.

She remained frozen in place, her crossbow trained perfectly on the fox, her trigger hand seemingly turned to stone. It felt like hours passed as Sybil crouched behind that dead tree, unable or unwilling to act. She held the fox’s life at the tip of her quarrel, but she could not muster the willpower to bring that life to a swift, merciful end. Her mind snapped to her parents, lying together in their bed where they slowly drifted further and further away from life, both of them relying on her to do the one thing that she was so inexplicably incapable of doing. Sybil knew that if she didn’t act, her parents would die. And she couldn’t let that happen. She had to act, and she had to do it now.

Sybil felt the stone encasing her hand melt away, disappearing in an instant. The trigger felt more real in her palm; more tangible. She felt herself apply pressure to it; felt it ready to respond to her command. Sybil thought of her parents as she prepared to fire.

A large shape leapt out of the brush and pounced on top of the fox. This new, mightier beast took the smaller creature’s neck into its terrible jaws and clamped down with a quick, absolute crunch. The fox cried out in agony and terror as its life came to a swift end, its limp body immediately being tossed around like a doll by the superior creature. A horror-stricken Sybil vaguely recognized the assailant as a wolf right before she turned and sprinted into the darkness. Her unfired crossbow shook wildly in her hands as she ran.

She did not remember much of her flight. One moment she was bounding through the forest gloom, guided only by the light of the moon that managed to leak in through the gaps in the canopy above, the next she was in the glade where she had left Misty, huffing and puffing and doing all she could to prevent her body from collapsing or her heart from bursting in her chest. After taking a few moments to calm her body and fight back the rising tears, she began walking toward her horse. The animal looked at its master quizzically as she approached, clearly noting the girl’s distress; Misty may have been an old girl, but she was still a long way from losing her deep-rooted intuition.

Sybil took the packhorse by her reins and led her through the forest. The sting of defeat and the horror of what she had just witnessed were made easier by the presence of the aging mare, even if only slightly, and Sybil was grateful for her horse’s companionship on that long, cold walk home.

The girl and her horse emerged from the forest and into the clearing. She approached their cottage from the rear, completely circumventing the village. White moonlight drifted down in powerful beams, illuminating her path ahead; compared to the gloom of the forest, the glade almost looked as bright as day.

She led Misty to her hovel and tied the beast to the hitch before removing her pack saddle. Sybil patted the old mare’s face once, placed her crossbow and quiver on a shelf in the hovel, and turned to begin the long, cold, bitter walk to the cottage. She only made it a few meters before she felt her stomach rumble with hunger, prompting her to suddenly stop. The icy wind tossed her long hair as she stood thinking about her parents inside, who were rapidly withering away into nothing.

And she then realized what she had to do.

Sybil turned around slowly; the action felt as though it took hours. Before her was the hovel where she had just tied off Misty. Sinister moonlight cascaded down upon the small structure, lighting her in a way that made her look like the only thing in the world. Sybil noticed that she had stopped next to the tree stump where she and her father chopped firewood; Martin had left the old hatchet embedded into the stump. Sybil glanced down at it for a painfully long moment, its handle calling to her, beckoning her, reminding her of what needed to happen next. She reached for the small axe, and with a single, quick motion, pulled it free of the stump.

Her walk back to the hovel was agonizing. Every step she took felt like it lasted an eternity, as if she could have watched the world be born and fall to ashes in the time between her feet leaving and returning to the ground. Angry, miserable, devastated tears rolled down her face, which she made no effort to contain. They flowed from her freely, uninhibited and unyielding.

Misty snorted as Sybil approached. The mare stared at her with one bulging, almond-shaped eye. Her beast’s intuition told her that something was wrong, but Sybil saw in her gaze that she trusted Sybil to resolve whatever that something was. She trusted Sybil to protect her.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Sybil said, her voice a bitter, harsh rasp. “I’m so sorry.”

She stood in front of the mare and raised the hatchet. Its worn blade glinted with the lunar brilliance that descended from above. Sybil stared into Misty’s unblinking eye, where she watched as her reflection raised the weapon to the very top of its arc and prepared to bring it down in one swift, final stroke.

A stroke that would never come.

Sybil tossed the hatchet into the earth at her feet, slightly startling the mare, who snorted briefly before returning to her normal, passive self. Sybil fell to her knees at Misty’s hooves and wept for what felt like the rest of her life. Her sobs came in long, pathetic gasps which seemed intent on ripping every last breath from her burning lungs. When she had exhausted all of her shame and misery, Sybil slowly clambered to her feet, patted the old horse on the side of her neck, and once again turned to walk toward the waiting cottage.

Which is when she saw the silhouette in the window, standing over her parents’ bed.

Sybil froze. She could only stare dumbly into the window for many long moments as her entire body slowly went numb. At first she feared that maybe the figure was watching her through the window, but she quickly realized this could not be the case—it was turned away from her, looking down at the bed where her sleeping parents rested.

Something in her shifted, and Sybil suddenly regained control of her body. She lowered herself to a crouch and crept her way back over to her waiting crossbow, fighting off the pins and needles of the fading numbness as she went. Sybil threw her quiver over her shoulder, loaded a quarrel into her crossbow, and with one more glance at Misty, crept her way back toward the cottage.

Their home only had one entrance, and thus Sybil needed to cautiously sneak her way toward the front of the building in order to make her way inside. She slipped beneath another window on her way, certain that allowing herself to appear in the aperture would cause whoever was waiting inside to immediately notice her. After nearly two minutes of slowly creeping and barely moving, Sybil made it to the front door of the cottage. She turned the door’s knob as carefully and furtively as she could, wincing as latches came undone, the snapping and clipping of their mechanisms echoing through the air. She was unable to prevent the door from creaking as it came open, and could only hope that holding her breath would somehow muffle its sound to any intruder that might have been waiting for her on the other side of the threshold.

The door swung open into the waiting darkness and Sybil stepped into the swallowing shadows. The fire in the hearth had recoiled significantly, turning into a calm, smoldering collection of embers; the only other source of light in the cottage’s main room came from a candle on their dining table that Sybil did not remember lighting before she left, but which stood low in a pool of wax which told her it had been burning for several hours, and was nearing the end of its life. A thick silence infested the home; it drifted on the dust that swirled in the air all around her, and was so strong that she could almost not even hear herself think.

It took all of Sybil’s strength to control her breathing as she slowly crept through her home. She used her nearly two decades of living in the cottage to carefully position each stride to elicit as little noise as possible. Her heart almost stopped a couple of times when she miscalculated a step and sent a rogue creak shivering through the home, each time pausing to see if her disturbance had been detected. Nothing stirred at any of her transgressions; the only movement in the cottage belonged to the flickering flame on the table, which splashed dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling as it guttered with the final throes of its life.

Sybil approached her parents’ quarters. Darkness oozed from its threshold like a gaping wound. Inside she could see the slight flicker of another dying candle, as if it had only ever been lit to guide her on the very path that she now walked, but beyond this, the space was wreathed in a dense, sinister umbra. It was this meager, perishing light that allowed her to see the figure standing in the room, existing as a black mass that barely made itself known from the surrounding darkness. She could not determine if the silhouette could see her, or even what direction it was now facing. Sybil took aim with her quivering crossbow, but found herself unable to step any closer to the thing waiting on the other side of the threshold.

“Who goes there?” she said in the most authoritative voice that she could muster; it was far less commanding than she would have liked. “Identify yourself!”

For several tortuous moments, the figure did not respond. Then she saw it stir; its form undulated and squirmed in the darkness as it drew closer to the candle that stood between its haven of darkness and the marginally brighter world that Sybil resided in. Sybil refused to move—in truth she did not know if she remembered how to—all she could focus on was keeping her crossbow trained on the intruder, her right hand held against its eager trigger.

She only lowered her weapon when she saw Beatrice Fletcher step into the candle’s thinning domain.

At first Sybil could not find her voice. She was stunned by the sight of her mother standing before her, more able-bodied than she had seen her in days. To find her legs after how deathly she had been just that morning was nothing short of a miracle—and to Sybil, was almost too incredible to be true.

“Mother?” Sybil managed to somehow rediscover her lost voice; it sounded weak, uncertain, afraid.

In the flickering shadows of the candle, Beatrice’s face contorted into a wicked grin, and for the first time Sybil realized how her mother’s appearance had changed. She was more pale than Sybil had ever seen her—more pale even than a cold, still corpse—and her eyes, now devoid of any light, somehow seemed to glow with an unnatural luminescence. Her thin lips curled back from her white gums and glistening grin, which was completed by a pair of sharp, thin fangs. When she spoke, her voice, while containing a whisper of Beatrice’s familiarity, was no longer her own. It did not even sound like it was produced by her own body, and instead was projected from somewhere far away, coming from a deep, dark, terrible place. “My lovely Sybil,” she said. “Back from your hunt, I see—and without any trophies to speak of. I suppose this is no surprise. I expect nothing less from my disappointment of a daughter.”

Sybil, her stomach filled by a sudden pang of shock and disgust, took a slight, recoiling step backwards. She kept her crossbow lowered to the ground, but felt the strengthening urge to raise it. “What’s wrong with you, Mother? Why are you speaking this way?”

“What’s wrong?” Beatrice chuckled. Her echoing laughter caused the nearby candle to gutter and spit. “Why, my sweet child, what could possibly be wrong? I feel better now than I ever have in my life.” She took a step forward.

Sybil finally gave in to her urge. She raised the crossbow and reluctantly trained it on her mother. The girl could hardly believe what she was doing, but at the same time felt that the action was paramount to ensuring her own safety. The new presence of her mother filled her with an overwhelming sense of danger that she could not possibly ignore. “S-stay back! Not another step!”

“Why, Sybil!” Beatrice’s voice feigned offense, but the sinister smirk never left her terrible, curling lips. “How could you threaten your own mother? Have you no longer any affinity for your own flesh and blood? No longer any love for the one who brought you into this life?”

Sybil forced herself to keep the crossbow aimed straight ahead. Sweat caked her brow and ran down the side of her face, but she resisted the urge to wipe it away. “I said to stay back! Stay back or I’ll shoot!”

The woman chuckled again. “You and I both know that you will do no such thing.”

The candle resting on the table near Beatrice suddenly went out, casting her entire room into darkness. Sybil, no longer able to see the woman, quickly turned on her heel and ran toward the cottage’s front door in a panic. She passed by the candle on the kitchen table and, reaching the door, grabbed its handle, threw it open—

—and found her father waiting for her on the other side.

Martin Fletcher had adopted a similar look to his wife, including her malevolent grin, with one key difference: his entire face below his cheeksbones was splashed in a thick, crimson layer of what Sybil could only identify as blood. Redness dripped from his fangs, landing in two distinct pools in the doorway.

Sybil backed away from him with a terrified scream, stumbling over herself until her back slammed into the rear wall of the cottage barely a foot away from the smoldering remains of the hearth. Her father stepped leisurely through the doorway, prompting Sybil to raise her quaking crossbow once more, its quarrel aimed at his chest.

Martin snickered, his nauseating chortles sounding even less human than his wife’s had. “Come, now, Sybil. Are you so eager to do away with your poor, ailing parents? Do we mean so little to you, that you would so gladly discard us when we need you the most?”

Sybil did not speak; she could not conjure any words. Instead she rapidly flicked her crossbow back and forth between her father approaching from the doorway, and her mother who slowly made her way across the cottage. They drew closer with each passing moment, steadily enclosing her in their snare.

“Go on then, Sybil,” her father said. “Make use of that weapon of yours instead of waving it around like some child’s plaything.” Martin stopped in front of the kitchen table. “I will even stay entirely still so that you cannot possibly miss—not that I believe you would ever be capable of such a thing. You’re twice the marksman I was at your age, after all.”

Sybil trained her weapon on her father’s waiting form, its sharp quarrel aimed straight for his heart. But even as she prepared to pull the trigger, she knew that she would not be able to. She knew that, come what may, she would never be able to do what needed to be done.

And so her father laughed again. “As I thought.”

The candle on the kitchen table guttered on for another moment before it went out, casting almost the entire cottage into complete darkness. Overwhelming fear gnawed at Sybil now as she waited for her parents—or what looked like her parents—to finish closing their trap. Then, in a moment of crucial clarity, a thought managed to break through that seemingly impenetrable wall of terror. Holding onto her crossbow with one hand, Sybil used her other to grab the fire iron that hung on the wall next to the hearth and ripped it free. She then stuck the iron into the fire and pulled with all of her strength, sending burning hot embers scattering into the room in front of her. Sparks flew as the once-diminishing fire came back to life; it spread among the furs on the floor and quickly began to grow with uncontrollable fervor. It illuminated the space around her, revealing her way forward and casting out some of the darkness.

Her parents, both mere feet from her, recoiled from the sudden blaze. They both hissed like startled cats and reflexively covered their eyes with their arms. Sybil, seizing the opportunity, sprinted for the door, but was stopped when her father grabbed at her wrist with his free hand and latched onto her with an inhumanly powerful grip. He snarled at her from beyond his arm sleeve, watching her with a single eye while the other was shielded from the growing blaze.

Sybil, acting on reflex, lunged the fire iron at her father. It impaled him in his one watching eye, eliciting another hiss, the pitch and intensity of which threatened to blow out her eardrums. Sybil lost her grip on the iron as her father did the same on her wrist. She ran through the cottage and out the front door, feeling the heat of the worsening inferno on the back of her neck as she went.

