Chapter one: case file / " lost one"

Investigator : John M. masters

his phone in hand, eyes scanning the text message that had just come through. At first, it seemed like just another spam text-another unknown number, another random message. But then the second message arrived: Code Orange, 5th Street, near the abandoned steel mill. He knew then that this wasn't random. Rising up from the table, John cursed under his breath. This was the worst possible time for something like this to happen, but it couldn't be avoided. He was going to have to go.

With a sharp exhale, he raised a hand toward Samantha, signaling the end of their conversation. "Look, Sam, you've already made up your mind. I don't even know why you want my input," he said, pushing his chair in as he stood.

He took a couple of steps away when Samantha's voice cut through the tension. "You always do this. Every time we talk about the house, you suddenly have somewhere else to be, or you just shut down the conversation."

John stopped mid-step, his hand already in his pocket, feeling for a cigarette. He had half-opened the pack before turning back toward her, sliding it back in and flipping the top of his coat pocket closed. He sighed, the weight of everything catching up to him.

"Aren't you the one who decided to leave me? You think I'm supposed to have some grand plan ready for when you tell me you and your lover are running off together? Don't start this crap with me, Sam," he snapped, his voice low and bitter.

Samantha's expression hardened. "do whatever you're going to do. Fine, fair enough. But if that's the case, then I'm going to do what I have to. then I guess we'll see ."

John clenched his jaw, biting back the response that rose to his lips. He turned and walked out, the alley waiting for him, drenched in the tension of the moment as his phone buzzed again.

Samantha wasn't finished. She stood up abruptly, storming over to him and jabbing her finger into his chest. Her eyes locked with his, cold and accusing. For a moment, it seemed like she had something to say, like she was about to launch into another tirade. But as their gazes met, whatever fire she had seemed to die out. Her lips parted, but no words came.

John felt the bile rise in his throat. His anger, barely contained, simmered under his calm exterior. "What could you possibly say to me now, huh, Sam? You wanna tell me I should've seen it coming? What other nonsense do you want to add in?" His voice was harsh, cutting through the silence.

She faltered, whatever retort she had prepared slipping away. For a moment-just a brief second-there was something almost remorseful in her expression. It was as if she suddenly realized that she had been wrong, that maybe, just maybe, all of this was on her. But that moment was fleeting. John didn't have time to dwell on it, and he certainly didn't have time to talk about it any

longer. He had to go.

He glanced down at his phone, checking the app they used for situations like this. No one else had responded to the Code Orange. He was the only one in the area who could answer it. Unless someone was coming in from another district, this was on him.

Stepping outside, he headed toward his cherry red 1970 Chevelle SS. It was an older model,  classic muscle he'd kept it in pristine condition. The exterior was mostly original, save for a fresh coat of paint, but the inside wa something different  "upgraded and modified "  to meet his needs-especially for work. He stopped for a moment, checking his hip to make sure the long barrel of his Smith & Wesson Model 500 was still securely tucked into its holster.

For a split second, he thought about going back inside, maybe talking to her a little longer, maybe finding some kind of resolution. But he cursed himself for even thinking about it. "Damn it, John, get it together," he muttered under his breath, slamming a fist against the steering wheel.

He shoved the keys into the ignition, starting the engine with a growl. As he pulled out of the driveway, his eyes scanned the street. He was relieved that he hadn't seen the white sedan pull up. He wasn't sure if he'd have been able to just drive off without doing something. For now, he kept his focus on the road ahead. There was work to do, and whatever mess was waiting at that steel mill wasn't going to fix itself.

He made his way from the outskirts of town, keeping to the less crowded streets to avoid traffic. He didn't have the luxury of time, and the last thing he needed was to be stuck behind a line of cars. His fingers tapped out his response to the initial text, inputting his personal code for confirmation. Not long after, the mission details started coming through.

The console in his car came alive, and the serene, British voice he'd selected began reading aloud the limited information he'd been sent. "Multiple possible victims... injuries unconfirmed... supernatural nature of the threat verified... hostile entity highly likely." That last part wasn't new; he already knew it from the Code Orange alert. What complicated things was the number of potential injured and the confirmation that whatever he was walking into was still in progress.

