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Friday, 17th May 2016, at approximately 4:25 PM, our precinct received a distress call from a local firefighting unit. We were informed someone was attempting to disrupt attempts to extinguish a house fire in the Belmont neighborhood. I, Officer Lopez, along with Officer Huang, Officer Jacobs, and Sergeant Akintola were dispatched to the location to assist.
It took us 17 minutes to travel from the station to the site of the disturbance. We arrived to witness a massacre.
The residence was burned to cinders. Strewn across its front yard were dismembered remains, heaps of offal, bones cooked black. We believe the viscera belonged to the seven firemen who arrived on scene. The number of uniforms found in the area matches that assumption. There appeared to be no survivors. Their fire truck remained parked outside of the house. There were keys in the ignition. Peculiarly, despite the breadth of the disaster, we didn’t encounter any bystanders. Nor we find any traces of the possible assailants.
Once we secured the perimeter, Sergeant Akintola gathered footage from the body cameras still tethered to the victims. What we saw was horrific. Included below is the collated transcript of what we saw:
• • •
When the team arrived, the fire was beginning to wick from the second-floor windows. However, the blaze was largely contained. None of the adjacent vegetation had caught fire yet. The first leg of the operation proceeded as normal.
Halfway in, an unshaven man in tattered clothes arrived on the scene. He resisted attempts to move away from the area. Two of the firemen were forced to physically remove him. Footage from their bodycams showed the man rambling about “his red lady of sawdust and smoke,” “celestial alignment of their wedding gifts,” and “his dreams of her subtle lines,” before he drove his fists into their chests.
There was no blood. There was no crunch of bone.
There was a soft hissing instead.
Like a hot knife through a slab of steak.
The noise corroborated with the injuries we found. The wounds had been cauterized and the ribs were pulverized to bone meal. The hearts were missing. After the man extracted the organs, the two firemen collapsed. The footage from the bodycams showed him moving back toward the burning house.
At that point, smoke began billowing from the house, reducing visibility. From what we stitched together, the man attacked the remaining firemen in turn, and always in isolation. He moved quickly and with purpose, contrasting initial impressions. Each time, he used his hands.
His target was not always the heart.
With one, he extracted the intestine; the gray coil incinerated in his hand. With the others, he removed a lung, another heart, several unidentifiable pieces of organ meat, and judging by the dribble of green bile, one fireman’s stomach. Jonathan Carpenter, who contacted our precinct, was the last to die. At no point was the suspect visible to any two firemen at a time. They went down quickly, most without even the time to scream.
Throughout the butchery, the man droned unceasingly in French. Officer Jacobs translated some of what we heard in the recording.
Oh, red lady, red lady of / Sawdust and smoke, / Grant me your benediction, / Your candlewick kiss, / Your divine presence, the / Red gold of your lips.
We cannot accurately determine what followed as the bodycams lost any advantage of perspective. But in the last clear shot of the suspect, it appeared as though he was burning, embers wicking through his melting cheekbones. He didn’t seem unhappy. The man entered the house.
No one emerged after.
• • •
I, believe that there was a second suspect at the crime. The original suspect’s methods seemed precise. His interest was not to cause suffering, but to eliminate opposition as efficiently as possible. The corpses of the firemen show the attention of someone far less neat, someone who relished the messiness. Both culprits possessed an unusual facility with high temperatures. There was minimal blood at the scene. It is unknown how the first suspect accomplished the murders. Officer Huang suspects military-grade augmentations.
The house revealed no trace of the suspects. According to records, the residence had been unoccupied for over five years. Its last occupants were the Robinsons, a family consisting of a husband, a wife, and three children. Five years back, they vacated the premises and put the house on the sale. It has remained untenanted since.
However, we discovered two anomalies requiring possible investigation. The first could be the result of pareidolia. In the basement of the building, Officer Jacobs discovered what appeared to be drawings of a woman’s face seared into the concrete, along with ideograms of unknown origins. Sergeant Akintola was able to make out the face as well. Officer Huang and I saw nothing in the charcoal strokes.
Regardless, we have sent photographs to relevant departments.
The second item of interest is more sinister. Preliminary research revealed a similar case in Corvallis. Another house burned down. Another team of firefighters was found dead at the scene. This occurred two years ago. The case was never solved. Three years before that, a similar incident took place in Salem. Again, a culprit was not found.
Eleven firemen dead. There should have been a national manhunt. Yet, not even cable news paid the incidents any heed. Every case was quietly shut down, relegated to anonymity. No one spoke up for the murdered men. Their obituaries were a brief square of facts, tucked away between news of collegiate sports and advertisements for hiking gear.
Something is wrong.
I believe that someone is actively targeting firemen within Oregon, although for what reason I cannot begin to imagine. I believe someone in the government is protecting them. But whatever the case, I will not rest until the culprit is brought to justice. I cannot. I refuse to let these men die like this. Eighteen firemen. There won’t be another. I refuse. Even if it means bringing the roof down on whoever did this, I’ll find a way.