Sybil turned and sprinted for the rear of the building, taking in gasps of fresh, cold air while she ran. It seemed to take an eternity for her to finally arrive at Misty’s hovel. Her lungs burned with a fire not unlike the one that was beginning to engulf her home, but she knew she did not have time to rest. She leaned her crossbow against the wooden wall and, with a pair of shaking, terrified hands, began untying the horse’s reins from the post.

She was so focused, so narrowed in on her task, that the reins were fully free and in her hands by the time she realized that the mare was lying dead at her feet, her throat torn clean out of her still-bubbling neck.

Sybil shrieked; she took a recoiling step away from the bleeding carcass of her beloved animal. Her strength quickly left her; she buckled to her knees and felt her stomach heave, ready to expel its nonexistent contents. Only the sudden chuckle of her father distracted her from her nausea and forced her to turn her head.

Martin Fletcher slowly approached his daughter, walking without any care in the world as the cottage several meters behind him began to cough black, billowing smoke from every orifice. The fire iron was still lodged in his eye and stuck out awkwardly as he walked, resembling an antler of one of the countless stags that he had hunted over his many years in the forest. He did not even seem to notice the protrusion. It was not until he stood over the kneeled, shaking Sybil that he finally pulled the iron free from his eye socket and allowed it to drop, its tip blackened and bloody, to the ground at his feet. His injured eye swam with blackish blood; it began to squirm and writhe as it slowly regained its shape, even as crimson-dark liquid spilled down his face, mixing with the spattering around his mouth and fangs. He spoke through the layer of red that seemed to have become one with his putrid face, his words sticking into her like many sharp, thin daggers of ice. “Had you been born a man, that blow might have actually struck true.”

Sybil no longer had the energy to run from him. She no longer had the willpower to try to escape. Instead she could only look up into her father’s pale, nightmarish face as cold, mortified tears streamed down her own. “What’s wrong with you, Father? What’s happened to you?”

“Again you ask such a foolish question,” he said as Beatrice appeared from out of the darkness behind him. She stood back, watching the scene unfold before her. “It is as your mother said, Sybil. There is nothing wrong with us at all. We feel better than we ever have—better than we ever possibly could have before. And you can join us, my beloved daughter. He left you for us, so that we could be the ones to give you this wonderful gift. All you have to do is accept it.”

“What gift?” Sybil sobbed. “What do you speak of, Father?”

“The beautiful, generous, eternal gift,” he said calmly, licking the blood that ran along his fangs, “of death.”

Martin lunged at her, his sharp, black claws ready and eager to slice into her waiting flesh. Sybil did not know when she noticed the hatchet lying on the ground near her hand, but she grabbed it and swung at her attacker without so much as a thought while at the same time lunging to her feet. The blade caught her father in the side of his face, causing him to reel. Its handle escaped from Sybil’s grasp, but she paid it no mind, instead scurrying backwards and grabbing her crossbow from its spot against the hovel wall. She turned it on her father and immediately froze, once again finding herself unable to act.

Martin grabbed the hatchet by the handle and yanked it free in a spray of shadowy blood. He dropped the weapon onto the ground and looked at his daughter with a deadly, monstrous scowl. Even before he spoke, the spilling, bleeding gash was already beginning to mend itself. “You’re a fool to reject this gift, daughter of mine. And you shall not live to regret your decision!”

Martin lunged at her again, his clawed hand ready to strike. Sybil meant to fire. She meant to pull the trigger that would send her loaded quarrel flashing through the air before it pierced her father’s heart. But she knew, much as she always had, that she would never be able to. Instead she lowered her crossbow with her pair of shaking hands, turned her closed eyes toward her shoulder, and awaited the inevitable. She wondered if the pain would leave her in agony for long, or if her end would come as quickly as it had for Gareth, all those years ago.

Sybil heard the sound of tearing flesh, and for a moment, she believed that her father’s dark goal had been achieved. Only when she realized that she felt no pain, experienced no searing heat, no unending anguish, did she find the courage to look forward and open her eyes.

In front of her lay her father’s dead, bleeding corpse, its headless neck ending in an oozing stump, which spurted out crimson-black liquid onto the cold ground. Stood behind his body was a figure gripping a longsword, which dripped with her father’s blood as it glistened in the silver moonlight.

The masked figure, with its long, sharp beak and emotionless eyes of onyx, was the very embodiment of death.

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Chapter IV

“Another disappointing day.” Martin looked at his daughter as they walked through the gloom of the forest. He led their packhorse by her reins, his musket placed in its scabbard. “I did not think it was possible to have an even worse day than yesterday, but we managed it. One scrawny hare is considerably less fortunate than two meager ones.”

Sybil could not meet her father’s eyes. She walked with her own gaze planted on the forest floor, her cocked crossbow held in her hands. “’Twas my fault today. I had the perfect shot, but I missed—again.”

“We’d be in the same situation even if you’d have hit that starving, old duck anyhow,” he said. “It hardly had enough meat on its empty bones to keep its feathers from falling out.”

“Even so,” Sybil said, “I still let you down. As I always do.”

“Sybil,” her father said, stopping in his tracks. “You didn’t let me down. You’ve never let me down.”

“Of course I do!” she said, stopping next to him. Misty snorted nervously at her sudden outburst, but her discomfort went unacknowledged. “I do every single day, from the moment I was born. Were I born a man, like Gareth, maybe I would—”

“Perish the thought.”

Sybil finally turned to look at her father. His face was more stern than she remembered ever seeing it. “But—”

“I said to perish it, Sybil. Your mother and I love you just the way you are, and whether or not you can hit a bloody live target with a bloody crossbow will not change that. Nor do the circumstances of your birth. I’ve already told you that you’re a better shot at your age than I ever was, and you’re certainly better than Gareth was, Mother bless his eternal soul, so you will perish the thought that your being born a woman has any bearing on your ability to hunt.”

They stood in silence for a few long moments. Sybil remained unconvinced, but she allowed the matter to drop with an agreeable smile. “Alright. I will try to take that to heart. Thank you, father.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” Martin said, his voice growing dry halfway through his sentence. With his next breath, he brought his fist up to his mouth to stifle a short series of coughs. “Ahem. Now, we had best get home early so we can tend to your mother. Come along, then, Sybil.”

Sybil did as she was told and followed her father through the weald toward home, but she could not help but notice just how often during their journey he was forced to raise a hand to fend off struggling coughs.

___

Beatrice was considerably worse than when they had left her that morning. She was unable to fully rise to greet them, and instead only managed to sit up in bed as they stepped into the room. Sybil theorized that her mother’s ailment grew worse later in the day, as she had seemed better that morning than she had been for the preceding hours of darkness. The huntsman’s daughter dreaded what was in store for the many long hours ahead.

The older woman asked about the day’s hunt, as she always did, and Martin, as was customary, was honest in his reply. With her mother being too weak to prepare supper, Sybil set to the task. She cooked what little meat her father was able to salvage from the previous day’s hare and served it with a pitiful dash from their dwindling vegetable supply. Beatrice ate her portion of the meal in bed, and Sybil and her father ate theirs in the kitchen. Neither of them spoke a word—the only sound shared between them was the rumbling of their stomachs that persisted even after the meal had come to a hasty end.

With their supper finished, Martin decided to use the remainder of the day’s sunlight to butcher the hare he had managed to shoot that day, as well as to chop some firewood before going about the rest of his evening tasks. He left Beatrice in Sybil’s care, who, after cleaning up from supper, stepped into their bedroom in order to perform her duties. Beatrice had fallen asleep after her meal; her pale, haggard face look almost corpse-like in its stillness, and for a moment Sybil worried that her mother’s ailment had finally taken her until she saw the older woman’s chest rise and fall with its consistent pattern of deep, struggling breaths. Sybil took her mother’s finished supper plate back out into the kitchen, where she cleaned it with the rest of their soiled dishes. Tired from the effort of the day, Sybil eventually allowed herself to rest on the fur-blanketed chair that faced the crackling hearth. She had only meant to sit for a short while, but the day’s exhaustion suddenly piled onto her the moment she touched the chair, and the inviting warmth of the fire encouraged her to close her eyes. She was asleep within the minute.

She awoke some time later—how long had passed, she did not know. Sybil looked out the nearby window and saw that most of the remaining sunlight had drained from the sky, but that a sliver of orange hope still kissed the darkening firmament. She threw a fresh log into the hearth and rose to check on her mother, walking from her place near the hearth to the other corner of their home, where the entryway to her parents’ quarters waited.

Along with the shadow that loomed over her parents’ bed.

The figure, no more than a silhouette in the gloom, stood with its back turned to Sybil. It stood over where her mother rested, and appeared to be leaning down on top of the older woman, as if listening to her heartbeat or whispering something in her ear. Sybil’s initial thought was that Martin had come inside and was checking on his wife, but despite this rationalization, she still felt an inexplicable shiver erupt all over her body, as if a chilling draft had infected their home despite the blazing hearth that crackled on the other side of the space.

“Father?” Sybil said; the weakness in her own voice surprised her. When the shadow did not stir, she figured that it had not heard her, and she began to speak again.

But before she could, the front door of the cottage came swinging open. Martin stepped inside, bringing with him a surge of cold evening air that only exacerbated the chill that Sybil felt. Sybil looked at her father and frowned, confused, before quickly returning her gaze to her parents’ quarters.

The figure that had been standing over her mother was gone.

___

Sybil sat on a bundle of furs in front of the burning hearth, unable to sleep. She poked at the gentle blaze with a fire iron, turning over the coals absentmindedly and with no real purpose. The exhaustion that had once overtaken her was gone, chased away by the numbness that she had felt when she had seen—or had not seen—the figure standing over her mother.

She kept telling herself that it had just been her imagination, that it was dark in her parents’ quarters, that her groggy mind, still foolish with sleep, had played an especially cruel trick on her. They were all sound arguments that anybody would have been able to readily accept, but for some reason, they were unable to convince Sybil to banish the thought of that figure from her mind. Shadows, elongated by the light of the dancing flame, undulated on the surrounding cottage walls; Sybil expected to turn her head at any moment to see the silhouette watching her, its eyes somehow even deeper voids of darkness than its looming, shapeless body.

She heard her mother groan, and she knew that her parents were awake. Their muffled, whispering voices vibrated the space around her; she tried to focus on their conversation from where she rested, but unable to decipher anything, she slowly rose from her spot on the furs and made her way toward their quarters, stopping against the adjoining wall just before stepping into view of the entryway.

“It’s not Plague, Beatrice,” Martin said.

“But what if it is, Martin?” Her mother’s voice sounded more weary and distant than Sybil had ever heard it. “What if it is?”

“That is impossible,” he said. “This village will never know the Plague. We are safe from its wrath here.” He paused. “You need medicine; that is all. A powerful remedy will bring you right back to your old self. You shall see, my love.”

“But where would we get such a thing? The village apothecary is not capable of making a remedy strong enough to treat whatever this is.”

“I will go to Brightburrow. Surely there is an apothecary there capable of curing you.”

“And how will you afford their services? You’ve hardly hunted enough game to feed us, let alone to earn silver. We’ve no means of paying for the services of an apothecary.”

“I shall take Misty with me and sell her in Brightburrow, then use that silver to purchase the medicine you need.”

“Nobody will want that tired, old horse,” Beatrice said. “I’m not even certain she’d survive the trip.”

“Somebody will have her, if only to send her to slaughter. ” Martin said, not unkindly. “And she can survive the journey and then some. Have faith in her, my wife, as you should have faith in me. Just allow me one night’s rest and I shall set off at dawn, and be back within the week. Hold out for me until then, and I shall have the remedy that you need.”

Their conversation faded, and Sybil crept her way back to her furs. She lay down next to the fire, listening to its crackle, trying her hardest to fall asleep, but knowing that she would never be able to. The memory of that shadow was very far away. The thing that kept her awake now was far more real, and it infested her life in a way that the figure her imagination had conjured would never be able to.

I must have faith in Father, she told herself, echoing his sentiment from earlier. He will do as he promises and leave at dawn for Brightburrow, and he will bring Mother back the medicine she needs. I know he will. I just need to have faith.

But by dawn Martin Fletcher was no longer able to get out of bed.

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Chapter III

“Vampyre?”

The word sounded unnatural coming from Dr. Philip Nash’s mouth, as if his tongue struggled to say it in any context that did not involve timeless legends and outlandish stories of old. He and Vlad Albescu sat in the gloomy kitchen on either end of the small wooden table. The reignited candle flickered gently between them, splashing powerful shadows onto the surrounding stone walls.

“Correct.” Vlad’s black-and-grey hair, still heavy with sweat, began to sag into his face. He slicked it back with one of his gloved hands. “Surely you are familiar with the term, yes? Vampyre. Strigoi. Nosferatu. The creature you see before you goes by many names, and will likely go by many more in times yet to be, but they all come to the same meaning: an undead mockery of all things that are holy and good, which feeds upon the blood of the living and breeds wickedness and terror during the darkest hours of the blackest nights of humanity.”

“Of course I’m familiar with the term,” Nash said, a nervous impatience filling his voice. “What I currently struggle with is being told that such a creature has leapt from the pages of the old story books my mother used to read to me as a child and landed on this kitchen floor in front of my adult eyes.”

The thing that was once Mrs. Baker rested on the stone floor nearby, still bound in the sturdy silver chains that kept her readily restrained. Thin, gentle streams of smoke hissed from all along her body where she touched the silver. She had spent a long time helplessly writhing in fury and pain, but had since calmed to an eerie stillness, her messy torrent of hair scattered across her unmoving face. Though Vlad knew that she still felt the pain of the whip’s touch, she refused to acknowledge it. The Star of the Mother and Effigy of the Goddess flanked her on either side, serving to bulwark the hindering power of the silver chain.

