“Papa, will you tell me a story?”
The girl curled herself up in the blankets and sat, feet dangling, on the edge of the bed. It was a stubborn refusal to sleep and a ritual they went through every night.
“Forgive me, sweetheart.” The man placed a calloused hand tenderly upon her head, fingers sinking into tousled curls. “Perhaps some other time.”
“Papa, do you have to go?” She looked at him with imploring eyes, big and beautiful and much too innocent for this world. A second, slender hand appeared and also placed itself upon her head, the man’s hand gently enveloped in between.
“Dearest, you know your Father has to work tonight. Let him go with just a kiss?”
The young girl reluctantly sat forward and gave her father a kiss on his bristly cheek, as her mother climbed into bed beside her.
“I’ll be here right beside you, little one. You have nothing to fear. Here,” she reached her hand out to the bedside table and cracked open the lid of a small music box. The room was filled with the soft tinkling chimes of an old lullaby, and within minutes the girl was fast asleep beneath the watchful gazes of her parents, the breeze from the cracked window plucking at her hair.
“Viola…” The man put a hand on his wife’s back with a tenderness that betrayed the deep fondness he held for her. The music brought him a sense of calm contentment that nothing else in this world could bring him anymore. Memories of a lifetime past. He set his wide-brimmed hat upon his head, and slowly, so as not to wake the child, opened the door to leave.
“...Thank you.”
---
The hunter knew before they opened their eyes that they were dreaming. They were back in that place, with the scent of sweet lilies and mud hanging in the air.
“Hello, good hunter.”
It was that voice, the one they had heard in their feverish nightmare back in the clinic. They opened their eyes, and standing above them was a woman. Her face, those eyes… So there had been someone else watching them. This was the same pale face they had seen staring at them from the garden. She reached down to help them to their feet, and as they took her hand they were shocked at how cold and smooth it was.
“I’ve seen you before, here in this place. You were watching me.”
She nodded once, slow and controlled and without affect. There was something about the way she moved that seemed unlike normal human reactions. It was unexpected, how she moved so predictably. Your average human is anything but predictable.
“I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you.”
She held up her hand, and the hunter could see now that it was jointed at the wrists. In her palm lay one of the pale imps that had followed them throughout Yharnam.
“These are the little ones, the messengers. They attach themselves to good hunters like yourself, and worship them. They can bring you aid, guide you upon your journey or simple consolation.”
The messenger in her hand copied her pose, extending one arm out. To their great surprise, the hunter could see an even tinier messenger in their outstretched hand, emulating the scene.
“They like to play, though they do not know the meaning behind their actions. We are alike in this way.”
She smiled softly at the hunter. Was it a smile, or only the hint of one?
“I too do not know the meaning behind my actions, but I know my purpose. I was made to serve the hunters who visit this dream, and just like these little ones, I will be here for you.”
The hunter paused to look closer at the Doll. Her expression, if she had one, was barely perceptible. Her face was a mask, blank and unreadable. She wore plain clothes, not ones that looked suitable to hunt in. A simple wine-dark bonnet kept her hair neat while a thick brown woolen shawl kept her warm. If dolls even needed to stay warm, that is.
“I do not know how you can help me. I don’t want to go back out there again.”
“Perhaps you should speak to Gehrman.” She gestured to the pavilion behind her where the door stood open.
“Gehrman?”
The doll leaned in closer to whisper.
“He was a hunter, once, like yourself. Now, he remains here in the dream. He can tell you secrets only the old hunters know. Such is his purpose.”
The hunter nodded and made their way up the stone steps. Inside, the cold stone exterior gave way to wood panelled walls, shelves upon shelves of musty old books and a roaring log fire. There was only a single room, aired out by long, floor length open windows across one side. There was a shrine near the back of the room, well lit with candles but the altar cloth was moth-eaten and degraded over time. This was a sacred place, but one that had not seen proper caretaking in many years. To their right was a workbench, and they were not surprised to see various tools and hunter saws hanging from the rafters.
A man sat straight-backed and attentive in an old-style wheelchair, reading. Floral carpet muffled their footsteps as the hunter stepped properly into the room, and at their approach the man they assumed to be Gehrman put down the book and turned to greet them.