Hello Hunters!
I'm still digesting the manuscript preview shared with backers yesterday. It contained pretty much all of the rules you need to create a Hunter and take up the Vigil. Lots to dig into.
But, the game isn't all about being a Hunter. There's also the other side - the threats, opponents, dangers, and creatures in the darkness that the Hunters protect against. Tomorrow, we'll be sharing Chapter Five, featuring monsters from around the world. Today, we'll catch a glimpse of their Dread Powers...
Dread Powers are a streamlined way of handling the staggering variety of supernatural abilities possessed by targets of the Vigil. These rules do not make a distinction between different creature types — vampires, shapeshifters, witches, and stranger things all make use of the same Dread Power system. This allows the Storyteller to customize each creature’s powers without worrying about whether a monster is “eligible” to own or use a specific ability. Dread Powers, when used, are also clues the hunters can use when researching, identifying, and encountering a specific monster.
Storytellers will note that while costs are provided in each Dread Power’s entry, there isn’t a suggested dice pool for use. This is because different creatures might activate the same power in different ways according to their nature and abilities. Storytellers are encouraged be creative when determining what dice to roll. Some Dread Powers do not require a dice roll, however, and only cost Willpower. For example, an occultist unleashing a Blast of unholy energy might use Intelligence + Occult − Stamina, representing how she uses her knowledge of the dark arts to cast a deadly spell. By contrast, a hellhound’s howl might also be a Blast, but use Strength + Intimidate − Stamina to reflect the unearthly hound’s physical power. Then, if successful, inflict an appropriate Condition to narratively reflect how the hunter responds to a show of force.
Likewise, the Storyteller should feel free to adjust a power’s name and description to better suit the creature they’re introducing in a chronicle. For example, the Fire Elemental power might be renamed to Heart of Darkness for a demonic warlock. Instead of being wreathed in flames, the warlock is described as a roiling nimbus of cold shadows. The game mechanics are the same, but the narrative effect is unique to the monster. This technique can also help Storytellers increase the more mysterious aspects of the hunt and avoid revealing a tell that gives the hunters a boring win.
As a general guideline, Dread Powers do not have range restrictions or suffer from other penalties by design. The monster you create is not natural, and their Dread Powers often defy logic; this is partly what makes them so terrifying — even for hunters. But also consider what your monster is and if a range is necessary, a demon might need to have a conversation to steal someone’s soul, while a more esoteric monster may suck it straight from a person 10 yards away.
Most Dread Powers are recurring abilities a creature can use multiple times in the same session; the Willpower cost applies each time the power is used. A few Dread Powers may only be used once, like Last Gasp, and have been included to add variability and help Storytellers increase tension.
Discorporate
“Don’t let a single rat get away!” Seanan yelled, stamping furiously on the squeaking, biting rats that poured out of the shapeshifter’s discarded dress. Becca stomped on a rat and nearly vomited at the sickening crack; there were so many. Too many. How could they possible kill them all? And if they didn’t, how long until the shapeshifter returned to human form?
Discorporate is used when the monster wants to escape the scene. When the creature suffers damage, is cornered or captured, or wants to quickly escape notice, it discorporates. The monster’s body dissolves into a huge swarm of vermin, carrion eaters, or similar small, repellent beasts, running in all directions. If even one tiny pest escapes, the creature’s spirit survives, and it may return whole after a period of time (hour, day, week, etc.) passes.
Unnatural Step (• to •••••)
This time we didn’t bother trying to fight the old man. We just blocked the doors from the outside and burned the place down. Seemed like the smart move, and we felt pretty good about it, at least until we saw that Neanderthal climbing out of the wreckage. It was using the smoke like a ladder and kept climbing higher and higher until it was out of sight. We didn’t find it again until days later. Well, more like the old man found us.
The monster has an unusual mode of travel. Maybe it can walk on walls, hover, or appear to teleport between steps, warping the world around it as it does. Each time Unnatural Step is purchased, choose a new mode of movement or terrain type the monster can cross with ease. It moves its Speed, though it may appear to teleport, float across fire, or walk on water.
If the chosen substance is normally harmful or toxic, the monster suffers no harm from walking on it. By spending an additional Willpower point, it can choose not to leave tracks behind.
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The man on the sofa could have been anywhere between 28 and 39, but his sister-in-law said he was 22. He sat with a knee pulled to his hunched frame, stomach concave, sucking at his teeth like he was trying to get rid of some meat fiber. Blond hair fell across his face in oily clumps. He rarely blinked.
“Sorry, Charlie don’t like strangers,” his sister-in-law explained. Cara Cook was tall for a Peranakan woman, blocky, mostly hip and grimace. In contrast, her husband — Mr. Cook, no known first name — was rotund and squat, with a sparse thatch of chestnut hair and worried eyes. He did not smile, only wrung his gloved hands endlessly.
