The Hunter's Moon

The night before Halloween is always the most dangerous. All year, the undergods watch the evils done by humankind and harvest the miasma of suffering and despair left in their wake. The thaumaturgic substance was distilled, refined, and infused into effluvia rhamnusia, or ichor of nemesis, as the alchemists call it. I use the old name for it: soul phlogiston. It doesn't really matter what it's called. The most important thing to understand is that the worse we are, the worse it is.

As the sun sets on the 30th of October, ghostly tendrils, like stray threads of fog, are sent up from the depths of the earth, turning the land it touches into a corrupting morass. When the wisps of the noxious mist touch a living creature, flesh intumesces, bones elongate and warp, teeth and claws enlarge, erupt red and wet through the gums and and skin, gleaming like porcelain razors. Those innocent creatures, once corrupted, became an amalgam of nightmare and beast. Then they would turn to the city. 

Humans were not immune, although it was rare to find an innocent human in this city.

The city had grown too prosperous too quickly, and the vast structures had arisen in a frenzy of activity in only the past decade. Towering structures with flying buttresses, adorned with elaborate carvings. Pointed arches stabbed at the skyline, making the city look like the lower jaw of a slavering beast. Every prominent building had massive, stained-glassed windows, and the sunset trickling through them turned the streets the color of blood.

The narrow, twisting streets were cobblestone and brick, filled with blind turns, sudden inclines, and dead ends.

The moon rose in the sky, and night was here.

Every town has at least one hunter, and a city this size would need dozens. Tonight, in this city, I was the only one left. 

I did not wear armor. There was no point. A light, loose-fitting long coat over a coat, trousers, and vest to protect from the night's chill, sturdy boots, and a tricorn hat worn low to shield my eyes from the spatter of blood.  

We had firearms, but they were ineffective from any safe distance. You could only hurt them if they could hurt you. Those were the rules. 

My preferred weapon was a heavy, saw-toothed cleaver. The creatures that were coming to prowl the city for victims were not easily crushed, or shot, or stabbed. They had to bleed, or they would not die. Until enough of the nemesis salts were drained, they would fight on, slavering, enraged, howling, until they cut us all down. The cleaver's teeth were crude, jagged, and could tear through hide, bone, and entrails.

I shouldered my weapon and walked out from my workshop into the city, my footsteps heavy on the cobblestone, echoing down the empty streets. Everyone knew to stay inside tonight. The creatures would usually leave by dawn, and they would not come back the next night. Halloween would be safe, one way or the other. 

The wind shifted, and I smelled something sweet and metallic; the coppery smell of blood. I sighed, and my breath clouded around me. I heard the clicking of claws on stone, and glowing yellow eyes peered at me from the shadows, flickering in the light of the gas lamps.

I drew back my cleaver. "Stay calm," I thought. "Just think of it as nothing more than a bad dream."

More eyes appeared, and then the beasts were upon me.

THE END

Author's Note: Happy Halloween! Thank you for doing this with me. It's been...illuminating. And fun, and painful, and scary, and frustrating, and joyous. I don't know exactly how many stories I've written, but I know it's not 31 so maybe a few more will trickle out over the next week or so.

And yes, this is Bloodborne fan fiction, but I will not apologize. I love that game. And I changed it a little; there are undergods, not elder gods. Take that, copyright lawyers!

I am weary. And it's Halloween, so go face your fears and give out lots of that most delicious of candy: human kindness. Goodnight, and I love you all.