Igor, Froderick
12-20-2014, 01:35 PM
What doesn't say "the holidays" like some monsters?! Not really christmasy, I know, but hope you enjoy this short story:
Journal of Ichabod Van Helsing
27th Day of October, In the Year of Our Lord, 1722
London
Perusing earlier transcripts of this journal, I noticed a bit over a year ago I’d run into some other preternatural truculence. It’s as if hellfire’s offspring congregates annually in His Majesty’s capitol. The city itself presents a gallimaufry of pleasantries and intrigues, true enough, but subterranean inhabitors cast a pall, a lingering scent of acrid unholiness betraying a past of nefarious infestation.
I caught a whiff of this stench last night as I approached one of the large cemeteries close to Hyde Park. A missive had been sent to my rooms, from one of our Order—a watchman by the name of Bidwell—speaking of fell goings on amidst the city of graves adjoining Hyde’s leisure fields. Evidently our man was ill-equipped to deal with the menace, and I was consulted for my particular set of skills.
The note spoke of how two guards hired to oversee the graveyard at night had disappeared, and that a number of the new hires had quit due to eerie sounds and movement of shadows throughout the place. Currently the position was open. I intended to see to the matter, and stepped up to the front gate, an enormous and imposing structure so large that I had to enter through the wicket portion.
As I reached for the latch I heard the click of a trigger and felt the point of pistol barrel at my back. It being the time when virtually everyone was asleep, I thought it not irregular that brigands were about.
“Give me your currency and whatever you have of value,” rasped the voice.
“Alright, just let me reach into my coat,” I said, calmly.
I am not one to be caught by surprise, and there was something uncanny to this roguery. As I pretended to fumble for my script, I swooped aside and landed a punch to his temple. His pistol dropped to the cobbles. I could now see what made his voice different. This man was a werewolf, cursed to find human prey in the wee hours. Obviously this attempt to rob was a diversion to make the acquiring of his meal less difficult. He knew not with whom he dealt.
He let out a low growl, the wisps starting to appear around his sundered lip, all along his hands, while his snout began to protrude and his muscles reformed into abnormal bulk.
“You made a grave mistake, sir,” he said. “I am not one to be trifled with.”
Before he lunged with his now-formed lupine jaws, I reached for my silver poniard.
He caught sight of it and growled louder. “What is this? Am I with a Hunter? This shall be good sport then.”
With that, he came at me, grabbing my shoulders with his thick claws while I tried to use the blade on him. He snarled and almost laughed as my resistance began to yield. I fell to the ground due to his sheer weight but still managed to avoid his bite. Yet he swiped the blade out of my hands and it clattered away. Now I was in treacherous straits. I grabbed a small non-silver blade out of my side-pocket and thrust into the beast’s side. He howled and that was my moment.
The beast’s injury caused it to pause—just the time I needed to maneuver away from him and pass through the wicket gate and slam it shut. There was a lock from the inside and I quickly turned it. The beast snarled at this and began looking for other modes of entry.
I ran up the hill dotted with tombstones. Looking back I saw the beast climbing the gigantic cemetery gate. He was already three quarters the way up, and I turned and ran some more, readying my silver-loaded pistols. When I reached a large walk-in sarcophagi, I caught my breath and waited within the chamber of death.
It was then that I heard a peculiar noise. It was something I hadn’t heard in a long time… in another graveyard in Scotland.
The sound was disrupted when I heard the loud thumps of an angry predator ambling its way toward me. I stepped out to meet the beast with my flintlocks, and before I could fire, the wail of fiend forced me to give pause. There stepped in view at my right a giant ghoul of lore, and it wailed as it spoke, “Your souls are mine!!”
The ghoul’s face looked dead for over a century, and its stench almost made me retch from where I stood, the smell of a thousand rotting corpses. I reached for my holy potions to drench on this fiend, but the werewolf attacked first—not at me, but at the manifested soultaker.
This was a first… I had never seen two such devils combat each other. I had come to rid this cemetery of its evil, and evidently I now had a bit of help. The beast battled against fiend, both possessing incredible strength. The beast bit already dead flesh, and the ghoul, with the strength of ten men, used the manwolf’s head to bash against the stone tombs.
Seeing the werewolf falter, I ran up to the fiend drenching it with the holy potions I had brought. It screeched something odious and withered away before me, its physical form dissipating like unearthly vapors.
By now the werewolf had recovered, although dazed, and attempted to come at me, not realizing I had just saved it from its demise. I ran from it as it flashed here and there between sarcophagi. I fired one of my pistols. The thing let out a roar, the silver offering its baneful effect. I now saw the beast moving away from me, limping pathetically and wearily. Evidently this dog was done playing.
I followed behind but it looked back and saw me, thereby increasing its flight. I fired another shot but it went wide, and the beast crashed through a side gate, fleeing through the city and back to its den.