“Aha, you must be the new hunter. Good, good. Welcome, to what we fondly call the hunter’s dream. You must feel free to make yourself at home.”
His face was lined with many years of strain and toil, but he looked at the hunter kindly enough.
“Gehrman… Can you tell me, what is all this? What is going on in this town? What is happening to me, I can’t bear it!”
The old man held up his hand.
“Questions, questions… You’ve wound yourself up into a fine mess, haven’t you? Don’t think too hard about all this… just go out and kill a few beasts.”
“Oh, no, there’s no way I’m going back out there again!” The hunter said, eyeing the blades that lined the walls.
Gehrman chuckled.
“I was once a lot like you. Trust me, you’ll get used to it. The call of the hunt, that sweet blood, will find you again soon enough, and off you’ll go…”
“Never!”
“...to save those in need.”
The hunter paused, thinking of Iosefka and the tremble in her voice, and of Gilbert, alone and defenceless.
“Stay, go, do as whatever pleases you. You are trapped here like the rest of us, at least until you fulfil your end of the bargain. This place is what remains of the old hunter's workshop, so we have plenty here to help you hunt but nothing to help you mope.” Gehrman laughed, a grating sound that unnerved the hunter.
“Come talk to me again when you’re ready to hunt.”
And with that, he picked up his book and wheeled himself out into the garden. The hunter, more unsure now than ever, went outside to find the Doll. She was sitting by a lantern, seemingly staring into space. No thoughts seemed to cross her mind as the hunter sat beside her, pulling their legs up under their chin.
“I don’t want to go back out there.” They tried hard not to cry, unsuccessfully. A trickle of tears wetted their cheek.
The Doll nodded sympathetically.
“But there’s people who need help. Good people, who I owe…” They looked down at the blood vial the doctor had given them, held between thumb and forefinger.
The Doll inclined her head, listening, her tall frame bent like an old willow. A messenger was climbing up her skirt. The seven-pointed stars of the flowerheads waved sedately in the wind, dappling the moss covered bricks in moonlight and casting their shadows across brittle terracotta ferns.
Across the way from where the two of them sat lay a series of large headstones. The inscriptions had worn away to nothing, only the barest imprints of words long lost still visible beneath the encrusted lichen and efflorescence. Try as they might the hunter couldn’t read any of the names listed, but the shapes and symbols played upon their mind until, with a sigh, they fell into a shallow slumber. The Doll placed a gentle hand upon their shoulder as they rested their head against the wall behind them.
“Oh, kind, precious, dear hunter...”
Without a word messengers began to gather to watch over their fitful sleep, their tiny hands clasped in veneration and their eyes filled with rapture.
“May you find your worth in the waking world.”
---
The hunter sat with their back against the door. On the other side sat Doctor Iosefka, a mirror image.
“I just want to help them all, as best I can. You know, one day i want this clinic to be a great sanctuary for the people of this town... But then this happens.” The Doctor said, staring mournfully at her empty clinic.
“I’m sorry.” It was all the hunter had to offer.
“Thank you. It’s okay, really. They passed… peacefully, at least. It’s just me again, all alone.”
“It looks like you had another beast in here.” The hunter could smell it, that putrid stench of blood and fur.
“Ah. Yes. They are attracted by the smell of blood. No need to worry, I took care of it.” They could hear the tiredness in her voice. It was a never-ending battle.
“I wanted to ask you a favour.”
“Hmm?”
“I met a man. Gilbert. He’s sick… I think with whatever I had,” Or still have, they thought to themselves. “Can I bring him here? Whatever treatment the blood minister gave me, it worked, it could work on him too.”
Iosefka turned, placing her head against the door, an excited but unseen smile upon her lips.
“Yes! Yes, if you can bring him here I could try the same technique. I don’t know what the minister used on you, but I have almost refined my own blood enough that I think maybe, just maybe, it might work as a remedy against the scourge.” Her voice was animated both with scientific vigour and with excitement at this new opportunity to help the citizens she cared so deeply about.
“Then I will fetch him, as soon as possible.”
“I will be waiting for you. Oh! I have something here for you. A messenger came by and left a letter.”