“Make no mistake, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “The hellspawn that lies subdued before you is very real, and, like all of its ilk, is very much a being of pure evil. And though they may resemble the people they once were, and may even hold a piece of that person helplessly trapped inside, you cannot let this facade fool you. There is not a trace of humanity left in the living consciousness of these vile creatures, despite any efforts they may make toward convincing you of the contrary.”

Nash looked at the motionless form lying on the floor nearby, then back at the man sitting on the other side of the table. “Suppose for a moment that I believe your outlandish claim, Mr. Albescu. What is this… thing doing here? How could such a vile creature exist in this world, and how could it be here, in this home, behind these city walls?”

“There are many unspeakable creatures that should not exist in this world, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said, “and yet they very much do; terrible creatures that have seemingly escaped from the realm of folk tales and now infest our own world. Or perhaps they have always been here, and those tales exist to create a barrier between our world and theirs, to shelter our fragile minds from the reality of what comes out in the darkness hours of the night, when the Mother’s power is at its weakest.”

When Nash did not respond, Vlad went on. “As for how they’ve arrived in your great city, with its walls of stone and men clad in iron and steel, well, you have the Plague to thank for that.”

“The Plague?”

Vlad nodded. “Aye.” He allowed another brief pause. “Vampyres, like most terrible monsters that exist where they should not, used to only be found in far off regions like the one from which I hail—dark, lonesome places that, were you to visit them, you would think them ripped straight from those same fairy tales that you claim to no longer believe in. Places where folk often disappear after dusk, and nobody questions what happened to them when dawn at last arrives. Then came the Plague, and with it, the wretched vampyre was set free.

“Naturally, the symptoms of having your very essence slowly drained by a vampyre—fatigue; exhaustion; pale, clammy flesh—greatly resemble those of having your very essence slowly drained by the Plague. Victims of both will find themselves burning on the same pyre. Thanks to that wretched Plague, nosferatu are now able to feed to their black hearts’ content without fear of being discovered. No longer do they have to limit their domain to small, isolated villages where folk expect a number of their own to occasionally vanish into the night. They now can prey upon massive cities where men, women and children die in the hundreds every day, where a few more bodies here and there will not stir any suspicion.”

“So you mean to tell me that these disgusting creatures live among us, feeding on us, using us as if we were cattle, and we are powerless to stop them?”

“They certainly live among us, yes,” Vlad said. “This much is true, and cannot be denied. But to say we are powerless against them is hardly accurate. For you see, this is where I enter the fray, Dr. Nash.” He offered a friendly, reassuring smile. “Plague doctors of my variety, those who train specifically with the sole purpose of eliminating this scourge from our world, battle these vampyres tirelessly so that folk can remain safe and secure behind the large stone walls that serve solely to protect them. It is thanks to us that such security continues to exist, and that those who enjoy it never even realize that it was compromised in the first place.”

“Oh, gallant hero!” Vlad and Dr. Nash looked down at the vampyre. She glared up at them, smirking violently with her pair of stiletto fangs from behind her curtain of filthy hair, once again writhing within her silver prison like an animal trying to escape its cage. “Champion of the Mother! Savior of the Dominion! How I eagerly await your demise at the hands of my unholy brethren!”

“Be silent, vile hellspawn!” Vlad said, his voice a raging inferno of scorn. “You shall be dealt with shortly.”

“Why keep this nightmarish creature alive, Mr. Albescu?” Nash asked. “What do you hope to gain from it?”

Vlad returned his attention to the physician. When he spoke again, the venom was completely gone from his voice. “Worry not, Dr. Nash. This despicable strigoi is not long for this world. I will not burden you with the specifics, but just know that as soon as I am given the information that I require from it, this creature will be sent swiftly to hell where it belongs.”

The vampyre that was once Mrs. Baker laughed. “Hah! Oh, I am so eager to assist you, little sparrow! Just as soon as you unbind me, so that I may sink my teeth into your soft, tender neck!”

Vlad stood up from the table and turned to face the vampyre lying on the cold floor. “Worry not, abomination. Your demise shall come for you soon. Because I am a fair negotiator toward even the most despicable of creatures, I will now inform you that my earlier offer still remains: cooperation shall grant you the mercy of a swift end, should you wish to provide it.”

The creature laughed again, its bellowing chortles echoing through the claustrophobic space. “Do be careful that you are not too merciful now, hero. We’ve much to savor from this moment, yet.”

Vlad looked at Nash, who had followed the Plague doctor’s lead and had risen to his feet. “Please wait outside, Dr. Nash. I shall join you ere too long.”

The physician frowned. “Are you certain it is safe to leave you alone with it, sir?”

Vlad nodded. “Aye. You need not worry for my sake. This creature no longer poses any threat to me, and I would prefer not to subject you to what comes next if it can be helped.”

“Very well,” Nash said. “I shall wait for you outside, then.”

He turned to leave, not looking back as he quickly exited the kitchen. With the physician gone, the Plague doctor returned his attention to the vampyre lying on the floor. When their eyes met, the creature chuckled once again. “Many thanks for sending that stinking fool away. I’ve always been a woman who prefers her intimacy. My husband can tell you as much when you meet him in hell.”

“Do not pretend to have lived the life of the body you currently possess,” Vlad said. “Now, I shall once more, and for the final time, reiterate my offer of a swift end. I am a man of my word, even when it is extended to fiends such as yourself. Give me what I need quickly, and I shall respond in kind. Waste my time, and the suffering I shall inflict upon you will serve as a worthy precursor for what awaits you in the afterlife.”

The vampyre’s smirk broadened; Vlad could see its pale, dead gums sticking out from behind its thin lips. “I am afraid accepting such an offer would ruin our fun, my gallant champion. I am in no rush to scurry off to hell, where I shall join the Unholy Father at His side. He is patient, and thus shall wait for me—for eternity if he must.”

“Very well, demon. If you wish for us to take our time, then we shall take our time.” Vlad unhooked his beaked mask from its spot at his belt and pulled it over his head. When it was properly in place and his cowl was pulled overtop, he unsheathed his silver dagger and slowly approached his subdued foe. Standing over her, Vlad looked down into the monster’s still smirking face with his mask’s pair of expressionless midnight eyes. “I have my methods of getting what I require from you—and I can take all the time that I need.”

___

Vlad did not emerge from the Baker residence until just before sundown. The parts of the sky above that were not obscured by dark smoke were flecked with young stars. The Plague doctor approached Philip Nash, who stood up from where he leaned against a low cobblestone wall. The physician looked weary with the shock of all that he had seen and learned that day, but he appeared to be handling it all exceptionally well.

“It is done,” Vlad said. He still wore his Plague mask, his artificial countenance as expressionless as ever. “The creature has been destroyed, and Mrs. Baker is at peace.”

Nash nodded. “Did that horrible thing relinquish what you came here for?”

“It did—just as I knew it would. The fiend tried to put on a fierce exterior, but its vigor collapsed rather quickly. They always come crumbling down, one way or another.”

Dr. Nash looked pale. “I shall not ask you for the details.”

“Nor would I give them to you if you did. This last bastion of innocence is my gift to you; consider it my apology for forcing you into a world that you would have been better remaining entirely unaware of. Because now that you possess even a passing knowledge of the creatures that haunt the night, you will never be able to slip back to that blissful ignorance that once shielded you from the truth.”

Nash allowed a brief lull in their conversation as he considered Vlad’s words in silence. “What comes next then, Mr. Albescu?”

“Next I shall take my leave of your city and continue on my path, but not ere we eliminate the creature’s body so that we can be entirely certain that it will not return. We will take it to the pyre and throw it in with the other corpses. Only once it has been fully reduced to ash can we be sure that it is destroyed for good.”

Nash frowned. “What shall I tell the city guard of Mrs. Baker’s death? Surely if I accuse her of being a vampyre, it will be me who burns next to her on that pyre.”

“You shall tell them the truth,” Vlad said. “You came to her residence to inquire about her health, only to discover that she had been taken by plague.”

“By plague,” the physician said, “but not by the Plague.”

“Such details are of no consequence. What matters is that she ultimately perished due to her ailment, and that you delivered unto her what you deliver unto all who have succumbed to such a fate. They will not ask you what plague you speak of, and you need not tell them.”

“Very well,” Nash said. “Then I suppose we should get this done with, shouldn’t we?”

“We should,” Vlad agreed. “The sooner we get her body onto the pyre, the better.”

The Plague doctor led his companion back into the home, where they found the body of the vampyre already wrapped in the white cloth that had earlier been covering the Effigy. Vlad had taken the liberty of completing this task before bringing Nash back inside so that the physician did not have to see the extent of the Plague doctor’s handiwork—though Vlad was certain that his companion would notice the dark, inhuman blood that lay in violent splashes against the floor and walls, and which already stained that white cloth black. The kitchen would need to be cleaned before any inquiring persons entered the home; Dr. Nash would need to see to that.

The duo carried Mrs. Baker’s corpse out of the house and all the way down the deserted city street back toward the waiting pyre. Nobody looked out of their windows or stood in their doorways to watch them go, but even though he could not see another living soul, that familiar groan of ache and death still clung to the air all around him; he was eager to be gone from the city with much haste, and to keep away from any similar Plague-infested pits for as long as he possibly could. He quietly pitied Philip Nash; tending to the victims of the mortal Plague was, in a way, a more deadly charge than Vlad’s was, and he feared that the physician would not be long for this world if he remained so constantly surrounded by the disease.

They soon arrived at the pyre. The smoke that it produced formed a haze that, in the evening darkness, would have created a thick curtain of shadow were it not for the bright burning mass that lit up the entire square. They paused for only a moment so that Nash could pull the cloth back over his face, then made their way through the smoke until they came to the base of the roaring blaze, and, wasting no time, together tossed Mrs. Baker’s body into the hungry inferno. The cloth covering her quickly blackened and burned away, briefly revealing the corpse beneath before it too became charred and warped by the flames.

Vlad watched for a short while as the once-vampyre continued to burn. At length, he spoke. “You have been set free.”

He turned and led the way back to Elpis, who waited patiently where he had left her. The men turned to face each other as Dr. Nash pulled the cloth from his face and Vlad untied his horse’s reins. He chose to leave his mask where it rested upon his face. “And so my task here is complete. Your help in this matter has been much appreciated, Dr. Nash.”

“You’re certain that there are no other vampyres in this city?”

“Mrs. Baker was the only person you could recall who had supposedly survived the Plague, yes?” Nash nodded, and Vlad went on. “Assuming her only victims were her family, who have already been burned, then this city should be clean of the scourge. Of course, anybody else who that creature may have fed upon will also die with their mortal infection, which means they too have the potential to join the undead scourge if they are not discovered and burned before they can turn. Because of this, an abundance of caution can do no harm.”

Vlad pulled his silver dagger from its sheath and presented it to Nash. “This blade will serve well for vanquishing any new strigoi, should the need arise. Of course I will trust your judgment—surely you know better than I do that survivors of the Plague are not unheard of, but you should treat them cautiously until you can be certain that they are indeed blessed by the Mother, and are not, in fact, members of the undead. Any object of silver or holiness to their skin shall determine if they are of the living—or if they are something else.”

Nash looked at the blade hesitantly. “Are you certain that you do not need it?”

“I have more blades where this one comes from in my coach,” Vlad said. “Trust me when I say that sparing one is not beyond my means.”

“Well, alright then,” Dr. Nash said. He took the hilt of the dagger into his hands and began studying its razor-sharp edge. “Thank you.”

“I advise against you walking this new path alone as I do,” Vlad said. “While it is not wise to incite panic in the public by opening their eyes to the undead threat of the strigoi, you would do well to share your knowledge with a few trusted allies who can assist you with protecting Cordermo from any future threats.”

“I will consider who I choose with much care,” Nash said. “Thank you again, Mr. Albescu, for all that you have done today.”

“It has been my honor, if not my pleasure, Dr. Nash,” the Plague doctor said. “And with that, I should be on my way.”

Nash frowned. “Will you not stay the night? It already grows quite dark.”

“No, unfortunately my quest does not allow me to leisure here, even for a single night. There is still much ground I can cover before turning in for my slumber.” Vlad climbed aboard his coach and took Elpis’ reins into both hands. “Farewell, Dr. Nash, and be sure to always remember what you learned here today. You never know when it could save your life in the future.”

With that, Vlad ushered Elpis onward. Together they made their way through the city streets and back to the large gate that they had come through before. Vlad said goodbye to the sentries who he had seen earlier in the day, and after offering them a gander at his wares for another time, which they promptly refused, he allowed Elpis to continue on the path that stretched ahead.

It was not until the burning city of Cordermo was nearly out of sight, its putrid black cloud a mere suggestion in the distance, that Vlad finally pulled the mask away from his face.

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Chapter II

Sybil took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. She felt a jerk and watched as the quarrel launched from her crossbow, then sailed through the air and thumped harmlessly against the bark of a tree. The little white hare scurried off into the brush without so much as glancing in her direction.

“Mother above,” she said, lowering the crossbow.

Martin Fletcher placed a gentle hand on her shoulder; his musket leaned against his torso, its barrel pointed toward the sky. “Come, now. Taking the Goddess’ name in vain won’t bring that hare back to us, will it?”

Sybil looked at her father and frowned. “That’s the third one I’ve missed. I’m not sure I’ll ever hit a mark with this cursed thing.”

“You just need to take your time and breathe, my girl,” her father said. “You’re fully capable of wielding that weapon, despite what you may think. When it comes to your training, you’re twice the marksman I was at your age.” He smiled playfully from beneath his thick beard. “Of course, having a competent teacher goes a very long way.”