“Mhm.” Sasha grinned, all teeth, and sat the rest of us down at the dining table. The Indian woman was a bona fide psychic, but we’d set it up so that Singapore would only look at her like a fraud: hoop earrings, tasseled skirt, even the mandatory crystal ball. We needed people to tell her stories, but we didn’t want anyone to believe she could do something about them.
“So, tell me. When did these disturbances start occurring?” Sasha had a fake Cajun accent for customers who wouldn’t take the word no. She laced her fingers together and set her chin on them.
The Cooks’ residence wasn’t unimpressive. The interior decor was dark wood and antique furniture where it wasn’t Norwegian chic. Photos of the couple, airbrushed into near anonymity, lined the beige-colored walls.
“L-last week?” Mr. Cook said. He looked to his wife for affirmation.
She nodded.
“Funny,” I said. “Thought you visited Sasha three weeks ago.”
Cara’s smile faltered. Her left hand — sleeved in yellow latex — lacked two fingers: the index and the pinky. Beside her, William rolled his eyes and mouthed a warning. I shrugged.
“We go to see Sasha for different reasons.” she said.
“Fertility charms.” Sasha didn’t miss a beat. She stretched out her arms — mahogany-brown, more muscular than they had right to be — with their palms turned up, a slight crooking in her fingers to denote invitation. I laced my fingers with hers.
I hated this part. The ceremony constricted my range of motion. It’d been a problem before. But ritual needed to be obeyed. “Let us call the spirit of this house to this table. Let it speak through us, we simple mortals. Let its desire be known so we may help it find it peace.”
The house was too hot. The ceiling fan creaked as it wafted damp air through the room. Even in the suburbs, Singapore smelled of heat and smog. For all their money, the Cooks didn’t seem to believe in air conditioning. I could see Charlie staring at us from the threshold of the living room. He’d hardly moved.
“Some spirits are shy, Mrs. Cook. But if we can visualize the entity together, it may become easier to summon it. How would you describe the manifestation?”
“Very scary.”
Mr. Cook hesitated and then added: “It was very, very skinny.”
“Very tall also.”
“I’m beginning to see something, yes. Something old. Something sad.” Sasha paused. “What did its mouth look like?”
“Like someone’d used a needle to prick a hole in its face.” said Mr. Cook.
“And what did it do?”
Both Cara and Mr. Cook froze, their mouths drooping into nervous grins.
“It—” began Cara.
“—watched us.” finished her husband. The man slotted his thumb between his teeth and began to gnaw at the pad of meat. “It followed us from room to room.”
“Did it do anything else?”
“I don’t think — no, nothing.” said Cara. She bit her knuckles once. “Nothing else. Not that I remember. But we want to have privacy again, so we call you, people.”
“Mmm.” Sasha exhaled. “The spirits bless your truths.”
That was code for “something is wrong.” I released Sasha’s hand and covertly hit the red button on Fatimah’s app. Thank god for the public university wunderkind.
“Has the entity appeared to Charlie?”
“Charlie—” Cara worked the stub of a finger into her mouth and chewed. “He said that the thing liked to watch him hurt himself.”
“Hurt himself how?”
I flexed my hand into a fist. Tried to loosen the seized-up tendons in my right arm. The other continued to hang limp. Across the table, William did the same. I glanced down as my phone began to thrum. In position, said the message.
“Can you call the spirit or what?” Blood ran down Cara’s forearm in dark, thin tributaries. However, the woman took no notice.
“Can,” said her husband, sweating rivers.
We discovered early that certain incantations could be recorded for repeated use. Every line still had to be recited in full for the spell to activate, but there was a difference between relying on a human and trusting in the audio output of a warded machine.
I hit the button on the app just as William and Sasha kicked away from the table, weapons freed. The program might be able to say the words, but all rites of Castigation required sacrifice. I slammed my knife into my left palm and cut between metacarpals, splitting the web of skin between my third and fourth finger. Blood gushed and splashed onto the runes we’d inked onto the Cooks’ expensive floor. I shuddered as the unholy psalm drove its hooks into my soul and pulled. Nothing gave.
William speared Cara through the shoulder. The woman did not scream. Charlie did. The air rippled like oil and something torpedoed from his screaming mouth.
It was exactly as the Cooks had described: too many vertebrae, its maw a pinhole in its waxy face. A proboscis unrolled from the opening. The thing — gluttony spirit, Fatimah had guessed — had only one target: William. No one, especially not abominations like this, appreciated it when you messed with the food supply.
Unfortunately for the thing, we were ready. We knew this house was haunted, and the Cooks weren’t the first victims to call a hunter for help.
The entity slammed into a barrier before it could reach William and wailed its rage.
“Are you sure you’re up for the next part?” Sasha asked hesitantly, angling a look toward me.
“Yeah.”
Other people had the benefit of deciding what they wanted to do with life. Not me. Not as a member of the Lucifuge. I dragged my tongue over my bleeding flesh, savoring the salt and the copper pang. I breathed in and began to murmur the words to the second invocation. One day, Lucifer will be redeemed.