“A Letter? For me?”
“Where did I put it… Ah, well, I will have it ready for you upon your return. Oh kind hunter, do come back soon.”
The two parted. Yharnam was a labyrinth. The more they explored, the larger the maze became. Every path however led back to the clinic. The hunter was never sure where they would wake up after visiting the dream, but it was often close enough that they could call in on the good Doctor before setting off on the hunt. Several beasts now lay dead because of them, though no matter how many they killed it never seemed enough. The city was crawling with them.
The hunter grasped the bars that guarded the sick man’s window, bringing their face as close as possible.
“Come with me, Gilbert. I know a place you can stay. A Clinic, just down the road here. The doctor there said…” They were cut off mid-sentence.
“No, no. You needn't concern yourself with me. This town and it’s blood brought me hope, but there is little left for me now.”
“But-”
“No. I shall stay here. Let me die in my bed in peace… No more treatments, no more cures. But tell me… Why are you here? Did you not make it across the bridge?”
The hunter related to them the incident with the giant beast, and the locked gate, now bent out of shape and stuck shut forever.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Yes, I see… But there may be another way, if you don’t mind getting your feet wet. There is an aqueduct south of the town which carries the waste and water from the Cathedral Ward down to the sewers. Not a place you want to be, but it might allow a person to cross the valley, if they were truly determined.”
The hunter looked out across the valley towards the Cathedral Ward. There lay the home of the healing church, totally cut off from the plague and from the beasts and where, perhaps, they would find answers.
---
Yharnam was a city of spires, towering churches reaching to the heavens with tall, vaulted steeples snatching at clouds with their pointed fingers. It was beautiful, and it was rotten.
The old hunter thought this to himself as he cut a bloody swathe through the streets. His leather priest’s coat glistened with hot, sickly sweet blood from the beasts he encountered. One after another they fell to his axe, deft strikes splitting limbs from bodies and forever ending their miserable, wretched cries.
It was intoxicating.
The stench of blood, that intolerable scent. The thrill and conquest of the hunt. All of it filled his nostrils, burned its way into his brain. Not a single beast would survive this night, this he knew. He could feel it, deep inside his bones. This was going to be the last night.
With a roar he launched himself at a beast in his path, smashing it into the pavement. He raised his axe, and brought it down again and again, until all that was left was pink, slowly bubbling pulp upon the tiles.
A crimson-throated creature had snuck up upon him, and embraced him with feeble arms. It was a simple task to wrench himself free from its grasp, send it flailing backwards into the floor. It cried out at him, its words dripping with honey as it lied to him with promises. Such a filthy creature, twisted and depraved. Did it really think it could fool him, with it’s pleas and its tricks? No-one could look upon such an aberrant face and be swayed.
It only took a single, visceral punch to stop its mouth forever. The man extracted his hand from the beast’s chest cavity and brought the warm, acrid-smelling fresh heart to his lips and took a bite.
Ahh, that sweet blood.
It was a trick he had learnt from other hunters, early in his career. The blood of beasts could give you the same rejuvenating high as the blood bottled and administered by the church.
It's enough to make a man sick.
---
There it was again. That music, faintly tinkling just on the edge of the hunter’s hearing, luring them forward. Each new step a note in the melody as they made their way, door to door, bringing the promise of aid and protection.
“There’s a clinic just east of here, they can help y-”
“You’re having a laugh, ‘aincha? Tryna fool me into opening this door? Heavens! You outsiders have no shame.”
Another window slammed shut. Yharnamites were proving to be every bit as hospitable as previously. Every glance was a paranoid squint that had dripped with xenophobic malice and mistrust. Curtains twitched, doors locked and bolted themselves, and mistrustful murmurings followed them until the hunter passed.
The music was getting louder. They could just about make out the tune, a kind of lullaby perhaps. They passed by an old, decrepit fountain at the centre of a quad which once, long ago, had been flush with water but now only hosted tendrils of brittle ivy and discarded rubbish.
There. The music was coming from an open window from a small house near the square, out on it’s lonesome with no neighbours nearby to hear the small, insistent sobs that accompanied the tune. The hunter did their best to put on a smile fit for children, and tucked their weapon behind their back.
