The Hunt

Alvaro German Vilela/Shutterstock.com

This post was originally published through Patreon on March 13, 2018.

“What have you gotten me into?” I peered into the starry moonlit sky, unleashed a feral, wordless curse, and ran.

The ground rose up to meet my feet in quick, pounding strides, while their cries—anguished, twisted, inhuman—rang out into the night.

I was surrounded, with nowhere left to run. But I ran anyway, because fear knows no bounds. It penetrates the thickest walls, flies to the highest tower tops, always expecting you to chase after it. But it was impossible to outrun them—I knew that from the start—and soon enough, they were springing up around me, ghostly wraiths, thin and vaporous.

“I didn’t ask for this!”

Despair, thick and cloying. I was a hare caught in a cruel and senseless trap. The Hunt had claimed me for its own, and now my part in the performance was almost over.

“Come to us,” their voices whispered. “Meet us in the dark.”

The creatures merged into a spectral tempest of billowing moonlit smoke and enveloped me. I could feel them writhe against my skin like a million tiny needles, and I opened my mouth to scream.

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