Sybil approached her spent quarrel and pulled it loose from the tree. “I could be thrice the marksman you were while practicing, and it shan’t make a lick of difference if I cannot hit my mark when it matters.” She sighed, tucking the quarrel back into her quiver. “I’m not certain what I am missing, but I hope that I find it soon.”

“Just give yourself time, my daughter. You’ll get to where you need to be before too long. Thankfully, one of us is less willing to abandon you than the other.” He paused. “Now, we should be getting home. Night is quickly approaching, and your mother will have supper prepared soon.”

Martin led the way through the trees; Sybil loaded a quarrel back into her crossbow as they walked, but she doubted that she would have reason to fire it again that day. They made their way back to Misty, their tired, old packhorse who had been a part of their family since before Sybil was born. She could not carry as much as she used to, but that hardly mattered when they saw such little success in their hunts. The horse held the carcasses of two slain hares strung to her back, both of them looking about as frail as the equine did. Both animals had been slain by Martin, and blood still dribbled from the holes in their bodies created by his musket balls.

Her father slung his musket into its waiting scabbard on Misty’s side, then reviewed their day’s catch with a frown. “An entire day’s work for only two pitiful hares. A shame, that.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose I will offer one to Lucas and see how much he’ll give me for it. The other I’ll butcher myself and your mother can cook it up in a stew.”

Martin grabbed Misty’s reins and began leading the horse through the forest, with Sybil following next to him. She kept her crossbow loaded and in her hands, just in case by some miracle they ran into something else to hunt—and by a greater miracle she actually managed to hunt it.

She looked at her father as they walked. “Perhaps we should try our luck on the far end of the river tomorrow. I doubt it can be any worse than it is on this end.”

“I agree,” he said, “although I also doubt that it will be any better.”

Sybil frowned. “What will we do if things don’t improve?”

“We’ll do the same as we always do: go back out day after day until we bring something home that’s worth speaking of.” He countered her frown with a smile. “Our village has seen far worse spells than this one, my girl, and we’ve made it through them all. When I was your age, my father and I went weeks without finding any game, but we kept at it until we finally discovered our mark. We survived, just as we’ll survive our current bout of hardship.”

Their conversation lapsed into silence. Sybil listened to the sound of Misty’s heavy hooves clopping against the forest floor as they walked. The girl could smell a familiar chill in the air that warned her of a quickly approaching winter, and she silently worried about the coming of the first snowfall. If game was already as scarce as it was, a harsh turn in the weather would only make things that much worse.

They walked on until they found a familiar dirt trail that led them the rest of the way to their village. The sun had begun its rapid descent, the sky already purple with stars. A single sentry, wielding a musket in his hands and with a polearm slung over his back, nodded at them as they approached the border of their village. The young man wore loose-fitting leather armor and an iron sallet helm that looked to be a size too small. Despite all of his armor and weapons, it was clear that he, with his youthful, handsome face, wasn’t much older than a boy, and in fact was hardly even Sybil’s senior. She had briefly known his name at some point, but had forgotten it; she hoped to one day learn it again.

“Evening, Mr. Fletcher,” the sentry said. “How went the day’s hunt?”

Martin shook his head. “Not as well as I’d like, but there’s always tomorrow, is there not?”

The sentry nodded again. Sybil could see the portrait of worry that briefly painted the youth’s face. “That there is, sir.”

Their quick exchange at its end, Martin offered the sentry a nod of his own before leading his daughter into the village and to the local butcher. Sybil waited outside with Misty while her father entered Lucas’ building with one hare in his grasp. He stepped outside a few minutes later, empty-handed and looking slightly more tired than he had when walking in.

“How much did he give you?” Sybil asked.

“About as much as I expected,” the huntsman said. He sighed again. “Damn thing was barely worth the ball I wasted on it. I likely should have kept it for tomorrow’s stew.”

Sybil didn’t know what to say, so she did not speak. Martin took Misty’s reins again and began leading the packhorse through town. Sybil looked around as they walked, taking in her surroundings. Everything, from the quaint, little homes with their thatch roofs and messily built wooden walls, to the smith with its forge that seemed to be lit at all hours of the day, to the village’s sole tavern with its grumpy, old owner and revolving line of barmaids, stood as it always had, from the very moment she had been born. Part of her wanted to believe that it would all be there long after she was gone from the world, but a familiar burden of doubt reared in her mind at the thought of such a possibility.

An acquaintance of her father’s stopped them in the middle of town, prompting a brief conversation. For a while Sybil only listened to the indistinguishable clamour of the people around her, but soon a nearby exchange broke through the hum, catching her attention.

“Did you hear that the Plague has reached Brightburrow?” a man said.

“Brightburrow?” responded a woman. “Why, that’s hardly a day’s ride from here!”

“Aye. That cursed blight draws nearer every day. Won’t be long before it’s at our doorstep, and soon we’ll have to create our own pyre like they do in the cities.”

“Ghastly business, that. I’m not sure I’d ever grow accustomed to the smell.”

“You’ll likely have no other choice, soon enough. Though I’m not sure you’ll have to endure it for terribly long.”

Martin, finished with his conversation, stole back Sybil’s attention, and together they continued on their way. Less than a minute went by before he spoke.

“Listen not to their words, Sybil.” She turned to find her father looking at her.

“You overheard them?” Sybil asked.

Martin nodded. “I did.” His face was stern, as if the mention of Plague had angered him, but there was a familiar kindness in his soft eyes. “Such rumors are not to be entertained. The Plague cannot reach us here, as isolated as we are in this village.”

“How can you be certain? What if a trader comes into town and brings the Plague with him? All it takes is one person to pass it to the entire village.”

“That will not happen,” her father said. His hard face softened into a smile that matched his eyes. “Trust me, my daughter. We are far too few and too cut off from the world for the Plague to reach us. The blight takes hold of its victims rather quickly; anybody sick with it will grow too infirm to travel before they can make it here. In our isolation, we are perfectly safe.”

Sybil frowned. “I hope you are right.”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Mark my words, my daughter. A year from now, we will all be as healthy as a herd of oxen. And just as well-fed, I’d like to add.”

The girl was not convinced, but she allowed the conversation to lapse. They continued through town in silence, her father leading Misty by the reins while Sybil went along with the loaded crossbow in her hands. She should have returned the weapon to its holster on the packhorse, but she only half-noticed its presence, and did not want to further burden the aging equine with any extra weight. Soon the small cluster of buildings began to thin, and it was not long before they once again found themselves surrounded by trees. They continued on for another short while until they arrived at a small clearing at the very limits of the village’s influence. It was here, in isolation amongst isolation, that the huntsman and his family lived.

Their little cottage stood in the center of this glade, much as it had for generations, and much how it would for generations to come. It wore its age in its weathered timbers and the dense thatch roof that had been fully replaced countless times over the course of many decades. To anybody who might visit from a bustling city, it would not appear to be much, but to Sybil and her parents, it was home. It would always be home.

Gentle white smoke drifted up from the stone chimney that rose out of the thatch; Sybil knew that her father was correct about her mother already being hard at work preparing their supper. She could smell the boiling vegetables from several meters out and felt her stomach beginning to growl. Sybil and her father led Misty back to her small hovel behind the cottage, and after stripping her of the day’s equipment along with their meager spoils, they made their way into their waiting home. The last vestige of sunlight clung to the horizon as Martin closed the door shut behind them, and the scent of cooking stew struck Sybil’s nose in a mighty wave of delicious aroma.

“We’re home, Beatrice,” Martin said as they stepped deeper into the cottage.

Sybil’s mother was in the kitchen, which took up a large portion of their quant, small home. She was tending to the bubbling stew cooking in a cast iron pot above the blazing red hearth. When she heard her husband’s words, she turned to greet them. Sybil immediately recognized the uncharacteristic paleness in her face; she could see sweat streaming down her mother’s flushed pink cheeks.

“My two loves return,” Beatrice said with a smile. She stuck the iron ladle that she was holding into the boiling pot behind her without looking back at it. “How went the day’s hunt?”

Martin shook his head. “’Tis unfortunate that you are not the first person to ask me that question since we returned to the village, as repeatedly delivering the same ill news exhausts me greatly.”

Beatrice’s smile vanished, morphing into a concerned frown. “Well, I won’t make you recount it another time for my sake.” She paused. “Come, help me set the table. Supper should be just about—”

She broke out into a sudden flurry of coughs that took her the better part of thirty seconds to finally quell. When her fit had calmed, she spent another few moments catching her breath with considerable difficulty.

It was Sybil’s turn to frown. “Are you alright, Mother?”

“Of course, my dear,” the older woman said. “I’ve just had a bit of a cough today, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure, Love?” Martin asked. “You do look a tad flushed in the cheeks, and you’re sweating.”

“I’d like to see how you look after slaving away over a hot stew for hours,” Beatrice said playfully.

“Well, alright,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “I trust you’ll let me know if you need to see the physician.”

Beatrice nodded. “Of course, dear. But you needn’t worry about that. I’ll be better by morning, I am sure.” She paused. “Now, come get your supper before your stomachs shrivel up with hunger.”

Her husband and daughter did as she instructed. The family enjoyed their meal of vegetable stew, and none of them mentioned a single time how much better it would have tasted with a little bit of meat thrown into it. But despite wearing a mask of merriment, Sybil continued watching her mother with a nagging worry in the back of her mind—one that couldn’t help but continuously remind her of those words that she had heard earlier in the evening, and which had been stuck in her troubled mind ever since.

She thought of a pyre, erected in the center of their little village, burning hot and bright.

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The Plague Doctor’s Apprentice

Book I: The Ibis of Alcroft

“There will one day come a terrible Pestilence—a blight that not even the Mother, in all of Her wisdom and authority, will be able to vanquish. And so it shall fall upon the most devout and stalwart of Her children to cleanse the land of the Plague that will otherwise bring about an end of all days.”

Part I:

The Huntsman’s Daughter

Chapter I

The sky above the city burned black.

Dark smoke plumed through the late afternoon air from inside the towering walls of stone. A stygian cloud rose like an omen of death, or perhaps like a warning, one that said to stay far, far away from the suffering that lived within. The man in the beaked mask willed his horse forward with a gentle flick of his reins, and together they made their way over the grassy field toward that fatal pillar of shadow.

The mare’s hooves clopped along the dirt and grass beneath her grey body as she trotted through the field. The scabbard of Vlad’s longsword slapped gently against the wooden surface of his coach, and the haubergeon beneath his dark cloak lightly jingled at the same rhythm as his horse’s steps. A single mailed hand was loosely wrapped around his mare’s reins, doing little to guide the beast aside from his earlier persuasion; she seemed to understand that their destination was the city that looked to be on fire, and which pulsated with the stench of burning death.

The familiar scent of cooking flesh grew stronger as he approached Cordermo. The closer he drew to the city’s towering walls of stone, the more he felt himself become enveloped by the odor. He silently wondered how the people of Cordermo, or of any other Plague-infested city, for that matter, managed to go about their lives with the constant fetor of searing death hanging in the air. Could they have simply grown accustomed to it? Was such a thing even possible? If it was, he did not envy them, for he did not want to ever become familiar with such a reality.

He neared the city’s towering gatehouse, which presently sat closed with a heavy iron portcullis blocking the way forward. Four sentries stood between him and the gate, all equipped with either spears or rifles and clad in muted gambesons. When they saw him, one of the sentries, an unkempt man wearing a rusty sallet helm that looked to be at least a couple of decades past its prime, stepped forward and spoke. “Hold! What business brings you to Cordermo?”

The man in the beaked mask smiled cordially; he knew the guards could not see the gesture, but he hoped they would hear it in his voice, even if his accent was strange and unfamiliar to them. “Business enough that I should be allowed passage,” he said. “I’ve travelled a long way to come to this city, and would be rather disappointed should my journey come to a premature end.”

“Then I shall have to be the bearer of ill tidings,” said the unkempt sentry, “for I must inform you that this city is, at current, heavily afflicted with Plague, and as such is limiting who may pass beyond its walls—in either direction. Whatever awaits you in Cordermo, you must ask yourself if it is worth risking your life over.”

“The Goddess smiles upon you, then,” Vlad said, “for I, in fact, seek a city, one just like yours, that is terribly burdened with pestilence. I myself am a traveling Plague doctor, you see, and I have come to assist your city in its plight.”

The sentry looked the masked man up and down, taking in his chainmail armor which peeked out from behind his outer clothing, and his longsword and dagger, and the glistening chain whip coiled at his belt. “I’ve seen many who claim to be Plague doctors,” he said, “and none of them have had an aspect quite like yours. For one, I cannot say that I’ve ever seen a man of medicine so heavily armed.”

“I am of a unique league of Plague doctors, sir,” the masked man said, “and therefore I am not surprised that you’ve not seen any similar to me. We’re something of a rare breed. Still, I am a Plague doctor all the same, and would like to put my talents to use in your fair city, should you allow me entry.”

There was a long pause during which the sentry only stared at the traveler that stood before him. At length, he spoke. “Very well, then. Suit yourself, so long as you place no blame upon me when you inevitably come down with a terrible cough.” He turned toward the gatehouse. “Open her up, lads. We’ve a man of medicine coming through.”

The sound of grinding machinery followed his command, and the portcullis slowly rose before them. The Plague doctor nodded at the sentry. “Many thanks. Ere I proceed, could I perhaps interest you and your noble fellows in some of my wares?” He swept a hand toward the roofed coach behind him. “I’ve many a potion and panacea that would bolster your bodies against the Plague, and I’d be more than happy to let a few of them go for a discounted price—consider it a gesture of goodwill toward my new friends.”