“Hello, are you alright in there?”
“Oh!” The crying was replaced by sniffles, as a small figure pulled open the curtains. The hunter could see that the girl, perhaps no more than six or seven, had been crying for quite some time. At her curled up feet lay a small music box, now quiet.
“Who… Who are you? Are you a hunter?” Her words were punctuated by sobs. The hunter nodded, in what they hoped was a comforting way.
“M-M-My Mum…” The girl began crying in earnest again, clashing the bars of the window in her hands and letting the tears fall thick and fast off her cheeks and onto the stones below. Window bars were a flimsy protection against the beasts, but it kept the occupants in good spirits, believing that whatever happened outside could be kept at bay.
“Hush now. Hush, hush. What about your mum?”
“M-My Mum went to look for my Papa but they haven't c-come back.” The hunter passed her their handkerchief and the little girl took it gratefully, dabbing her eyes with the oversized cloth.
“Papa never came back from the hunt, so she went to find him, but now she’s gone too and I’m all alone.” The girl’s words ran into one another in her haste to speak.
“Which way did she go?”
“Um… That way.” The girl waved a hand uncertainly in the direction of the sewers. She had sat herself on the window sill, feet dangling out between the bars. “My Papa says there are beasts coming up through the storm drains.”
The hunter nodded, and patted the child’s hand gently.
“Well, I’m heading that way myself. I can look for them. What do they look like?”
“My m-mum wears a red-jeweled brooch. It's so big and beautiful, you won't miss it, and my Papa he is big and hairy and… and smelly!” Was that a smile the hunter could see at the corner of her mouth? It was gone before they could be sure, hidden behind a bashful shake of long blonde hair.
“Oh, you should take this! It’s our song.” Small hands passed the music box through the bars with great delicacy.
“My Mum made this box so we could always listen to it. Sometimes, when my Papa forgets who we are, we play it for him to bring him back.”
“Forgets you?” Either the girl didn’t hear the question, or she didn’t know how to answer.
“Mum's so silly, running off without it!”
The hunter pocketed the music box, more to humour the girl than anything. They were sure that her parents were dead, but they didn’t want to suggest that to her without evidence. They would find her parents, then take her to Iosefka. It wasn’t safe for her out here alone. They said their goodbyes, and followed in the footsteps of the girl’s father.
An open sewer grate nearby contained a ladder, encrusted with slime and waste, which they used to reach the sewer floor. They trudged their way through the muck and mire, boots filling with sludge with every step. These pipes had not been cleaned in a very long time, even the walkways were a mess. Rats the size of dogs hissed at them as they passed, gnawing at corpses which looked distinctly human. Every so often they would exit out onto a canalside, the sky above glowing like fire with the setting sun. Each breath of fresh air was gratefully received, a welcome respite from the reek of the open pipes.
They were just about to enter another stretch of tunnel when behind them came a soft chuckle. Sat on the barrels, legs crossed and arms folded, was a crow. The hunter stepped back in surprise.
“What, never seen another hunter before, have ya?” A heavily accented voice drawled out from under her mask. She was wearing a peculiar outfit, a worn cape of dark feathers draped over her shoulders and trailed down to her feet. On her head was one of those old fashioned doctor’s masks, avine features outlined in a stark bone-white.
She uncrossed a hand and pointed at her beak.
“I came down here prepared. Herbs, flowers, and the like. Keeps the stench at bay.” she jumped down from the barrel with a catlike grace before shaking off her feather cape with a flourish.
“Helping poor, lost children find their mam? Well aren’t you a sweetheart.”
“So you’ve been following me.” The hunter let their hand graze the handle of their saw cleaver, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed by the eagle-eyed woman.
“Following you?” She let loose a single, barking laugh. “No. Watching you? Oh yes.”
The hunter gripped their saw openly, their eyes scanning for possible escape routes.
“Relax, newcomer. I mean you no harm. It’s my job to watch the hunters in this town. They're all flesh-hungry beasts, now.”
“What?”
She stared at the hunter for a long, drawn out moment. Through the eye sockets in the mask they could make out the lined and tired eyes of an older woman, green and expressive, deep set against ebony black skin.
