The creature lunged, its emaciated form blurring with unnatural speed. Declan barely had time to react, his body moving on pure instinct as a surge of adrenaline propelled him to the side. He tripped over a discarded medical tray, crashing to the floor with a bone-jarring thud. His camera flew from his grasp, skittering across the dusty floor, the lens shattering with a sickening crunch. The creature let out a guttural snarl, the sound echoing through the hallway like a primal sound that sent chills down Declan's spine. It turned toward him, its eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger, the entrails it clutched dripping a viscous, dark fluid onto the floor. The two figures flanking the creature moved, their shadows merging with the darkness, making it impossible for Declan to discern their forms. He scrambled backward, his heart pounding against his ribs, desperation clawing at his throat. He was trapped, cornered in a hallway with a creature that defied explanation and two figures he couldn’t even see. He thought of the victims in the photos, their lifeless eyes staring back at him, and a wave of despair washed over him. Was this how it ended? A low growl, deep and guttural, emanated from one of the shadowy figures, the sound vibrating through the air, sending tremors down Declan's spine. He remembered Maddison's words, "That hospital… it used to be a… holding facility," and a horrifying thought struck him. What if these creatures, these things that hunted him, were the result of the government's experiments? What if they were the ones who had been imprisoned, tortured, twisted into something monstrous? He had stumbled into a nightmare, a world where the boundaries between human and monster had become blurred, a world where the victims of yesterday had become the predators of today. And he was their prey.
Panic seized Declan, a cold fist clenching around his heart. He was outmatched, trapped in a decaying monument to human cruelty with creatures born of that very darkness. He had no weapon, no defense, only the shattered remnants of his camera and the fading hope that Danielle was somewhere safe. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, an escape from this living nightmare.
His gaze darted around the hallway, frantically searching for anything that could offer even a sliver of a chance. The discarded medical tray lay nearby, its stainless steel glinting in the weak beam of his flashlight. It was flimsy, hardly a weapon, but it was something. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal, the familiar weight offering a sliver of comfort in the face of overwhelming terror.
A guttural growl echoed from the shadows as the shadowy figures shifted, their forms rippling and distorting in the dim light. He couldn’t make out their features, couldn't tell if they were human or something else entirely. But he knew, with a chilling certainty, that they were closing in.
He scrambled to his feet, the tray held before him like a shield, his heart pounding against his ribs, each beat a deafening echo in the silence. He had to get out of the hallway, had to find a way to escape this labyrinth of terror. His gaze fell on a doorway at the far end of the corridor, a faint sliver of light outlining its frame. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but it was his only hope.
He took a step back, his eyes locked on the doorway, his every sense attuned to the movements of the creatures in the shadows. He could feel their presence, the weight of their gaze, the anticipation of the hunt. He had to move, had to act before they closed the distance.
With a surge of adrenaline, he bolted, his legs pumping, his lungs burning, the tray clattering against his side. He could hear the creatures behind him, their growls echoing through the hallway, their footsteps pounding on the tile floor, closing the distance. He risked a glance over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the creature, its emaciated form contorted in a grotesque parody of a run, its eyes blazing with a feral hunger.
Declan’s breath caught in his throat. He had to reach that doorway. He had to escape.
Declan’s legs screamed in protest, his lungs burning with each desperate gasp for air, but he pushed himself harder, his gaze fixed on the sliver of light that represented his only hope of escape. The creatures were close, their presence a palpable weight pressing down on him, their growls echoing through the hallway, urging him forward. He could almost feel their hot, fetid breath on the back of his neck, hear the clatter of their claws on the tile floor, taste the metallic tang of fear in his mouth.
He stumbled, his foot catching on a loose floorboard, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he was down. But he managed to regain his balance, adrenaline surging through him, propelling him onward. The doorway was closer now, the light beckoning him, promising a chance to escape this nightmare.
He lunged through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him, the flimsy barrier offering only a moment’s respite. He fumbled for the lock, his fingers clumsy with fear, but found it, engaging the mechanism with a click that echoed in the sudden silence. He leaned against the door, his chest heaving, his body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering tremors of fear.
He was safe, for now. But he was trapped.