He clenched the steering wheel tighter as the voice continued, wrapping up the message with a final note: Good luck, Praetorian.

John muttered under his breath, "Son of a bitch." Missions with this little intel-going in half-cocked-were how hunters, especially Praetorians like himself, ended up dead. It was a dangerous gamble, but it didn't matter. He had to go in, regardless of the risks. At least he knew the pay would be decent; Code Oranges were high on the scale. But what kind of threat he'd be facing remained a mystery, and that was what unnerved him.

He arrived not long after, the messages still echoing in his mind as he pulled into the beat-up parking lot. The last rays of dusk bled into the horizon, casting a dim light over the scene. His eyes settled on the brick and iron building ahead. It looked old, abandoned for who knew how long-exactly the kind of place where things like this happened.

John killed the engine and sat for a moment, eyes scanning the warehouse's rust-streaked walls. "Perfect place for this sort of thing," he thought grimly. He reached for his sidearm, checking it once more before stepping out of the car. This wasn't going to be easy.

He stepped out of the car, taking a long drag from his cigarette and letting his eyes roam the area. The remnants of a town that had once thrived on steel stretched out before him: a barely-used railway to one side, a river flowing sluggishly in the distance, and hollowed-out buildings that seemed just as empty as the spirit of the place. It was fitting, he thought, for what he was about to walk into. His eyes caught the faded number on the side of the warehouse-3. That matched the information he'd been given.

Before making his move, John paused. He'd been doing this long enough to know that the smallest mistake could get you killed, and in his line of work, there were no second chances. A pre-check was a must. He ran his hand down the length of his coat, checking for each item in turn. Two speed loaders-one with white ash rounds, the other silver-for his Smith & Wesson Model 500. Tucked inside his coat were his usual tools of the trade: a pouch of salt, a vial of holy water, splinters from a blessed cross, Shinto talismans. Each one, in its own way, could be a lifesaver. He wasn't going to be caught unprepared.

Satisfied, he stepped away from the car and moved toward the warehouse, his boots crunching over the cracked and overgrown sidewalk. The area was littered with broken beer bottles and trash, a testament to how long the place had been left to rot. The dim light from a flickering streetlamp, its bulb likely unchanged since the '70s, cast a sickly orange glow over everything. It gave the scene a strange, eerie ambiance, as though something unnatural was waiting just out of sight.

When he finally reached the front of the building, he spotted the iron door he'd been told about. It was rusted and covered in layers of graffiti, some of it probably older than he was. But he didn't care about the history, just the now. He pulled on his black leather gloves, a brief smirk forming as an OJ joke popped into his mind. He killed the thought before it could distract him further and reached for the door.

It didn't budge. He gave it another shove, harder this time. Still no movement.

"Great," he muttered. With a grunt, he stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck, considering his options. This wasn't the time for subtlety, and he had no patience for finesse.

John stood back, his eyes scanning the area for any hidden cameras. It wasn't the first time he'd had to clean up a mess, and dealing with CCTV was always a headache. He couldn't afford any unwanted attention, especially in this line of work. His reputation would be worth less than a dime if someone got a video of him in action. He let out a breath once he was sure the coast was clear, no prying eyes lurking in the shadows.

From the outer pocket of his coat, he pulled a small piece of chalk, the kind with a history of its own. It was old, but it had its uses. His fingers moved quickly, drawing ancient script along the edge of the rusted iron door. The symbols were tedious to carve, each line deliberate, the strokes careful, but he knew it was the most reliable method. This was no time for shortcuts.

He paused for a moment, checking his work. Satisfied, he stepped back, whispering a single word in the giant's tongue-Ermálkr. It was the word that meant "melt," and the power behind it was immediate.

The chalk markings on the door glowed faintly at first, then blazed white. The color shifted quickly to orange, then red. The temperature in the air seemed to rise, the very atmosphere humming with latent energy. The runes crackled and burned, their magic infusing the door.

And then it happened.

