Van Richten's Monster Hunter's.pdf - Askadesign.com

I was lost, but I knew the direction
from which the heart-numbing howl
had come. If I could not find the village
this night, at least I could complete the
task to which I had set myself and hunt
down the wretched spirit. I strode
determinedly through the mist.
The wailing spirits I had previously
destroyed always lurked within some
human-constructed building: a
deserted house, a desolate warehouse,
or (by preference) an abandoned
church. Thus, when I saw a small
stone house set atop a nearby hill, I
thought my trek was at an end. Surely
this was the sanctuary of the unquiet
spirit 1 believed I was hunting.
Preparing my holy water and other
accoutrements, I advanced stealthily
toward the building.
Great was my surprise and
embarrassment when the front door
swung open, silhouetting a burly figure
against the light. No spirit this, but a
red-faced, jolly-looking man around
his fikieth year. He was tall and broad,
as muscular as a blacksmith, yet with
the weather-tanned face of a farmer.
When he set his eyes on me, upon a
comparatively little man skulking
toward his home like a thief, he threw
back his head and laughed. Of course,
this only added to my humiliation.
“Come in, come in,” he called
boisterously. “No need to steal an
invitation to shelter when it’s freely
given. Get yeself in out of the night.”
I felt my face burning as I returned
my vials of sanctified water to my
pack and slid my silver-bladed knife
back into its sheath. “My apologies,” I
began abashedly, but he cut me off
with another booming laugh.
“Ne’er mind that now, friend,” he
said. and sup with me. Unless ye’d
prefer to sleep in the gravelight,
o’course.’’
I did not have to be invited twice.
Though I was confused-for surely the
wailing spirit must be somewhere
nearby-I welcomed the invitation.
This man was undeniably among the
w
WEICBEASTS I
living, and no joy of life such as he
displayed could coexist with a wailing
spirit. Perhaps this burly fellow could
direct me to the ectoplasmic horror’s
true sanctuary . . . on the morrow, of
course.
He gestured for me to enter and I
stepped into the cozy little two-room
structure. My host’s face was wrinkled
in a jolly smile, yet it was curious: I
sensed some kind of undertone, some
submerged emotion, beneath his
jocularity. Was it tension? A wellconcealed
effort or strain? I quickly
forgot this little mystery, however, as
he maintained a continuous flow of
words. At first, I tried to follow my
host’s rambling conversation, but
before long I realized that he was
talking for the sake of speaking rather
than to communicate anything of
value. His must be a lonely life, I
decided. My visit represented a rare
opportunity for conversation, for which
the man was both eager and out of
practice.
Still, I did not mind the man’s
chatter. There was a fire in the hearth
and a kettle of stew hanging over it.
The transition from a bone-chilling
cold to such cheery warmth seemed to
numb my mind like a strong herbal
sedative. When he bade me sit near
the hearth, I did so with a will. It was
only moments before I felt my head
start to nod with the onset of sleep,
and I began to fade away.
Then the man said something that
drew me out of my reverie.
“Welcome I said, and welcome I
meant, Dr. Van Richten.” He was
standing behind me, near the front
door. His tone was still friendly, but the
words that came next were not. “Your
name is known to me, for your fame
has spread far. So fine it’ll be to feast
on a man as famous as yourself. . . .”
With that I turned, disbelieving. I
simply could not have heard him say
what I thought I heard.
The scene that unfolded shocked
me into stupefaction. The man had