The sentry shook his head. “I’ll keep my silver where it is, thanks. If every elixir offered by your kind worked how it was claimed to, then this Plague would already be a distant memory.”

“That it would, my friend,” Vlad said. “Is it not a shame, then, that there are so many who would call themselves Plague doctors, who are actually nothing of the sort?”

“Aye,” the sentry said. “A shame, that.”

“One more request, if I may. Could you have the city’s physician come see me? I would very much like to speak with them.”

The sentry nodded. “I shall send for him posthaste.”

“Excellent. I shall be waiting for him at the pyre.”

“Need you a guide to show you the way?”

The masked man shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I can follow the smoke well enough on my own.”

With that, the man and his steed passed through the gatehouse and into Cordermo proper. The putrid smell of burning and death grew stronger as they journeyed beyond the massive walls, so much so that Vlad briefly considered turning around and going right back out the way he had come. The sound of the closing portcullis behind him told him that this was no longer an option—he did not want to force the sentries to raise the gate again so soon after he had only just passed through it—and so he continued onward.

The duo only made it a few meters before the equine stopped for a brief moment and snorted. Vlad looked down at her, silently acknowledging her warning. He knew she could sense the death that surrounded them, although he doubted that she needed her beast’s intuition to notice it. The sound of sickness and dying filled the air all around them, and its visage was worn plainly by the nearly barren city streets. Unseen bodies coughed and sneezed and groaned through open windows, their suffering likely as much from the sickness as from the terrible smoke that wafted inside and filled their weakened lungs. Furtive rats skirted through the shadows at his feet and along nearby alleyways, appearing as little more than grey blurs of wiry fur on the rare occasion that they actually passed into his field of view; he only knew of their great numbers due to their constant, incessant chorus of squeaks and squeals that they sang as they scurried about their busy lives.

When he neared the site of the pyre, the Plague doctor, not wanting to subject Elpis to the worst of the smoke inhalation, dismounted his coach and tied his mare to a nearby post. He then proceeded the rest of the way on his own two feet, both of which were clad in thick leather boots.

The acrid smoke thickened, and the Plague doctor found himself in a wide, empty plaza that looked to usually be the site of various city gatherings, but instead of scaffolding or gallows now held a massive burning pyre in its center which sent up the black smog and pungent odor that had persistently assaulted his senses for so long. Vlad brought a hand up to his long, thin beak and adjusted his mask. His Star of the Mother jingled around his neck beneath his cloak as he moved.

The Plague doctor approached the pyre. Through its smoke and blaze he could see the many twisted forms of the deceased. They were too far gone for him to be able to discern anything about their human visage, but he thought he could feel their agony as what remained of them succumbed to the ever-burning fire. In his mind, he thought he heard each of their individual screams. The horrible stench that they gave off informed him of only a fraction of the suffering that they had endured in their final days of life. He pulled his Star of the Mother from beneath his cloak, allowing it to fall in front of his chest. The Star’s presence brought him strength in the company of so much despair, its four points of silver bright with a dull shimmer in the evening daylight.

“You must be this Plague doctor that I’ve heard tell of,” came a voice. Vlad turned to watch the approach of a man that looked to be about half a decade his senior, and at least a head taller than him. He wore a cloth over his face to keep out the putrid fumes, for whatever good it did him. His hair was fully grey with an age that, judging by the last vestiges of a younger man that remained in his eyes, may have not yet belonged to him.

“That I am,” Vlad said. “And you must be the physician, lest my request fell upon deaf ears.”

“That I am,” said the man. “As well as the coroner, ever since the poor man died last month.”

“I am Vlad Albescu,” the Plague doctor said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Philip Nash,” said the physician, “and the pleasure is mine. I’d shake your hand, but in this city we’re doing what we can to prevent giving that damned contagion any additional means of spreading. You understand.”

Vlad nodded. “Of course.”

“Mr. Brown was correct,” Nash said. “You certainly don’t have the look of any Plague doctor that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my fair share. None of them have thought it necessary to dawn mail or blade, that much I can tell you.”

“The roads aren’t what they once were,” Vlad said. “The Plague has seen to that. And if one has proficiency with blades in these trying times, one should wield them.”

“I cannot disagree,” Nash said. “Even still, you do not quite have the visage that I was expecting when I heard of the coming of a Plague doctor.” He eyed the Star of the Mother that gleamed in front of Vlad’s chest. “Save for that mask of yours, I suppose.”

Vlad casually tucked the Star back beneath his cloak. “As I told the fellows at the gate, I belong to something of a unique order of Plague doctors. I shall not waste your time by getting into such details at present.”

“Nor will I press for them,” Nash said, “because if I’m correct, there is a rather pressing matter that you would like to discuss with me. One does not send for the city physician simply for their company, after all.”

“You are correct,” Vlad said, “though I’m sure you make pleasant company. That said, I do have some questions that are in dire need of answers.”

“Ask them, then, at your leisure.”

“I would talk to you about the victims of the Plague. How many of them, by your count, have you burned in pyres similar to this one?”

“It becomes harder to say the longer this blight persists,” said Nash, “but as it stands now, it has likely been hundreds—thousands, even. I cannot remember the last time this pyre went unlit.”

“Truly horrific,” Vlad said. “And of that number, how certain are you that they all died of the same illness?”

“I am confused by your question, Mr. Albescu,” the physician said.

“What I mean is,” Vlad said, “has every victim that you’ve burned been given a proper autopsy? As both the physician and the coroner, surely you would be able to tell me as much.”

Nash crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Certainly not, Mr. Albescu. To do so would consume more time than I could alot—for I would largely be alone in performing them, after all, lest I could steal away one of my assistants from their duties to give me a hand.”

“Of course,” Vlad said. “But then you cannot be certain that they’re all victims of the same Plague, correct?”

“I’m about as certain as I can be,” said Nash. “Without examining every single one of them, that is. Every victim burned on that pyre and others like it have all perished while afflicted with the same maladies: fatigue, atrophy, dehydration, nausea, fever—what else could we call it, then, except for what it is?”

“Never matter,” Vlad said. “I suppose there’s no way to go back and make certain of that now, lest you’re able to gather their ashes and reassemble them like new. No, I’d like to discuss a different kind of victim now—namely, I wish to inquire about any victims that may have survived their battle with the blight.”

“Survived?” Nash said. “Well I’m certain there may be a lucky few, but I’m not sure what concern you have with their recovery.”

“I am certain that my methods must seem rather unorthodox.” Vlad offered a warm smile from beneath his mask, one that he hoped the physician, like the earlier sentries, would be able to sense better than he could see. “I just ask that you indulge me in this. Are there any survivors of the Plague that you can think of that may stand out to you? Any that seemed to be on the brink of death ere miraculously recovering from their bout with the disease?”

Dr. Nash stood still for a while as he pondered this curious question. “I suppose there’s poor Mrs. Baker,” he said. “Her husband and three children recently succumbed to the Plague, and she looked about ready to join them, but then one day she seemed to suddenly take a step back from death’s door. She looks better now than she has in a long while, too. Some folks say that it was her daily prayers to the Mother that kept her alive. A shame they weren’t powerful enough to do the same for her family.”

“So Mrs. Baker is a pious woman, then?”

“Oh yes,” said Nash. “Never misses a service. Not until recently, that is. She hasn’t been to one since her recovery, and I must say that I can hardly blame her. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to return to your normal activities after all that she has endured.”

It was Vlad’s turn to lapse into thought. At length, he spoke. “I would ask that you take me to her residence at once.”

Vlad could see the physician’s frown take shape behind his mask. “Now hold on just a moment, Mr. Albescu. You seem like a decent enough fellow, that much I cannot deny, but I also cannot abide you prodding the fresh wounds of a deeply bereaved woman. It simply wouldn’t be proper, not even in times as improper as these.”

“You must understand that I have no intention of salting open wounds,” Vlad said, “but for the sake of your city, it is imperative that I speak with Mrs. Baker at once. It is only with her aid that I may try to rid you of this contagion.”

“Rid us of this contagion through your less-than-conventional methods, you mean.”

Vlad shared in the physician’s frown, and was thankful that the man could not see it. “I fully understand your misgivings, but all I ask is that you indulge me in this one request. I’ve travelled a long way to aid your people, and I would not ask this of you without good reason. All I’d like to do is speak with her. If she turns me away, I will respect her wishes and move on. She’ll never hear from me again, and nor will you, if that is your wish. In this, you have my word.”

Philip Nash went silent again for a long while. He briefly turned to look at the burning pyre, then returned his attention to Vlad. “Very well. I must say that I’m just about desperate enough to see these methods of yours in action. But I won’t abide any form of harassment, understood? You’ll respect this poor woman or I’ll have you thrown out of this city quicker than you can blink.”

“Of course, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “I would expect no less.”

The physician nodded, then turned and began walking away from the fire. “We’d best make haste, then. It’s nearly sundown, and I’d hate to disturb Mrs. Baker after dark.”

Vlad returned the nod, then squared up next to his escort. “We’re in agreement on that, then. I’d much prefer to get this done ere nightfall.”

“Have you somewhere to be this evening, Mr. Albescu?” Nash asked. He pulled his cloth from his face as they drew away from the stench and smoke of the pyre. Vlad’s beaked mask remained in place.

“I do not,” Vlad said, “but I much prefer to work by the light of day whenever I can. Alas, this is not always strictly possible, I’m afraid.”

“Were there enough hours in the day,” Nash said. He allowed a brief pause, then spoke again. “You truly believe that you’ll be able to rid this city of the Plague after having a discussion with Mrs. Baker? Because I must admit, I cannot see how one connects to the other.”

“I’m confident that I will be able to rid this city of a plague, yes,” Vlad said.

“A plague,” Nash frowned, “but not the Plague, I take it. I must say that your selective usage of words is only serving to further kindle these doubts of mine, Mr. Albescu.”

“Worry not, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “My specific manner of referring to the Plague comes with my background. I believe that you’ll understand what I mean in due time.”

“I’m almost starting to think that you’re something out of a fairy tale, Mr. Albescu—a trickster beset upon our poor community intent on sowing discord. I pray that you prove me wrong, and that you do so with all haste.”

Vlad looked at his companion. The black lenses of his mask obscured any emotion that may have been present in his eyes. “Do you believe in fairy tales, Dr. Nash? The ghastly ones, which tell of terrifying creatures and nightmarish realms?”

“I cannot say that I do,” the physician said. “Not since my youth, anyhow. Not that I am blind to the fun in them, but I cannot see them as anything more than stories told to us by our parents in order to keep us from behaving foolishly as children. In that, at least, I must admit that they were quite effective. You wouldn’t have caught me out after dark as a child, no sir. Not with the tales that my father used to tell me, about men turning into wolves with the light of the full moon and dragging bad children away, kicking and screaming, into the shadows. Now, in my greying days, I see these stories for what they are.”

“You might think differently had you walked the path that I have,” Vlad said. “The folk where I am from still have a healthy belief in fairy tales, and for excellent reason. The creatures which are said to prowl the night out those ways greatly differ from what you see behind the safety of these city walls.”

“I would take imaginary ghosts and ghouls over the very real Plague that haunts this city,” Nash said. “Though I must say I appreciate your sense of humor, Mr. Albescu. It’s been a long while since I’ve had the leisure of thinking about such tales. Oh, to be young again.”

Vlad nodded. “Yes. How simple those times were. Simple—and painfully brief.”

Their conversation went dormant until they came to a stop in front of an unassuming residence on some back street of Cordermo, wedged between two similar properties of little consequence. Its rounded wooden door sat between layers of thick stone, and was equipped with a circular iron knocker.

It was here that Nash turned to Vlad. “We’ve arrived at Mrs. Baker’s home. Again I ask that you do be delicate with her, Mr. Albescu. She has already endured so much.”

Vlad nodded. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Dr. Nash.”

“Right,” Nash said, returning the nod. “Well then, I suppose we’d best proceed, yes?”

He took the iron knocker into his hand and clapped it against the door three times. Each impact sent forth the loud, echoing drum of disturbed metal. It groaned as he released his grip, allowing it to creak back into place. There were a few moments of silence, then from behind the door Vlad heard the protest of wooden floorboards. This sound preceded the opening of the door, which gave way with a groan more stressed and aged than that of the metal knocker.

Standing in the threshold was a small, frail woman, her petite form masked by the shadows that surrounded her. She was several heads shorter than Philip Nash, but only a head or two below the smaller Vlad. Her blonde hair lay in a sprawl over her shoulders, looking vibrant with youth and vitality in spite of her many recent hardships. Her eyes were a cool blue, and seemed to almost glow in the darkness.

“Yes?” she said, and then, upon seeing the physician, her azure gaze shifted. “Dr. Nash. What brings you here this afternoon?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Baker,” Philip Nash said, “but I have a gentleman here who would like to have a brief word with you. Surely it won’t take up more than a few minutes of your time.”

“A conversation?” she said. “With me? Whatever about?”

“He’s… well, he’s a traveling Plague doctor, and he has a few questions about your recent… ailment.”

Vlad stepped forward, nodding. “You may call me Vlad Albescu,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Baker.”

“My… ailment?” Mrs. Baker said. “You mean my bout with the Plague? What words could we possibly exchange about such a wretched occurrence?”

“Few enough, I would hope,” Vlad said. “Believe me, I would not ask this of you if I did not find it necessary, but I’m hoping what I can glean from your experience can help me eradicate the Plague in this city.”

“Well,” she said after a brief pause, “ if it’s for as noble a cause as that, how could I possibly turn you away? Please, step inside, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” Vlad said.

“Yes,” Nash said. “Many thanks. And apologies again for the disturbance.”