The iron door didn't just break or bend; it melted. Slowly at first, the edges of the metal liquefying into molten slag, dripping down in heavy, sizzling rivulets. The harsh glow of the heat illuminated the dim surroundings as the door turned into a molten mess, its structure disintegrating piece by piece under the power of the spell.

John watched as the last remnants of the door gave way, leaving an open passage into the warehouse. No more barriers. No more locks.

He took a deep breath, running his hand over his jaw. Time to face whatever waited inside. No turning back now.

With the door still liquefying, hot orange metal dripping to the ground in heavy, molten gobs, John reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette he had meant to smoke earlier. He placed it between his lips, flipped his Zippo twice, and, shielding the flame with his hand, lit the tip. The bitter taste of menthol hit his tongue, soothing his nerves in the face of what was sure to be a long night. He took a deep drag, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. No turning back now.

Stolen story; please report.

Steeling himself, he stepped through the molten remnants of the doorway. The heat still radiated from the edges of the frame, casting an ominous glow that danced along the dark, forgotten corridor. He flicked on his phone's flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom and revealing the interior of what used to be an office. Old filing cabinets stood like sentinels, untouched for years, covered in a thick blanket of dust. Papers long abandoned were scattered across the floor, their yellowed edges curling with age.

John moved cautiously, scanning every inch of the room. The smell of mildew and rot filled the air, almost choking, as dust swirled up in response to his movement, caught in the harsh light of his phone. He crossed the room in a few strides, reaching a wooden door that led deeper into the complex. The hinges creaked and flaked rust as he pushed it open slowly, the loud groan of metal on metal echoing through the empty space beyond.

The room on the other side was barren, save for a few towering stacks of wooden crates shoved against the far wall. His flashlight flicked across the surface of each one-no labels, no markings to tell what they had once held. To his right, he noticed a row of large, grimy windows, cracked but still intact. Beyond them, he could see the expanse of the steel mill's main floor: dark, industrial, with towering structures that loomed in the shadows.

The beams of machinery still stood, casting long, jagged silhouettes against the floor. But something about the place seemed wrong-off in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Old machines he could recognize, but there were other things, newer objects, placed deliberately. Large, industrial boilers with thick, sprawling pipes lined either side of the space. They weren't relics from the past; they had a purpose here now.

John's eyes traveled up toward the ceiling, where a rusted catwalk stretched across the expanse. It hung precariously, parts of it dipping dangerously low, as if ready to collapse at any moment. The only sound was a faint mechanical hum in the background, something still active, lurking deeper inside.

He took another drag of his cigarette, muttering under his breath, "Son of a bitch... this is worse than I thought."

With the room clear for now, he moved closer to the window, his mind racing. He wasn't here by choice-this was a job, a call he couldn't ignore. Code Orange. That meant supernatural and hostile. And he was alone.

"Good luck, Praetorian," he recalled from the message, the words ringing bitterly in his head. He'd need it.

John exhaled smoke and stepped away from the window. He had to keep moving. Whatever had brought him here wasn't going to wait.

John stepped into what he assumed was an old break room, the door creaking and flaking with every push. Inside, the room was as decayed as the rest of the building: a rusting fridge in one corner, a rotting wooden table with a couple of broken-down chairs scattered around. There was nothing here of any importance, just relics of a past life now crumbling into disuse. He took a final glance around, not expecting much but still alert for any signs-anything out of place. But there was nothing.

Turning his attention to the next door, his fingers closed around the knob, cold and rough with age. As he prepared to push through, the sound hit him-a distant thumping, faint at first but quickly growing louder. Heavy, deliberate, like something large moving through the mill. His breath caught as two closer thumps reverberated through the walls, unmistakable now-something big was here, something alive in a place long dead.

His free hand instinctively rested on the holster at his hip, the weight of the gun a small comfort. He pushed the door open, stepping into a corridor dominated by sprawling pipes that wound their way around him like serpents. Steam hissed from broken valves further down, filling the air with a thick humidity that clung to his skin. It was sweltering, oppressive, the kind of heat that didn't belong in a place that should've been cold and abandoned.