“You don’t know much, do you? Hunters are driven mad by the blood, if the beasts dont kill them first. There's more to Yharnam than meets the eye, greenhorn. Trust me, don't use too much of that blood. You’ll get yourself into a right mess.” She chuckled to herself. “Oh yes, and if you do… the hunter of hunters will pay you a visit.”
The hunter felt their blood run cold. So that was why the people of this town they encountered were so… fanatical. They were all hooked on blood. They thought about the thrill of striking down the beast on the bridge, that forbidden thrill as they tore through it’s flesh. They thought of this woman’s blades, sinking into their heart, as they became nothing more than a husk of their former self, lost in madness and ecstasy.
“So… you hunt people?”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, well, I… I only hunt beasts, never people.”
Was it a trick of the light or did her green eyes twinkle?
“I like you. You remind me of me, a long time ago. So prepare yourself for the worst, newcomer. It’s going to be a long night tonight.”
The hunter nodded. Through this last tunnel, if their sense of direction could be trusted, was the aqueduct and, eventually, the Cathedral Ward. Their stomach sank in mottled terror, sending distress signals throughout their body. Their hands became clammy to the touch, their heartbeat raced and the fine hairs on their arm stood on end. They could feel it, they were on the edge of something terrible. An abhorrent, acute sense of dread crept into their mind and lodged itself firmly in their understanding of this world. Something was wrong, and if they continued down this path they were going to find out what. Every fibre of their being called out to them to run away, to leave Yharnam, to go and never return and pray, pray that what lurks in the heart of mortal souls never sees the light of day.
“What's wrong? A hunter, unnerved by a few beasts? No matter. Without fear in our hearts, we're little different from the beasts themselves."
The woman who had promised to murder them only moments before put a reassuring hand on their shoulder.
“Enough trembling in your boots. A hunter must hunt.”
---
Crossing the aqueduct had not been as straightforward as they expected. It was not made for human passage, and the slime and the muck threatened to throw them over the side and into the abyss with every slow and deliberate step. The many-eyed crows watched them voraciously, waiting for their dinner to make a single wrong move.
Their luck, however, had watched over them and it was with great amazement that they found themselves standing at the base of the Cathedral Ward. The gamble had paid off, all that was left was to find a way inside.
As they made their way around the base of the great wall they heard sounds of human activity coming from beyond an oversized, wrought iron gate. As they pushed it open the hinges screeched with enough intensity to rouse any living creature within a half mile radius. If they weren’t aware of the hunter’s presence before, they were now.
The noise continued, unperturbed. A kind of chopping sound, rhythmic and steady.
The hunter found themselves in a cemetery, overflowing with gravestones. A carven figure in the centre indicated to any onlookers which God the dead were interred in the name of, but being an outsider the hunter didn’t recognise them.
The source of the rhythmic hacking revealed itself as they passed the monument. A man, a hunter, was intently hitting a corpse with his axe. The corpse was no beast, owning no monstrous jaws or claws which rend. Merely human, a Yharnamite who had chosen the wrong outsider to follow.
The hunter gulped, watching the scene with growing trepidation. The crow woman has said that some hunters hunted other hunters, perhaps he was another like her. Either that, or he was blood-tinged, driven into the crazed rapture of blood addiction.
It soon became clear which one it was.
“That smell… ” His voice was gruff, strong as he stopped and sniffed the air, his nostrils dilated with every inhalation. As he turned the hunter could see a coarsely bearded face, grey hair falling over hastily bandaged eyes. He had sniffed out their presence like a bloodhound.
“Beasts all over the shop…”
He advanced upon the hunter, blunderbuss poised ready to fire, all thought of desecrating the corpse forgotten.
“Wait! Wait, stop - I’m not a beast, I’m human! I’m-” They dived to the floor as a volley of buckshot flew over their head where they had just been standing. A shard of shrapnel embedded itself in their back, tearing the cape from their head with the force. They rolled to one side as the massive axe smashed into the ground beside them, jumping to their feet and circling away from the old hunter.
“Stop! I’m not a beast.”