She stepped aside, disappearing into the darkness. Vlad followed her into her home with Nash close on his heels, and together the three of them made their way through a gloomy, tight passage, its candle sconces empty of flame. Vlad noticed a small table at the far end of the hall that had an object on top which was obscured by an old, white cloth. He thought he recognized some familiarities in its vague outline, but he was unable to discern any real shape through the shadows. Before he could inspect it further, Mrs. Baker turned the corner and led them into a small kitchen, where they each took a seat at a round, wooden table with an unlit candle resting in its center. Nearby was a stone oven that held cold, exhausted timbers, long sapped of their vigor. Much like the hall, the room was lacking in light, and was draped in a musty gloom.

“Did we catch you while you were sleeping, Mrs. Baker?” Vlad asked, looking around the kitchen through the darkness as his eyes began to adjust. “If so, I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

“Oh, I get very little of that, these days,” she said. “No, I haven’t seen it fit to light any candles since overcoming the Plague. The disease makes one very sensitive to light, you see, so we kept it dark in our home for the duration of the spell. Even though I’ve recovered, I’ve allowed the darkness to remain. I’ve grown quite comfortable with it.”

“A terrible affront to the senses, that Plague is,” the physician said.

Mrs. Baker nodded. “Indeed it is.”

“Unfortunately,” Vlad said, “I am not acclimated to such conditions, and my aging eyes make seeing in any amount of darkness rather difficult.” He gestured to the unlit candle resting in the center of the table. “If it does not cause you any trouble, would you permit me to light that candle for just a short while?”

She looked at the candle, then back at him. “Of course. Now that my illness has passed, there’s no reason not to light it, I suppose.”

“Many thanks,” the Plague doctor said. He reached into his cloak and produced a small pouch, from which he pulled pieces of flint and steel. He struck the two materials together overtop the wick, bringing the candle to life with a soft glow that gently illuminated the kitchen. He then placed the materials back into his pouch, which he returned to its spot at his belt.

Mrs. Baker looked to be discomforted by the sudden light, but then revealed a smile that matched the softness of the candle’s glow. “That’s better, I hope,” she said. “But I presume that you didn’t come here to discuss the lighting in my home at length.”

“That I did not,” Vlad said. “First, please allow me to extend my sincerest condolences for your loss. I can only imagine the turmoil that you have endured. Fate has done you a disservice that I would not wish upon anybody, least of all a lovely woman such as yourself.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I can only hope that soon others will not have to face the same struggles that I have.”

“I intend to see that hope become a reality, Mrs. Baker,” Vlad said. “With that, I would ask you to speak of your illness and recovery—in as much detail as you can possibly provide.”

“What would you know, sir?”

“Anything that you can tell me that might be of note,” Vlad said. “Particularly anything that may have led to your survival. Did you behave differently from your family in any ways that you can think of?”

“No, sir,” she said. “We all lived as one, in the same way, until the very end—until the light left their eyes. I do not know why, but I am the only one of us who was cursed with the task of continuing on after our affliction.”

“I’m saddened that you see it in such a way,” he said. “Surely the Mother has a reason for keeping you with us. Your service to Her is evidently not yet complete.” Vlad saw that Mrs. Baker looked strangely uncomfortable at the sudden mention of the Goddess. After a slight pause, he went on. “What of your symptoms? Can you recall any ways in which your body reacted strangely to this blight? Did your family carry symptoms that you did not possess?”

“Again, I am at a loss,” she said. “We all fell ill with the same maladies.”

“And what maladies were those?”

Nash leaned forward and pressed his hands against the table, eliciting a brief groan from the wood. “Is this wholly necessary, Mr. Albescu? We are all well aware of the Plague’s symptoms. You need not remind poor Mrs. Baker of what she and her family endured.”

“This question harkens back to my concerns from earlier at the pyre, Dr. Nash,” Vlad said. “I simply want to be certain that what we’re discussing is the same Plague that currently ravages this city.”

“And to that I say, what else could it possibly be? People are falling ill and dying at a near cataclysmic rate. There is nothing else that could be at cause save for the disease that has our entire Dominion circling the very depths of ruin.”

“Even so,” Vlad said, “I would hear of her symptoms from the woman herself, so long as she does not protest.”

He looked at Mrs. Baker, whose face remained calm and collected, despite the agitation that he could feel growing in the room.

“Very Well, Mr. Albescu,” she said. “I will recount that horrible experience, if only to satisfy your ghoulish curiosity. My entire family, myself included, suffered many days of weakness and agony brought on by this Plague. We could not eat, we could not stand, we could barely breathe without feeling that our lungs were preparing to tear themselves from our bodies—and in the end, it took all of them from me, leaving me alone to remember the torture of those many dark days.”

“I do not doubt your words. But the fact that you survived what perished them all is an anomaly to me. I am perplexed by your fortune in the face of near certain death. The Mother’s plan baffles me yet again, as it so often seems to.”

Mrs. Baker frowned. “As I’ve said, I do not feel that what I have endured is in any way fortunate, Mr. Albescu.”

“Of course not,” Vlad said, “and I apologize for even implying as much, as unintentional as it was.” He paused. “Let us move on. Dr. Nash tells me that you’re a very devout woman, Mrs. Baker.”

She nodded. “I am, indeed. There is scarcely a service that I do not attend.”

“Until recently, I am told.”

“You are correct, sir. It has been difficult for me to practice my faith in the Mother when She has taken so much from me. Surely you must understand.”

“I do,” Vlad said. “Were I in your position, I’m not sure I could even look upon any visage of the Mother, lest I feel it fit to renounce my faith entirely. I would have to hide every religious article that I own, or otherwise discard them despite my reservations. That said, do you not at all suppose that it was your piousness which brought you back from the brink of that nasty affliction?”

“You certainly seem to think so, based on all that you have said.” She paused. “Sometimes I would like to believe as much, but when my mind wanders to such places, I cannot help but resent myself for not having enough piousness to save the lives of my family as well.”

“Again, I never meant to imply such a thing,” the Plague doctor said. “My words continue to make a fool of me. I am certain that you are in no way at fault for this tragedy. Your faith should never come into question, and in fact, I should think that bolstering it in these trying times could only serve to benefit you. Regardless of what you may feel now, the Mother will always be there to protect you with Her warm embrace.”

“Thank you for that, Mr. Albescu. Your words are kind.” She whimpered softly, her face growing dour in the soft candlelight. “I apologize. This is all becoming a bit too much for me.”

“I completely understand,” Vlad said, “and thankfully I am just about finished here. But before I go, I would ask that you allow me to lead you in prayer, so that it may bring you some comfort in this difficult chapter of your life.”

There was a brief pause before she next spoke. “Very well, sir. I appreciate your continued kindness.”

“Think nothing of it,” Vlad said. He pulled off his mail gloves, placed them onto his lap, and lifted both bare hands, reaching one to Philip Nash and one to Mrs. Baker. The woman hesitantly accepted his offered touch. Her skin was cold and clammy in his palm. “O Holy Mother, please bless this home, and bless Mrs. Baker herein, so that she may quickly return to your embrace, where she will continue to serve you as a stalwart champion of your Kingdom. Bring peace to her departed family, and welcome their souls into your bosom where they may—”

Mrs. Baker’s grip loosened. She pulled away from Vlad’s hand and pressed her palm against her forehead. Her face grew gaunt and weary.

Nash released his own grip and looked at the ailing woman. “Are you alright, Mrs. Baker?”

“Yes, Dr. Nash,” she said. “Yes, I am alright. This is just very difficult for me. I now wonder if meeting with you was in my best interest, after all.”

“Of course,” Nash said. He stood up from his chair, pushing its wooden legs along the stone floor with a harsh scrape. “We apologize for any distress brought upon you by this meeting, Mrs. Baker.” He looked at Vlad. “Come, Mr. Albescu. Let us leave the lady ere we cause her even greater hardship.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Vlad said. He also rose to his feet as he pulled his gloves back onto his hands. “I can assure you that I shall not be pestering you further, Mrs. Baker.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, “and think not of it.”

Vlad bowed his head slightly, then turned to go. He paused for only a brief moment before turning to face his hostess once again. “Apologies, but I actually have one further question, if I may. I promise that it is brief.”

Mrs. Baker’s face looked like it struggled to hold back an icy glare. “Ask it, Mr. Albescu, and then kindly leave my home.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Baker,” he said. There was another short pause before he spoke again. “I am simply curious, is all. Was it you who fed upon your husband and children until their dying breaths, or was it the hellspawn that turned you who did the deed?”

Philip Nash’s face contorted. His skin flushed red and hot. “Mr. Albescu! I implore you to guard your—”

A deep, inhuman chuckle bellowed from Mrs. Baker now; its sinister vibrations appeared to make the candle between them flicker with cold fear. When she spoke next, her voice rang with bells wrought in the deepest pits of hell. “It was only proper that I send them to their graves myself. ’Twas my duty as the woman of the house, after all.”

The room seemed to suddenly fill with deep, overwhelming shadow, in spite of the candle that still struggled for dear life on the table. Its light appeared to be many leagues away, or possibly on the bottom of a deep, black, inescapable ocean. The blaze was then suddenly snuffed out, its glow lost forever. And there, bathed in that sinister darkness, is where Mrs. Baker changed.

The creature that was once Mrs. Baker lunged from its chair and crawled along the top of the table with horrible speed. It shook the table’s surface as it moved, causing the platform to screech along the stone floor and nearly knocking the extinguished candle asunder. Vlad barely had time to draw his dagger from his hilt, which screeched with a metallic hiss as it came free. Smoke from the dead candle wafted through the air between him and his foe, its steady plume momentarily broken when he slashed with his silver blade just as his attacker swiped at him with its clawed hand.

His dagger sliced along the creature’s open palm, eliciting a foul hiss from its terrible lips. The wound bubbled and burned as the creature recoiled. Vlad seized the opportunity to lunge at his foe, but it dodged his attack with a swiftness that no mortal could have possessed. He could not stop his own forward momentum, and his body wound up slamming into the table with a dull thud. He lost his balance and staggered in such a way that caused him to partially turn his back to his foe, giving it a chance to strike.

The monster leapt upon him and latched onto his mailed back with its terrible claws. It drew open its inhumanly wide mouth, briefly revealing a pair of deadly, slender fangs before sinking them into his collar bone. Its teeth, long and sharp as they were, failed to puncture the stiff leather of his mask, and instead slid downwards and entangled themselves in the exposed rings of his chainmail. The monster’s mouth and claws burned where they touched the linked silver; it hissed as it tried to pull itself free.

Vlad grabbed the clawed arm that was latched onto his freshly torn clothing and threw the creature over his shoulder. It slammed onto the surface of the table, sending up a cloud of dust and wood fiber into the already musty air. Vlad followed the beast with his dagger, but it quickly recovered and dodged once more, swiftly rolling off of the table and out of harm’s way. The force of his blow embedded his dagger into the wooden surface of the table, lodging it there against his efforts to pull it free.

The terrible thing threw the back of its hand at Vlad, which took him in the side of his face and sent him sprawling with such force that he slammed into the nearby oven and immediately slumped to the floor. It leapt at him once more, its deadly claws eager to find any bit of exposed flesh into which they could sink themselves.

Vlad reached beneath his cloak and pulled out his Star of the Mother, which glistened in the darkness despite the lack of light in the room. At the sight of the holy relic, the monster in front of him dropped immediately to the ground and recoiled with a hiss, backing away slowly until it reached the opposite wall.

Vlad rose to his feet and looked at the physician, who stood cowering in the corner by the entryway. “Quickly, Dr. Nash! I believe there is an Effigy of the Goddess hidden beneath a cloth in the hall. Retrieve it now, and use it to help me keep this terrible monster at bay!”

Nash’s face went pale at the Plague doctor’s words. “But, Mr. Albescu—”

“Now!”

The physician wasted no more time. He quickly scrambled out into the darkness of the passage. Vlad heard the sound of shifting fabric before Nask returned with an Effigy now in his hand. He hesitated for only a moment, then, emulating his companion, thrust the holy object in the direction of the flinching beast. It let out an angry hiss, but could do little more than press its body ever closer to the stone wall.

Vlad freed his dagger from the table with a powerful yank and returned it to its sheath. He approached Philip Nash, and, after pulling the Star from his neck, presented it to the physician. “Keep both of these relics held in our direction, Dr. Nash. I’ll need them to keep this creature’s strength properly hindered while I subdue it.”

“What is it, Mr. Albescu?”

“Now is not the time,” Vlad said. “Answers will come later, but first you must do as I say.”

Nash looked at him for only a moment, then took the Star into his free hand and held it in the direction of the wight, matching his effigy. Vlad then approached the creature pressed against the wall, retrieving the silver chain whip from his belt as he did so.

“Curse ye, stinking sparrow of the Goddess,” the creature said as he approached. Its breaths were heavy and labored, and it wheezed with each tortured draw of air. “May She one day forsake you as She has me! May you find everlasting suffering in the cold, lonely depths of hell!”

“Silence, strigoi!” Vlad said. “I will have no further words from you until I demand them. Cooperate, and you may be shown a greater mercy than you deserve.”

The monster laughed through its struggling breaths. “You fool only yourself if you believe I shall accept your mercy. I’d sooner bide my time until given the opportunity to rip your insolent throat from your putrid neck. Oh how sweet your blood shall taste.”

“A sweetness that neither you nor any creature of your ilk will ever know.” The Plague doctor knelt over the struggling fiend and touched the chain to its body, which elicited another pained screech. He then proceeded to wrap the chain around the beast’s entire form, not stopping until the links of blessed silver touched nearly every part of its unholy body, leaving only its head and collar free. Light streams of smoke escaped from its body as the monster cursed and spat in some long forgotten language that Vlad did not understand, but which was not unfamiliar to him.