He glanced around the room, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating a small, cluttered office. Papers were scattered across a dusty desk, medical charts lay open on the floor, and an overturned chair rested against a wall. The room reeked of neglect, the air thick with dust and the stale scent of disinfectant. There were no windows, no other exits, only the door he had just barricaded.
He had stumbled out of the frying pan and into the fire.
He had to find another way out. He couldn't stay here, not with those creatures lurking on the other side of that door. He scanned the room again, his gaze falling on a ventilation grate set high in the wall. It was a long shot, but it was his only hope.
He shoved the desk against the door, hoping the flimsy barricade would buy him some time. Then, grabbing the overturned chair, he dragged it beneath the vent, the legs scraping against the floor with a sound that seemed deafening in the silence.
He climbed onto the chair, the metal creaking precariously beneath his weight. Reaching up, he grabbed the edges of the grate, the metal cold and slick beneath his fingers. He pulled, but the grate wouldn’t budge. It was rusted shut, sealed tight.
Despair threatened to consume him. He was trapped, cornered, with no way out.
The pounding on the door started then, a rhythmic thudding that vibrated through the room, each blow a hammer against his dwindling hope. He glanced at the door, the flimsy barricade shuddering under the assault. It wouldn't hold for long.
He had to think, had to find a solution, and fast. He remembered the photos, the symbols, the creature. What did it all mean? What was the connection? He thought of the veterans’ hospital, its dark history, its secrets. Maddison had mentioned a holding facility, experiments, something the Kings Horn would be interested in. Was this it? Were these creatures the result of those experiments?
And then it hit him.
The symbols. The hunting horn symbol on the hand in the photograph. The creature clutching entrails. The Kings Horn.
They weren’t just killing preternatural beings. They were hunting them. And he was the prey.
The pounding on the door intensified, the wood splintering, the metal hinges groaning in protest. He had to act, had to do something, anything.
He looked at the ventilation grate again, his mind racing, searching for a solution. And then he saw it. A small, almost imperceptible gap in the corner of the grate. He grabbed a pen from his pocket, the metal cold against his palm. He jammed the pen into the gap, twisting, leveraging, praying for a miracle.
And then, with a groan of metal, the grate gave way, swinging open with a rusty screech. A blast of cold, stale air hit him, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the faintest hint of decay.
He had a way out.
He scrambled through the opening, ignoring the scrapes and cuts that tore at his skin, the adrenaline masking the pain. He pulled himself into the narrow ventilation shaft, the darkness enveloping him, the metallic walls pressing in on him.
He was escaping into the belly of the beast, but it was better than being its next meal.
The ventilation shaft was a claustrophobic tunnel of darkness, the stale air thick with dust and the metallic tang of rust. Declan crawled through the cramped space, his clothes snagging on protruding bolts, his skin scraping against the rough metal. The darkness was absolute, broken only by the faint beam of his flashlight, which cast eerie, elongated shadows that danced and twisted around him.
The pounding on the door continued, echoing through the ventilation system, a constant reminder of the creatures hunting him. He pushed himself harder, his muscles screaming in protest, his lungs burning with each desperate gasp for air. He had to get away from that sound, had to find a place to hide, to regroup, to think.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He had no idea where the shaft led, no sense of direction, only a blind faith that it would lead him to safety. He thought of the package tucked into his jacket pocket, the evidence that had led him into this nightmare. Was it worth it? Was any story worth this terror, this descent into madness?
He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. He had to survive. He had to get this information out. He had to expose the truth.
The shaft narrowed, forcing him to contort his body into unnatural positions, his limbs aching with the strain. He could feel the panic rising within him, clawing at the edges of his sanity. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to slow his racing heart, to focus on the rhythm of his movements. He had to stay calm. He had to stay in control.
He crawled for what felt like an eternity, the darkness and the silence pressing down on him, the weight of the hospital’s secrets bearing down on his chest. And then, he saw it. A faint glow ahead, a sliver of light that pierced the oppressive darkness.
Hope surged through him, a lifeline in the sea of despair. He pushed forward, his movements becoming more frantic, his heart pounding against his ribs. The light grew brighter as he approached, revealing a small, square opening at the end of the shaft. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the opening, the metal cold and slick beneath his touch.