But the building wasn't dead. It had a pulse, something hidden beneath the surface, breathing through the walls and the pipes. John could feel it-the unnaturalness of the place was undeniable. The corridors twisted in ways that didn't make sense, like a labyrinth carved out of rusted metal, steam, and shadows.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, he muttered to himself, "Anomalous distortion... mild, but definitely visible." The way the walls bent and curved slightly out of place, just enough to put his senses on edge. His voice barely registered over the distant hum, and he exhaled slowly, feeling the tension build with every step.

He sighed heavily, knowing what that meant. This job wasn't going to be a simple hunt. The supernatural presence was altering reality around him, making the place a living maze of pipes and steam. And whatever was making those thumping sounds was likely at the heart of it.

John pressed on, cigarette smoke trailing behind him, his mind sharp but his body tense. Every nerve in him was on high alert.

John moved cautiously down the narrow hallway, keeping a deliberate distance from the corroded pipes and hissing jets of steam. The further he progressed, the more the distortion pressed on him. It was no longer subtle. The floor beneath him had transformed from concrete to rusted steel, slick with moisture. Soon he found himself trudging through inches of stagnant water, the sour, decaying smell of it hitting his nostrils hard. His hand never left the pistol at his side. The silvered knife might be the better option, but he'd rather shoot first and deal with close combat second.

As the water crept up to his ankles, the hallway widened into a massive, industrial space. Pipes spidered up the tall walls, reaching into the obscurity of a ceiling he could barely make out in the dim light. Overhead lights blinked erratically, shifting from dull yellow to brief flashes of red. He scanned the room with his phone's flashlight, but nothing caught his eye. Just an enormous grate beneath his feet and a bulky door at the far end of the room, flanked by rusted machinery.

The bulkhead seemed like the obvious place to check, and his instincts-honed by years of dealing with the unknown-told him he was close to the source of the anomaly. Slowly, methodically, he approached the door. His eyes flicked from one shadowy corner to the next, on edge for any sudden movement. Reaching the door, he noticed a lever on the wall. It was caked in grime, the rubber handle deteriorating in his grip.

John hesitated for a second, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nothing had snuck up on him. The tension in the room felt thick, like the air was pressing down on him. After a moment's pause, he yanked the lever down.

For a beat, nothing happened. Then, the ancient gears groaned into motion, grinding and clanking as the door slowly began to rise. Rust crumbled away, falling into the grate beneath his feet. He shone his flashlight into the growing gap as the door inched upwards. Beyond it-nothing but pure, oppressive blackness. The light from his phone barely penetrated the void, swallowed up entirely as if the darkness had a weight, a physical presence.

John's stomach dropped. There was no way he was stepping into that darkness-not yet. He'd come far, sure, but something about this felt wrong. Light didn't just disappear like that, even in places warped by the supernatural. There were always limits to how much the anomalies could twist reality. This was something else.

He drew his gun, holding it steady at hip height. His other hand kept the phone's light forward, but now the screen was flickering, showing strange artifacts and garbled text. His pulse quickened. This was the sign he'd been waiting for, the confirmation that whatever he was hunting was here, and it was bad. Very bad.

Taking a drag from the cigarette, he muttered under his breath, "Shit."

The darkness beyond the door was a trap. He knew it. But this was where he needed to go. With the phone glitching and the gun in hand, John took two cautious steps forward. His instincts screamed at him to stop, to turn back, but there was no turning back now. Whatever was waiting for him inside that black abyss

John moved quickly under the descending door, his eyes narrowing as the rusted metal groaned and rattled behind him. He didn't trust that mechanism. The last thing he needed was for it to slam shut while he was halfway through, trapping him like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. He straightened up, taking a slow, cautious breath as he stepped fully into the space. His boots thudded against the uneven floor, the sound strangely muffled by the thick, damp air. The coppery tang hit his nostrils immediately. Without thinking, he whispered the word aloud.

"Blood."