With his work complete, Vlad glanced back at the physician. “This chain of silver should keep it subdued, but do not lower the talismans, if you please. It will not do to underestimate the power of this cursed creature, especially as nightfall approaches and its hell-given vigor grows.”

“Nightfall?” Dr. Nash said. “You plan to keep this creature alive, Mr. Albescu?”

Vlad knelt next to the writhing, cursing strigoi. He pulled its shirt away from its collar, revealing a set of three distinct puncture marks just below its neck. Two of the marks were closer together than they were to the third, looking to nearly overlap.

Vlad lowered his hood and pulled the beaked mask from his head, revealing his tired, dark eyes and matching scalp of black, greying hair. Sweat ran along his face and pooled in his thick, unkempt beard.

The Plague doctor turned to look at the physician again. “Aye, Dr. Nash. This spawn of sin does not get to return to its creator—at least not yet. Not until I’ve been given what it owes me.”

Next Chapter

There’s something about Bigfoot that just isn’t very scary to me. Maybe it’s the countless bumper stickers I’ve seen depicting him wearing sunglasses or giving a thumbs-up; maybe it’s his association with beef jerky or men’s grooming products; maybe it’s the fact that he has slowly been transformed from a ferocious monster into a goofy mascot for the Pacific Northwest over the decades since his inception; but for whatever reason, I just don’t have a lot of respect for the guy. He’s never once scared me, not in all my years living in this region and the countless nights I’ve spent out in the woods beneath the stars, listening to all the unknown sounds that seem to drip from the surrounding trees like a broken faucet, their sources indistinguishable but in my mind definitely not produced by a massive, hairy ape that is stalking me from just beyond the edges of my campfire’s glow. He’s simply never been frightening to me — or rather I should say he used to never be. I still struggle to remember that those feelings exist in the past tense now; and they most certainly won’t ever be coming back.

None of this is to say that I never believed in Sasquatch. I, probably to a fault, tend to believe in almost every cryptid under the sun, regardless of how much evidence there may be in support of or contrary to their existence. In my opinion, the more that exists out there beyond our human understanding, the better. The world’s just more interesting that way, or at least that’s how I see it. Despite believing in him, though, I just never managed to find Sasquatch particularly scary. There are other, similar creatures that certainly inspire fear in me — beasts like werewolves and dogmen, as well as cousins to Bigfoot like the Yeti or even the Skunk Ape — but poor Sasquatch was never able to make the cut.

Not until I encountered one for myself.

My cousin and I were going on one of our usual weekend camping trips, the kind we liked to take a handful of times every year to escape from the craziness of life for a while. Sometimes other friends would join us, but often, as was the case on this particular trip, it was just the two of us and his dog, Groggy. I often find myself wondering if things would have gone differently had there been other people out there with us that day. If we had more people to help us, to help protect us, then maybe he would still be alive.

The trip in question occurred in early December, when the promise of winter was already spreading throughout the mountainous sea of green that was the backdrop for all of our camping excursions. We parked at the base of a hiking trail that, while normally much more well-travelled in the warmer months, saw a large drop-off in activity once the seasonal chill crept its way into the area. It is for this reason that we didn’t expect to see any other people during our 5-mile trek to our usual campsite, a premonition that proved to be correct. The path along that trail can be rigorous, but it’s nothing we weren’t used to, and after disembarking from my cousin’s car and gathering up all of our supplies, the two of us, accompanied by an enthusiastic Groggy, made quick, steady work of trekking along the path to our destination.

One of the things we liked about this particular trail was that it always saw an abundance of wildlife, even when the weather began to turn cold, and this trip was no exception. Birds skirted through the branches about our heads, chittering their pretty songs as they went. Squirrels and chipmunks chased each other through the brush at our feet. A red-tailed hawk unleashed its unmistakable screeching cry somewhere in the distance, surely on the hunt for prey or love. Groggy seemed to enjoy the wildlife just as much as we did; he chased after any small critters we came across, sometimes disappearing into the brush for a few minutes until my cousin beckoned him back with a stern call. The pooch would always come running at his master’s command, and he always returned without ever claiming one of his would-be victims as a prize. I don’t think he ever wanted to actually hurt the animals he chased — he was far too sweet for that — but he enjoyed the hunt anyway, if only for the thrill of it. He was a good dog, taken well before his time, and I miss him almost as much as I miss my departed cousin.

My cousin’s phone, mostly a glorified camera due to the lack of cell coverage along the trail, nonetheless decided to go off twice during our walk to camp. Being hypoglycemic, he had an app on his phone that was connected to a sensor in his arm, and went off whenever his blood glucose levels were getting too low. Groggy often managed to detect my cousin’s drop in blood sugar before the phone app did, but the dog was far too distracted to notice his master’s condition while we were on our walk, and as such, my cousin needed to be alerted to his dropping sugars by his device. The interruption these alerts caused were minimal — we only needed to stop for a few minutes each time so he could chug an apple juice and get his levels back to normal — and they were an expected part of going on camping trips with my cousin. I was just about as used to dealing with his blood sugar issues as he was, and rarely thought much of it. We’d never had to call off a camping trip early due to his condition, so when his phone’s alerts went off, I never saw them as more than a slight delay in our adventures. After his second bout with the alarm, my cousin’s body thankfully managed to keep his sugar levels high enough for us to make it to our destination.

We arrived at our usual campsite, a small clearing surrounded by tall, slender white pines and bordered on one side by a steep hill that I am tempted to call a cliff, in the early afternoon. After getting our camp set up, we eagerly made our way to the bank of a nearby river, fishing rods in hand, and, with Groggy dozing lazily between us, spent the next few hours casting our lines and reeling in whatever nature deemed fit to offer us. We alternated back and forth between conversation and peaceful silence while hunting for the fish that we hoped to make our dinner that night. We eventually caught our first (and only) keeper, which we threw into our cooler before resuming our relaxing activity, not realizing that it was soon going to come to an abrupt end.

It was during one of our periods of silence that we discovered the mutilated carcass.

Groggy was the first to notice that something was off. He perked up from his lazy doze and began sniffing the air with an alert seriousness that was uncharacteristic of him, especially when coming right out of a relaxed napping state. His sudden demeanor change prompted my cousin and me to share a concerned glance.

“You alright, boy?” my cousin asked his dog. “Smell something?”

Groggy continued to sniff the air, his back stiff, his ears perked up so high I thought they were preparing to swap places at the top of his head. He stayed in this rigid state for more than half a minute while we watched him, our worry for the distressed pooch only growing. Suddenly an unseen pressure began tugging against my fishing rod, stealing my attention away from the dog. I had to brace against this new weight to prevent my rod from escaping my grip and jumping to its doom in the water. The resistance I felt was so great that I feared that my line would eventually snap with the weight.

“Caught something?” my cousin asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, awkwardly standing up with the rod clutched tightly in my hands. “Maybe. Feels more like I’m hooked on a rock or something.”

“Well reel it in steadily.” My cousin, also rising, grabbed the nearby fishing net, taking its handle into both palms. “Maybe you got something good.”

I did as he advised and began to slowly reel against my mystery catch. It took a considerable amount of effort, and there were several times when I thought my line might give way again, but eventually whatever was on my line drew close enough to the surface to produce a dark shadow just beneath the flowing sheet of water.

“Looks pretty big,” my cousin said, preparing to reach out with the net.

I didn’t respond, instead continuing to concentrate on my catch. It wouldn’t be long before it finally made it to the surface. I just had to keep on reeling.

The mystery catch breached the thin curtain of water, prompting my cousin to lash forward with the net. He didn’t realize until after he had already caught it that what he was going for was the soaked, lifeless head of a doe. When he saw the deceased deer behind that mesh barrier, he immediately pulled the net away and reeled backwards with a spasm of disgusted shock.

The sight of the deer surprised me, but wishing to prevent my rod from ending up in the river and not knowing what else to do, I continued to reel and pull until the dead animal escaped from the frigid current and rested in a soggy heap on the riverbank at our feet. With it fully removed from the water, we realized that what had been caught on my line was actually only the front half of the deer; the back half was completely gone, replaced by a stream of red innards as well as white fragments of the severed spine.

Groggy moved his face toward the dead deer in order to conduct an investigatory sniff, but my cousin shooed him away weakly. “Jesus,” he said. He looked ready to puke. “What do you think did that?”

“A bear, maybe?” I said, not believing my own explanation.

Evidently my cousin didn’t either. He shook his head. “I dunno, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bear do something like this before. And why would it move its prey to the river afterwards?”

I shrugged, not having a rebuttal for him. My mind was elsewhere, thinking about an article I’d read recently about three hikers being mauled to death by a grizzly on a similar trail only five or so miles away from the one we had taken to our campsite. They hadn’t found the culprit; could that same beast have been in our neck of the woods now, practicing its brutal techniques near our campsite? I didn’t like the thought of it.

Thankfully I wouldn’t need to think of that possibility for long. As I stood staring at the ruined deer, my mind was suddenly enveloped by a nauseating scent that overwhelmed my nose and made me physically retch.

My cousin covered his mouth and nose with his shirt. “What the hell is that?”

At first I thought the stench belonged to the deer carcass, but a moment’s consideration made me doubt this explanation. It looked fairly fresh, not dead nearly long enough to produce such a rotten smell, and anyway, I had walked by many dead deer in my day, most of which were in worse states of decomposition than our river friend, and none of them had come even close to smelling like what we were presently subjected to.

My concentration was again broken, this time by Groggy’s sudden, unexpected growling. My cousin and I looked down at his dog, who was now facing the treeline behind us, once again as stiff as a tree trunk, the hairs on his back and tail as sharp as needles.

“What’s wrong, Grog?” my cousin said, looking back and forth between the treeline and his dog. “What do you see?”

Groggy ignored his master. He continued his long, droning growl, his glare fixed on the thick shadows that took up residence just beyond the treeline. I turned my eyes, watering with the horrible stench, in the direction of the dog’s angry gaze, but I couldn’t see anything past the dense thicket of trees and the darkness that permeated the space therein. My mind flashed back to the news story of that ravenous grizzly, still at large, and I suddenly found myself wishing that I’d taken that firearms class with my sister earlier in the year.

Then came the sound of rustling in the brush. I thought I saw movement beyond the trees, large ferns flapping their thin, verdant bodies in our direction as if they were waving hands, and I fully expected to see that very same grizzly come bounding out of the treeline, hunger in its eyes and violence on its mind. But instead the rustling came to a stop, and the ferns ceased their little dance. The three of us stood staring at the shadow-drenched brush for more than a minute before Groggy finally allowed himself to relax, his persistent growl coming to an end. Only when their chirping returned did I realize that all the birds in the area had gone completely silent since the arrival of the stench, which was already beginning to fade away.

My cousin and I, each breathing a sigh of relief, looked at each other now.

“What was that?” I said.

My companion shook his head. “I’m not sure. Could’ve been a bear.”

“Grizzly?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Maybe a black bear. Something timid enough that ol’ Groggy here was able to intimidate it.”

I looked at beast and master, then back at the treeline, which suddenly looked a little less black. “You think we should get back to camp and pack up?”

“You mean go back home after taking so long to get out here?” He shook his head again. “Nah, screw that. We’re staying for at least one night.”

“But what if that thing comes back?”

“I don’t think it will,” he said. “Not now that it knows Grog means business.”

I considered this for several seconds, feeling unconvinced. “Well, alright then.”

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “And if we ever feel like we’re in danger, we’ll pack it up.” He paused, waiting for affirmation from me. When he didn’t get it, he went on. “Anyway, we should probably get back to camp.” He glanced at the half of a deer carcass dripping death onto the riverbank. “I don’t want to be near that thing in case something out here is looking for an easy snack.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.

We returned to our campsite and set about preparing our fire. The crisp afternoon air was soon ablaze with the fresh flame, which crackled in defiance of the stinging December chill. We spent the remainder of the afternoon around the warmth of our campfire, drinking beers and talking about whatever came to mind. My brain felt distant and distracted the entire time as I thought about the eviscerated deer, and the thing that Groggy had felt threatened by that watched us from the shadows. I couldn’t help but wonder if the two things were related, though I hoped with all the enthusiasm I had within me that they were not.

“Maybe it got hit by a truck,” my cousin said after a period of silence, seemingly reading my mind. “There are some roads upriver that go right by the water. Could be that a semi hit that poor thing and sent its front half tumbling into the river while its back half got stuck in the truck’s grille or something.”

I didn’t much care for that mental image, but it offered an explanation that my worried mind evidently found acceptable, if not a little farfetched. I shrugged with hesitant acceptance as I sipped from my beer. “Yeah. Maybe.”

We left it at that, and didn’t resume our conversation until about an hour later, when it was time to prepare our dinner. My cousin began fileting our one keeper of a fish while I set to work boiling water in our cast iron pot and dicing up some vegetables for what was going to be a fish stew. I regularly glanced at Groggy, sitting in front of the fire, as I worked. I noticed that, while he hadn’t gone back on the alert like he had down by the river, he also had never settled back into a state of total relaxation, either. He’d not gone back to sleep since the incident on the riverbank, and kept his gaze focused intently on the thick treeline, as if he expected to detect something there at any moment that would require him to jump into action. His calm readiness filled me with an unshakable chill that persisted despite the raging fire that burned so close to me.