I was quite tired from the evening’s events, so I decided to call it quits. I would return to the pub for a pint of bitter, and perhaps some cockles. There was always tomorrow to continue the hunt…
Journal of Ichabod Van Helsing
27th Day of October, In the Year of Our Lord, 1722
London
Perusing earlier transcripts of this journal, I noticed a bit over a year ago I’d run into some other preternatural truculence. It’s as if hellfire’s offspring congregates annually in His Majesty’s capitol. The city itself presents a gallimaufry of pleasantries and intrigues, true enough, but subterranean inhabitors cast a pall, a lingering scent of acrid unholiness betraying a past of nefarious infestation.
I caught a whiff of this stench last night as I approached one of the large cemeteries close to Hyde Park. A missive had been sent to my rooms, from one of our Order—a watchman by the name of Bidwell—speaking of fell goings on amidst the city of graves adjoining Hyde’s leisure fields. Evidently our man was ill-equipped to deal with the menace, and I was consulted for my particular set of skills.
The note spoke of how two guards hired to oversee the graveyard at night had disappeared, and that a number of the new hires had quit due to eerie sounds and movement of shadows throughout the place. Currently the position was open. I intended to see to the matter, and stepped up to the front gate, an enormous and imposing structure so large that I had to enter through the wicket portion.
As I reached for the latch I heard the click of a trigger and felt the point of pistol barrel at my back. It being the time when virtually everyone was asleep, I thought it not irregular that brigands were about.
“Give me your currency and whatever you have of value,” rasped the voice.
“Alright, just let me reach into my coat,” I said, calmly.
I am not one to be caught by surprise, and there was something uncanny to this roguery. As I pretended to fumble for my script, I swooped aside and landed a punch to his temple. His pistol dropped to the cobbles. I could now see what made his voice different. This man was a werewolf, cursed to find human prey in the wee hours. Obviously this attempt to rob was a diversion to make the acquiring of his meal less difficult. He knew not with whom he dealt.
He let out a low growl, the wisps starting to appear around his sundered lip, all along his hands, while his snout began to protrude and his muscles reformed into abnormal bulk.
“You made a grave mistake, sir,” he said. “I am not one to be trifled with.”
Before he lunged with his now-formed lupine jaws, I reached for my silver poniard.
He caught sight of it and growled louder. “What is this? Am I with a Hunter? This shall be good sport then.”
With that, he came at me, grabbing my shoulders with his thick claws while I tried to use the blade on him. He snarled and almost laughed as my resistance began to yield. I fell to the ground due to his sheer weight but still managed to avoid his bite. Yet he swiped the blade out of my hands and it clattered away. Now I was in treacherous straits. I grabbed a small non-silver blade out of my side-pocket and thrust into the beast’s side. He howled and that was my moment.
The beast’s injury caused it to pause—just the time I needed to maneuver away from him and pass through the wicket gate and slam it shut. There was a lock from the inside and I quickly turned it. The beast snarled at this and began looking for other modes of entry.
I ran up the hill dotted with tombstones. Looking back I saw the beast climbing the gigantic cemetery gate. He was already three quarters the way up, and I turned and ran some more, readying my silver-loaded pistols. When I reached a large walk-in sarcophagi, I caught my breath and waited within the chamber of death.
It was then that I heard a peculiar noise. It was something I hadn’t heard in a long time… in another graveyard in Scotland.
The sound was disrupted when I heard the loud thumps of an angry predator ambling its way toward me. I stepped out to meet the beast with my flintlocks, and before I could fire, the wail of fiend forced me to give pause. There stepped in view at my right a giant ghoul of lore, and it wailed as it spoke, “Your souls are mine!!”
The ghoul’s face looked dead for over a century, and its stench almost made me retch from where I stood, the smell of a thousand rotting corpses. I reached for my holy potions to drench on this fiend, but the werewolf attacked first—not at me, but at the manifested soultaker.
This was a first… I had never seen two such devils combat each other. I had come to rid this cemetery of its evil, and evidently I now had a bit of help. The beast battled against fiend, both possessing incredible strength. The beast bit already dead flesh, and the ghoul, with the strength of ten men, used the manwolf’s head to bash against the stone tombs.
Seeing the werewolf falter, I ran up to the fiend drenching it with the holy potions I had brought. It screeched something odious and withered away before me, its physical form dissipating like unearthly vapors.
By now the werewolf had recovered, although dazed, and attempted to come at me, not realizing I had just saved it from its demise. I ran from it as it flashed here and there between sarcophagi. I fired one of my pistols. The thing let out a roar, the silver offering its baneful effect. I now saw the beast moving away from me, limping pathetically and wearily. Evidently this dog was done playing.
I followed behind but it looked back and saw me, thereby increasing its flight. I fired another shot but it went wide, and the beast crashed through a side gate, fleeing through the city and back to its den.
I was quite tired from the evening’s events, so I decided to call it quits. I would return to the pub for a pint of bitter, and perhaps some cockles. There was always tomorrow to continue the hunt…