His voice sounded foreign in the dark, almost swallowed by the thick, oppressive atmosphere. The air was different here-heavier, like it was alive with something he couldn't see. As he moved forward, sweeping his phone's flickering light left and right, the stale, humid air clung to him. He could feel it crawling over his skin, wrapping around his senses like an invisible net. He had stepped into something far more disturbing than just an abandoned mill.

Several more feet into the darkness, the floor beneath him transitioned from the twisted, corroded metal of the outer hallways back to a more familiar, sterile concrete. The walls around him now flanked by machines-massive, hulking shapes that still stood like rusting monuments to the mill's industrial past. Pipes stretched upward, like gnarled roots, tangling overhead. His boots scuffed across the floor, each step echoed with an uneasy finality, like it might be the last sound before something responded.

His eyes caught a flash of color on the ground, and he paused. Shining the light down, he saw the first few pieces-ripped children's clothing, small garments torn to shreds. The pastel shades of shirts, dresses, and tiny shoes lay scattered like discarded dolls, now soaked through with dark, crusted stains. The blood had dried long ago, but the sight of it filled his throat with bile.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breath to steady. Focus, he thought. He'd seen things like this before, though it never got easier. He couldn't afford to let the horror get the best of him, not now. The piles of shredded clothes grew denser as he moved deeper into the room, so thick that he had to step over them, boots nudging the matted fabric out of the way. His heart thudded harder in his chest, a dull throb in his ears.

The scene around him reminded him of something-those missing child posters plastered on milk cartons, pinned to walls in supermarkets. Ordinary people thought it was simple: human trafficking, abduction, something tragic but comprehensible. But John knew better. He knew what lurked in the shadows. What hunted in places like this.

He moved further into the space, his gun now drawn, the weight of it comforting in his grip. His eyes flicked between the rows of dormant machines, the light sweeping back and forth. No movement. Nothing in sight. Yet the tension in his gut twisted tighter with every step, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

Something about this didn't add up. He ran through the possibilities in his mind. Hags? Maybe. Changelings? A possibility, but unlikely-they avoided urban centers, preferring more remote places to carry out their grim business. No, this was something older, something far more insidious. He tried to shake off the rising dread, but it clung to him like a second skin.

His phone flickered again, the light sputtering in rapid bursts as the screen began to glitch. Bright flashes and strange symbols filled the screen, static distorting the image until it was little more than a mass of unintelligible lines. He cursed under his breath, tapping the phone's side, but it didn't help. The light was malfunctioning. The anomalies were getting worse.

He swept the fading light into the far corner of the room, where the shadows hung heavy and thick, pooling like ink. He took another step forward, careful not to disturb the quiet too much. His breath sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. The machine hum seemed to vibrate through the floor, like the very air around him was suffused with some malevolent force. The closer he got to the corner, the deeper the blackness seemed to grow. No light could penetrate it-not even the beam from his phone.

He hesitated at the edge of the darkness, his finger hovering over the trigger of his gun. This was wrong. Light didn't just vanish like this. Even in the most warped, distorted places, light had rules. It refracted, bounced, scattered. But here... it was simply swallowed up, erased from existence.

John's grip tightened on the pistol, his breath shallow now. He took two more tentative steps forward, his instincts screaming at him that something was watching, waiting. As he moved, his phone continued to stutter and flicker, the screen now a mess of white noise and shifting, incomprehensible shapes. The air thickened around him, his pulse racing.

Then, as if from nowhere, the pieces clicked into place. His mind sifted through the possibilities, eliminating one by one until only one remained. His mouth went dry as he forced the word to the surface, whispering it like a curse.

"Childersnatch."

The name alone was enough to set his teeth on edge. The creature had many forms, many faces, but its signature was always the same-children, gone without a trace. Their clothing left behind, often drenched in blood. His mind raced, piecing together the stories he'd heard, the descriptions he wished he could forget. Creatures like this didn't just kill. They fed on innocence, devouring the very essence of youth, leaving nothing but nightmares in their wake.

John's grip on the gun steadied as he aimed toward the suffocating darkness. He knew what he was dealing with now. His senses screamed for him to turn back, to flee, but it was too late. He had come too far. The Childersnatch was here.

And it was waiting for him.