My cousin finished fileting our fish, and we tossed our ingredients into the boiling pot just as the last vestige of sunlight was kissing the world goodbye. The wafting smell of our cooking food drifted on the evening winter air and immediately set my stomach to rumbling. After a long, tiring day, the two of us were incredibly eager to enjoy a warm bowl of stew while relaxing around the hot, cozy fire. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t get the chance to. We didn’t know it at the time, but we would never get to do either of these things together again.

We were sitting around the campfire, chatting while waiting for our stew to finish cooking, when it happened. I don’t remember if the stench or Groggy’s growls came first, but I soon found myself with my coat pulled up over my nose to guard me from that familiar putrid smell while watching the freshly alert dog growling into the sinister darkness being kept at bay by the wall of trees.

I shared a glance with my cousin, who also covered his face with his coat. Though neither of us said a word, the thought that seemed to pass between the two of us like static electricity in the cold air was obvious.

Groggy stood glaring into the trees as that familiar stench overpowered the smell of cooking food and suffocated our campsite with its malice. The dog’s growls grew more angry, more savage; firelight glistened in the thick foam of saliva forming over his sharp, dangerous teeth. I barely noticed either of these things. In that long, terrible moment, the only thing my mind could focus on was that awful, awful smell.

“Easy Grog,” my cousin said, his voice somehow breaking through the heavy miasma that clung to the air like a plague. “Settle down, boy.”

If Groggy heard his master’s words, he had no intentions of heeding them. A few moments later he took off in a powerful sprint, barking like mad as he barreled toward the swallowing darkness. He disappeared into the gloom just as my cousin called for him to come back. Groggy continued to snarl and bark like a thing possessed until these sounds, much like his visage, were also lost to the all-consuming shadows. I would never see the poor dog again.

“Groggy!” my cousin yelled as he shot to his feet, his voice echoing through the trees. “Groggy, come back!”

Groggy didn’t come back. It was as if he had suddenly vanished off the face of the Earth. When the dog showed no signs of returning, my cousin dug into his nearby backpack and pulled from it a large flashlight. He turned on the light and began rushing after his beloved pet before my cry for him to stop caused him to pause.

“I have to go after Groggy,” he said. “I can’t leave him out there. You can stay here if you want, but I’m going.”

Knowing that I would be unable to convince my cousin of anything else, and knowing that I had no other choice, I reached into my bag and pulled out a flashlight of my own. I then squared up next to my cousin, and the two of us made our way into the trees.

I somehow knew going into our search that we would never manage to find Groggy. He was lost to us already; this much was clear to me. All I could do now was hope that my cousin would soon come to his senses, and we’d be able to return to the relative safety of our camp. Future events would eventually shatter my perception of our campsite as a bastion of security, but while wandering in that massive catacomb of trees, there was nowhere else I wanted to be than in front of our warm fire, as far away from the creeping darkness as I could have possibly gotten out in that terrible, isolated forest.

We wandered about in that swirling, black-drenched wood for what felt like an eternity or two, perilously stepping over gnarled roots and twisted bramble, barely avoiding patches of harsh, grabbing brush that would surely break an ankle of anybody foolish enough to step within its grasp. Guided by the meager glow of our flashlights, we moved slowly and methodically, both of us calling out Groggy’s name, neither receiving an answer. Snow began to fall as we walked, its gentle, floating dance only contributing to the Rorschach that was the surrounding forest. My shivering body screamed and ached for the warmth of the fire, but by then I wasn’t even sure we’d be able to find our way back to camp if we wanted to, and I feared the very real possibility that we could end up trapped in that labyrinth of a forest until dawn, or maybe even forever.

I asked my cousin to return to camp several times. Each plea was ignored. The thing that finally convinced him to turn back was when he almost went tumbling down a sudden, sharp ledge that he only managed to avoid thanks to my successful catch of his arm. This gave him the much-needed clarity that I was hoping he’d find, and we agreed that the best thing we could do for Groggy would be to rest until dawn, when we could properly search for him. We turned back in the direction that we thought the camp was in, and for several agonizing minutes, my brain was flooded by the resurfacing fear that we’d never actually make it back. Relief flooded me when I saw the gentle glow of our campfire breaking through the trees ahead of us, telling me that the salvation of our camp wasn’t too far off after all.

At the time, I was ecstatic just to be getting back to the comfort and familiarity of our camp. Looking back on it now, though, returning to that site might have been the worst mistake we could have made. If I could go back and do it over, I would gladly take wandering through the dark forest over the events that followed. Had we stayed away, my cousin could still be alive today to tell his side of this nightmarish story.

We saw the figure, silhouetted by the shadows cast by the flame, hunched in the center of our camp. Thankfully it was turned away from us, which gave us enough time to kill our flashlights before their beams managed to alert it to our presence. It had already plunged our camp into a state of disarray — our tent torn to sunders and thrown into the treeline; our hastily tossed backpacks in similar states of ruin and lying in messy heaps, where they slowly suffocated beneath a layer of fallen snow; our pile of collected logs scattered along the ground as if toppled by a bowling ball — and was cautiously making its way, crawling on all-fours, toward the boiling pot overtop the fire. It seemed wary of the campfire, but its hunger or curiosity or compulsion toward violence forced it to creep closer and closer to the scent of our cooking food.

The figure sniffed the steamy air above the pot before it gave the receptacle a cautionary tap, and upon realizing that it was safe, grabbed the pot’s cast iron lid with its massive, hairy hand and tossed it away as if it were carelessly throwing a frisbee. The lid clattered against the cold earth just as the figure thoughtlessly reached its thick manus into the boiling water and pulled out a messy ball of cooked fish in the same way someone would grab a sand dollar out of the ocean. Our guest greedily shoved the ball of fish into its mouth, and evidently liking what it tasted, went back for more, snorting and slobbering as it quickly devoured handful after handful of what was meant to be our dinner. It accidentally knocked the suspended pot to the ground, spilling its contents onto the cold earth, but this only encouraged the thing to scoop up the remaining food with both hands, swallowing it back eagerly along with any dirt and grass and rocks that it happened to grab along with its intended meal.

My flesh felt as cold as the wintry air all around us as we watched this hellish scene unfold. For a while I thought I had forgotten how to move, but eventually I managed to turn my head enough to share a glance with my cousin, who looked to be about as terrified as I felt. He gestured back into the woods with his head. I nodded, and together we began slowly backing away from the creature that was enjoying its dinner in the center of our camp.

We might have actually gotten away unnoticed, too, had my cousin’s blood sugar alert not gone off.

The shrill, echoing sound of my cousin’s phone caused the creature hunched in the clearing to rise to its full, gargantuan height, its body twisting in our direction at an absurd speed. The beast’s furious eyes glowed bronze in the moonlight, and glared at us with a threat of malice the likes of which I had never seen before, and have not witnessed since. Its sharp maw, filthy with the hanging flesh of fish, transformed into a snarling mess of gnashing teeth and seething hate.

And with a huge, bounding step, it began to close the space between us.

My cousin, throwing his screaming phone into the treeline, yelled for me to run, but his words came as I was already well into my own sprint into the waiting wood. Together we rushed out of the clearing and into the gloom of the forest, our newly alive flashlights flailing wildly in our grips, doing very little to guide us through the imposing darkness. To this day I have no idea how I managed to avoid getting snagged by an upturned root or smacked in the face by a low-hanging branch. I didn’t think of these potential hazards at the time; all I could focus on was my burning lungs, my screaming legs, and the terror that kept me moving in spite of them.

I didn’t notice my cousin falling behind. He had always been the more athletic between the two of us, so it didn’t occur to me that he would ever be the one to tire out first. I had forgotten all about his rapidly dropping glucose levels, my mind lost in my desperate flight from the danger that chased us in the form of that massive, hulking beast that I could hear growling and snorting and howling behind us.

I was able to steady my flashlight’s beam long enough to notice the hollow in the tree only a few yards away. It promised safety, protection, a place to hide, and in my desperation and panic, I sprinted toward it with all the speed that I could possibly muster. I slid through the welcoming threshold of the hollow like a baseball player just barely reaching home plate, then turned around to look for my cousin. I expected him to be right behind me, and when I saw just how far back he was, my stomach transformed into a series of knots that I’m not sure I’ve ever managed to fully untie. I didn’t dare to leave the safety of my new sanctuary in order to go help him. Part of me regrets this decision, but the other part of me knows that had I tried, I likely would have shared in his fate.

Maybe that would have been for the best.

He was barely two yards from the hollow, and would have made it in a matter of seconds had he not fallen. I don’t know if his body gave out due to plummeting blood sugar or if he merely tumbled over something in his path, but either way, the result was the same. He went down. And he would never get back up.

My cousin’s flashlight spun like a twirling figure skater as it fell from his grip. It landed so that its beam was facing him, giving me plenty of light by which to see him in his final moments. He spotted me in the hollow, our gazes meeting for those brief few moments that he had left. I could see the terror in his eyes, residing in a home that would soon be abandoned, where shortly would live nothing at all.

And then the beast was upon him.

It is here that I must confess to the slight inaccuracy of this post’s title. To tell the truth, I never actually saw the extent of what happened to my cousin. I only watched a brief moment of the carnage before I retreated deeper into the hollow, but in that moment I saw enough horror to last me for the rest of my life. I remember thinking just how easily my cousin’s body was relieved of his arm, as if he were made of freshly molded clay. Pressing my back against the arboreal wall of the hollow, I shut off my flashlight and closed my eyes as tightly as I could. I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn’t. I figured I owed my cousin that much at least.

I sat there, in my hollowed out tree, in my own world, listening until the screaming and the growling and the tearing all stopped. And then I sat there for longer. I sat there shivering with equal parts terror and cold, hoping that the beast was gone, and that it couldn’t hear me, or smell me, or somehow see me through that wall of bark. I stayed there, refusing to move or think, barely breathing, until the stench of that horrible creature slowly faded away, and all that remained in the air was the foul smell of iron. Only with the coming of dawn and the return of chirping birds did I finally muster the courage to depart from my hollow.

Dark blood painted the snow and brush where my cousin had fallen, but his body was nowhere to be seen. Not even his torn off arm remained, though bits of leftover gore lay sprinkled all about the surrounding surfaces of the forest like spent confetti. A trail of blood and disrupted foliage created a path leading away from the hollow, disappearing into the trees. I turned and went in the opposite direction.

Thankfully my route was the correct one, eventually leading me back to familiar territory. From there, it was only a short distance back to the ruins of our camp. The fire was reduced to dead cinders, the pit coated in new snow. As I stepped closer to the vestige of the campfire, I noticed several massive impressions in the earth which acted as basins for the previous night’s precipitation. I didn’t need to draw very close to them in order to see just how much bigger those impressions were than my own feet.

I made my way to my cousin’s tattered backpack, praying that he had put his car keys in it the day before. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t find them in any of the bag’s pockets. Panic began to grow in me as pocket after pocket turned out to be devoid of the keys, but this strengthening tension broke when I noticed something shimmering on the ground near the bag, and found the keys half-buried in the snow. Scooping them up, I headed in the direction of the trail that would eventually lead me back to my cousin’s car. I didn’t offer the campsite another glance as I left. Even at the time, I knew that I would never see it again.

The walk back to my cousin’s car was long and cold. Without my cousin and Groggy to keep me company, it was an incredibly lonely journey. I wished Groggy was there to chase a squirrel or chipmunk into the brush. I wished my cousin was there to stop and check his glucose levels after his alert went off. The isolation of it all was suffocating, almost overwhelming; I had to continuously fight the urge to lie down in the snow and close my eyes, praying that I never opened them again, knowing that I probably would. When I reached my cousin’s car, I took a few minutes to wipe the coating of snow away from the vehicle before I climbed in, adjusted the seat, and attempted to bring the thing to life. It wouldn’t turn over at first, and I feared that the cold had sapped it of its battery, but a few seconds of persistence saw the tired engine come grumbling awake. After sitting in the vehicle’s heat for a bit in order to allow my frigid body some time to defrost, I threw the car into drive and made my way down the mountain, silently saying goodbye to that old, familiar trail for the last time as I went. I drove for a few miles until finally getting a signal on my phone, which I used to hastily dial 9-1-1. The sound of another person’s voice caused me to immediately break down into bitter, sobbing tears.

It took them days to find my cousin’s body, but they eventually discovered what remained of it near the riverbed, lying sprawled beneath a tree. The only way they were able to identify him was by syncing his phone, which they had found well before locating his corpse, with the glucose monitor embedded into his still-attached arm. I guess I’m thankful the beast chose to spare that single limb; it made his recovery just a little bit easier.

My cousin was ruled to have been killed by an especially vicious bear. A grizzly was found sleeping in a den near his corpse, and was promptly terminated before it could wake up. The bear’s demise brought the rest of my cousin’s family and friends some sort of peace, but it did nothing for me, because I know the truth. I know that poor bear was unjustly blamed for my cousin’s death, but I have no choice but to go along with the lie. I’m forced to pretend that what I saw that night was a hungry grizzly, and not what I truly know it to be.

Let me end this by saying that I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Sasquatch. I know what it means to fear you now. I’ll know it every time I see a goofy, hairy character on a bumper sticker or watch a humorous beef jerky commercial on TV. I’ll know it when I’m out at night taking the trash to the dumpster and I suddenly see a figure that looks like it’s watching me from the nearby treeline, or when I smell a horrible stench wafting on the air that is far too familiar. That fear, that unrivaled terror, will live with me forever, waiting just beyond my reach until those few and far between moments that it comes crashing to the forefront, and I’m reminded of what I saw and heard and smelled and experienced that night.

And if I’m lucky, it will only ever be a small fraction of the fear that my cousin felt in those last few moments of his life.