He pulled himself through the opening, tumbling onto a cold, hard surface. He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, his body trembling with exhaustion and relief. He had made it. He had escaped.
He rolled over, pushing himself up on his elbows, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. He was in another room, a small, windowless space that appeared to be a storage closet. Boxes of medical supplies were stacked haphazardly against the walls, their labels faded and peeling. The air was thick with dust and the musty scent of decay.
He got to his feet, his legs shaky, his body aching. He had to find a way out of the hospital, had to get to safety. He had to get the evidence to someone who could help. He thought of Danielle, of the determination in her eyes, her unwavering commitment to the truth. He had to get to her. She was his only hope.
Declan's heart hammered as he searched the storage closet. He had to escape the hospital, reach Danielle, share the evidence, and expose the truth. He clung to the memory of the hospital map, a guide through the maze. The air hung heavy with decay, and he thought of the victims. He had to expose the truth.
Rounding a corner, he froze. Two figures stood at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against the faint light. The first figure was tall and familiar, but obscured by the shadows. The second figure was taller, its form shrouded in darkness. A primal fear gripped Declan's heart. He had seen that figure before, in the mortuary, in his nightmares: the creature.
Declan's mind raced. He couldn't fight them both. He had to escape. But as he turned, a voice echoed:
“Going somewhere, Declan?”
The voice was familiar, but distorted, laced with a chilling amusement that sent a shiver down Declan’s spine. The first figure stepped forward, his face illuminated by the flickering fluorescent light. Declan's blood ran cold. It was Quill. His friendly eyes were now cold and hard.
Beside him, the creature shifted, its eyes fixed on Declan. Declan was trapped. He had stumbled into a darkness he couldn't comprehend. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the kind old man who helped him with the menacing figure before him. Fear gave way to a chilling realization: Maddison had been right. The Kings Horn's influence ran deep, twisting even the most unsuspecting souls to their cause. Perhaps Quill had been coerced, threatened, or manipulated. Maybe he was a victim, not a perpetrator.
Declan felt a surge of despair. He was alone, facing a darkness far greater than he ever imagined.
"Quill? What is this?" Declan stammered, his voice trembling as he fought to maintain a semblance of composure. He needed time to think, to find a way out of this impossible situation. "I don't understand. I thought...you helped me."
Quill's cold smile widened, revealing a glimpse of something cruel and predatory lurking beneath his seemingly harmless facade. "Help you? Oh, Declan, you were getting far too close to things you shouldn't be meddling with. Sniffing around, asking questions, digging up dirt where it doesn't belong." He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down Declan’s spine.
The creature shifted beside Quill, its form rippling and distorting in the flickering light, a grotesque mockery of a human being. Declan’s gaze darted between the two, his mind reeling. How could this be happening?
"But...Maddison," Declan stammered, grasping for any explanation that could make sense of this betrayal. "He...he gave me information. He's trying to help expose the Kings Horn."
Quill let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Maddison? That pathetic mutt? He's playing a dangerous game, siding with your kind." He spat on the floor, his disdain for the lycanthrope officer palpable.
"He's trying to do the right thing," Declan insisted, his voice gaining a touch of defiance. "He knows what the Kings Horn are doing. He knows they need to be stopped."
"The Kings Horn are doing the Lord's work, boy," Quill snarled, his eyes flashing with a fanatical gleam. "We are cleansing this world of abominations, restoring purity to God's creation."
"By murdering innocent people?" Declan shot back, his fear giving way to anger. "By terrorizing an entire community?"
Quill’s face hardened, his features contorting into a mask of righteous fury. "They are not innocent. They are creatures of darkness, spawns of the Devil. And we are the instrument of their destruction." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "And you, Declan, you've interfered with our sacred mission. You’ve aligned yourself with our enemies. And you will pay the price."
"You’re a member of the Kings Horn?" Declan asked, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He had unwittingly placed his trust in a high-ranking member of the very organization he was trying to expose.
"High Priest, actually," Quill corrected, his voice dripping with pride. He straightened his posture, his gaze sweeping over Declan with a chilling sense of authority. "And I will not allow you to disrupt our plans. I will not allow you to spread your lies and poison the minds of the faithful."
