After pulling the results from the genre poll, I knew exactly how I’d satisfy my patrons’ choice, a horror tale. Solomon is my go-to character when my patrons want horror, and I’m in the middle of an arc, so I was thrilled to see this genre waiting for me to explore. After a couple of days, I sat down, and the story poured out as if I were watching it unfold in my mind.
Beneath a shining moon, a forest never sleeps. There is a constant din spreading through the trees. When the wind stirs its canopy, it creates a series of restless whispers carrying scents most would dismiss as decay. But to a trained hunter of hunters, those whispers tell stories of struggle, flight, or something that should not have been freed.
In this tale, silence becomes a weapon, and every sound carries consequence. The trees stretch like sentinels in the fog, their roots tangled around secrets buried too long. Somewhere in that shifting darkness, something ancient moves, not as prey, but with purpose.
For Solomon, the hunt has always been personal. The serum coursing through his veins has changed him. Among its physical benefits, it sharpened the instincts that separate man from monster. When moonlight strikes just right, even he can feel that line blur.
The following highlights the quiet dread between heartbeats, where every echo could be a step too close, and every trace of life might just be bait.
As moonlight sliced through the canopy, drifting smoke tinted the light seeping through the bare branches. When a distant snap echoed, Solomon dropped to a knee as the muzzle of his weapon whipped toward the source of the sound. He tore his gaze from the weapon’s sights and latched onto the gouge in the trunk of a nearby tree. He ran his fingers through the smooth furrow. When he removed his fingertips, he saw a hint of dried blood.
Solomon lowered the barrel to the soil as his gaze fell to the gouges in the earth. The hunter ran his fingers through the carvings as he licked his lips. He rose, his rifle tracking the forest’s din. He slipped past the tree, peering into the darkness.
“The fleeing vampires made those marks when they cut down the nearby villagers. They’re not feeding. They’re replacing their losses.” Solomon stalked through the trees looking for mounds of earth, but he found nothing nearby. “Otherwise, I would have stumbled upon more than blood.”
Cracking leaves thundered under his soft footfalls as a cold breeze whipped through the ones still clutching to their boughs. He followed the trail, half-hidden among twisted roots and half-collapsed undergrowth, until the ground began to slope. The vampires’ path was a scar of crushed foliage and broken branches, too direct for creatures forced to become masters of stealth.
When the trail dipped into a vast hollow, Solomon paused, letting the mist pool between the trees. It was bathed in the silver moonlight, and at its center glimmered faint embers, the remnant of a dying campfire. The hunter swallowed a curse and stamped out the struggling coals, then kneeled to sift the ashes, retrieving a piece of blackened glass. He lifted the shard, allowing the moon to shine through the tarnished surface.
.
.
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