Written in Blood

Interview with Ambrose Hazen. Interviewer: Harold Black. Typewritten, questions omitted. Paper, 8x10.5 in.

It seems Stallworth, Gottschalk, and I were the first to lay eyes on the thing. But we hadn’t been hunting it. We didn’t know there was anything to hunt. We were looking for Lynch. We knew she was collecting blood, and the reason couldn’t be good. We all had our own reasons for trying to stop that from happening. When we heard she’d gotten that quack doctor involved, we moved in. But they had more firepower. We had to lay low in the building, just listening to the screaming, until they thought we were gone and everything quieted down.

But it only got louder. There was a crash, and shouting, and then the thing came around the corner like it could hear our hearts hammering. It was all tangled in leather straps like the restraints we had to use for amputation in the 26th, and then those fell away. The smell...the absolute <i>stench</i> of all that blood...look, it doesn’t matter. It got away—but so did we. I had to stitch myself up, Gottschalk was in even worse shape, but we had no time to rest. We had to find that damned thing and figure out how to kill it. Quick.

Letter. 5x6 in.

Friar Daniel,

We’ve found and faced the beast, though I’m ashamed to say we had to retreat again. Its armor is too dry for a bomb to stick, though the blast still works fine. We wasted a lot of bullets trying to slow it down, but the skin on its legs seems especially thick. Our shots ricocheted, and if they wounded the thing at all, it sure didn’t show it.

If you find it before we track it down again, I hope this information is useful to you.

I never told you how glad I am I heard you preaching, that first night. I always go to service, always have, but I wouldn’t call myself a holy woman. I’ve got doubts, same as everyone, and now more than ever. But you were so sure. You knew this thing would come, and you knew it was wrong. And I know I’ll do my part to stop it.

In faith,

Prudence Stallworth

Laura Gottschalk’s notebook. Leatherbound and carved with unknown symbols. Ink appears to be blood. 8x12 in.

When I was with Night of the Hunter, the visions came every time I sacrificed. I <u>refuse</u> to believe that they stopped just because I was cast out. I was devoted! I believed! I still perform the rituals and observe the signs! But though I slit the throats of rabbits and foxes and men, and pour their bubbling blood into the earth, my eyes remain unseeing.

I just need more blood, I’m sure of it. If I can catch the beast we’re tracking, this thing that gurgles and chokes and spits and <u>wallows</u> in it, if I can sacrifice <u>that</u>, that will surely be enough. That will show me the beautiful end, with its glorious light. I’ll hear the screaming and the trumpets. I’ll know how fast it approaches.

Doomsday should come for us all, righteous or bloodthirsty. Let us hasten it along.

Letter. 6x8 in.

Otis,

Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you, but I have to assume you’re still alive and wearing that damn hat. Bridgewater and I parted for a bit. He took up with The Righteous, same as me, but I’m hunting with some new partners now. The three of us together all want this new monster a little deader than everybody else.

I’m writing to warn you, in case you come across it. It changes when it feels cornered. Never seen anything like it. If you try to keep your distance, it’s got other ways to bite you. Just hang on to your wits and bring something that can start a fire. It doesn’t seem to like the heat.

I never got into what I did for Lynch back then, and now isn’t the time, either. But that man Russett, he used to be like you. Taller than most. Good aim, good eye. Nothing much to lose. That woman might get ideas. Don’t you listen to any of them. I know everyone says she made the inoculation, and her eyes were the first ones opened to the dark sight, and all of us would’ve gotten infected without our initiations. But after this long, I don’t think I believe it. Or maybe what I don’t believe is that she actually intends to stop all this. Either way, its only getting worse. I just wish I knew how—or <u>why</u>. But once I catch up to her, I’ll kill her before I can ask.

--Ambrose

Laura Gottschalk’s notebook. 8x12 in.

It is done, and not without effort. We’d be dead if I hadn’t shot the thing when it leapt, breaking its concentration. What a fight it was. My boots tangling in the veins and sliding in the blood...my shoulder still throbs where that awful limb burst from the beast’s ribcage and sank its pincers into me. It was truly a shape-changer. A flayed nightmare. A visitor from the bright world of my visions. <u>Bloodskin</u>.

It frightened me, but not why you’d expect. It trembled as if dying of thirst, and lunged as if possessed. As if it couldn’t control itself. As if, perhaps, it didn’t even <i>want</i> to attack us, but had no other choice. It shrieked like it could never get enough, no matter how much it drank. But when it got it, it shrieked in pain. I’ve never seen such compulsion, and before it, my beating heart cowered.

But in the end, we killed it, and just like I hoped, the sacrifice worked. To have another vision after so long was a welcome relief. Hazen and Stallworth told me that I shook and wept and laughed hysterically. I don’t remember that. I only remember how clear the images were before my eyes, how bright.

There is no doubt what I must do now to see the end of time. Like the bloody moon across the sky, we must all travel west.