Declan's mind raced, piecing together the events of the past few weeks. Quill’s seemingly helpful demeanor, his presence at the crime scene, the cryptic text message leading him to the evidence. It was all a carefully orchestrated manipulation, a twisted game designed to lure him into a trap.
"You set me up," Declan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"Let's just say I had to take matters into my own hands," Quill replied, his smile returning, cold and merciless. "Maddison was becoming a liability. And you, Declan, you were far too curious for your own good."
Declan understood now. Quill hadn't liked how close he was getting to the truth, hadn’t liked Maddison's involvement. He had used Declan's investigation to his advantage, manipulating him into gathering the evidence, into leading him to this moment, this dead end.
He was trapped, at the mercy of a fanatic, a man who believed his twisted mission was divinely ordained. And as the creature stepped forward, its form looming over him, Declan knew that his fight for the truth had just become a desperate struggle for survival.
"You underestimated Maddison," Declan said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. He needed to buy time, to find a way to appeal to whatever shred of humanity might still linger within the fanatic standing before him. He remembered Maddison's words, “He’s playing a dangerous game, siding with your kind.” Quill's disdain for Maddison, a lycanthrope, a "creature of darkness" in his eyes, was evident. Maybe that was the key.
"He's more than just a 'pathetic mutt'," Declan continued, his voice gaining strength. "He's seen the truth. He knows the Kings Horn are nothing but murderers, hiding behind twisted interpretations of faith." He needed to plant a seed of doubt, to exploit any cracks in Quill's facade of righteous conviction. "He knows you’ve corrupted the community, twisted good people into doing your bidding." He glanced at the creature, its form unsettling in its distortion, a testament to the darkness that permeated the Kings Horn. "He knows what you truly are."
Quill's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He took a step back, his gaze hardening as he studied Declan. “You’re trying to sow discord, to turn us against each other,” Quill growled, his voice tight with suspicion. He gestured towards the creature, his expression filled with a chilling mixture of pride and possessiveness. "This is power, boy. This is purity. This is the future that the Kings Horn will bring."
Declan seized the opportunity. He had to exploit Quill’s fanaticism, turn it against him. "Power?" Declan scoffed. "This? This abomination is a perversion of everything sacred. It’s the result of the government’s twisted experiments, the very experiments the Kings Horn claim to despise. They used preternatural citizens, people like Maddison, like those on your hit list, as lab rats. They tortured them, twisted them, trying to control their abilities." He pointed to the creature, his voice rising in anger. "And this is the result! This is what the Kings Horn aspires to? To become the very monsters they claim to hunt?"
He knew the history, the dark legacy of the government’s experimentation on preternatural citizens, as detailed in the reports he now carried. He needed to use it, to shatter Quill's delusion, to expose the hypocrisy at the heart of the Kings Horn.
"Don't you see?" Declan continued, his voice urgent, pleading. "You’re being used, Quill. Manipulated by the very forces you claim to fight against. They’re using you to further their agenda, to eliminate those who threaten their control."
Quill’s face contorted with rage, his eyes blazing with a fanatical fire. "Lies! Heresy!" he roared, his voice echoing through the hallway. "You will not corrupt me with your twisted words. I know the truth! The Kings Horn are the righteous, the chosen, the protectors of humanity!"
Declan knew he was losing him. Quill’s fanaticism was too deeply ingrained, his mind too warped by the Kings Horn’s poisonous ideology. He was trapped, his back against the wall, his options dwindling.
But then, a glimmer of hope. A flicker of movement in the shadows behind Quill. Declan’s heart leaped. Could it be?
A low growl, a flash of fur and teeth. And then, a figure hurtled from the darkness, slamming into Quill, sending him crashing to the floor.
Declan watched in astonishment as the figure, a powerful form silhouetted against the dim light, pinned Quill to the ground. He recognized the shape, the movement, the raw, primal energy that emanated from the figure.
It was Maddison, his eyes glowing with an unearthly light, his features contorted in a snarl of fury.
The creature, momentarily startled by the sudden attack, turned toward the commotion, its form flickering and shifting, its eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger.
The fight had just begun.