“Hah!” He spat. The man’s hand found their shirt, picking them up by their lapels until their toes barely touched the floor. At this close distance, they could see the man’s face clearly. Mouth contorted with rage and mania, his hot breath created a misty cloud as he panted. His canines, they noticed, were more than slightly pointed.
“Sick creature. You'll be one of them, sooner or later…”
The hunter kicked out at his chest, making impact and sending them both sprawling in opposite directions. The music box fell from their coat pocket and clattered across the flagstones. The lid had flipped open from the fall, and the slow, unwound tune filled the air.
“What…? Viola… Argh!” The man clasped his head between his hands, dropping his weapons to the ground in an effort to contain his internal conflict. The hunter, still alert, sighed with relief. Perhaps they would not need to take a human life today after all. They approached the man carefully, hand outstretched as though trying to befriend a wounded animal.
“I think… I think you need to come home to your daughter.”
This suggestion was met with even more screaming as the man bellowed, it looked like he would almost tear his face in two. To the hunters utter terror and disgust, he did. His skin slid apart between his hands like a cloth ripping in two. Hands which were now muscled and sinewy, new tendons snaking along his flesh. His coat ripped, revealing tufts of ashen hair across his body and his mouth split into a grotesque parody of a smile.
Oh, my god, they thought to themselves as the hulking creature before him raised its head and howled against the setting sun. The beasts are people.
The hunter-beast lumbered directly at them, smashing any gravestones that dared to cross it’s path. In all respects it had the same features as the other beasts they had encountered, had the others also once been men? They didn’t have time to ponder this for long. The attacks were relentless, the creature’s energy allowing it to execute an unending tirade of swipes and leaps.
They dashed behind a raised tomb as the beast crashed into it, stunning itself with the impact and exposing the bones inside. The hunter extended their saw to its full length and without a second thought brought it down onto the beast’s swollen shoulder, pulling it back sharply and letting the serrated teeth tear through the distended flesh.
It was not enough, and the beastly creature only increased it’s attacks, catching the hunter off guard and sending them flying over the gravestones and into the mess of mangled, butchered bodies. They hurried to pull themselves up, and their palm fell upon something hard and cold. Their hand was resting on the chest of an unknown woman, her neckline exposing a grisly puncture wound that snaked deep within her bosom. In their palm was a large, bright red gemstone. The hunter’s eyes grew large.
My m-mum wears a red-jeweled brooch. It's so big and beautiful, you won't miss it.
The beast was already on its way, dripping with cruor and leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Cornered and alone, the hunter did the only thing that was left to them. They held aloft the red-jeweled brooch, pointing it directly into the charging beast’s face, closed their eyes and waited.
The final blow didn’t come.
When they opened their eyes the beast squatted before them, face close to their outstretched hand. It was just sat there, fixated upon the jewel and breathing heavily, each exhalation a plume of steam in the chill air.
The shot rang out loudly across the churchyard, startling nearby ravens into flight. The man-beast looked almost peaceful as it toppled to the ground, the hole in its head singed with gunpowder burns.
Blood dripped from the gravestones that remained standing, the entire yard was a mess of gore and rubble. There was no sound to be heard except the haggard sobs of the hunter as they heaped dirt into the makeshift grave. Finding a shovel had been easy enough, it was a cemetery after all. Dragging the bodies into the hole had been harder, but worth it. Six foot beneath the cold earth the beastial body of the old hunter and his wife embraced, together for the final time. They topped the mound with the shattered stones of other graves, carefully carving the two names they had found inside the music box onto the handle of the great axe, which stood pride of place on top of the cairn.
Gascoigne and Viola.
There was only one thing left to do. The sun was getting lower in the sky, it was almost nightfall already. The hunter polished their pistol in silence, seated beneath the statue of the unknown God.
The beasts were people.
From high above them a bell began to toll. So there was life in the Cathedral Ward after all. It might even come from the chapel connected to this churchyard. But these were thoughts for another lifetime.
They had been killing people all this time.
Smoothly and without hesitation the hunter placed the muzzle of the pistol into their mouth, aimed high, and pulled the trigger. A soft snow began to fall, dappling their body with speckles of pale frost before melting away to nothing.