First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The Nissan's engine hummed beneath me as I sped down the highway, the wind whipping through the open windows. The wendigo case was closed, Loony was dead, and now?
Now something new was happening.
A tingling sensation crawled up my arms, like static electricity dancing under my skin. I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel, watching as faint, shimmering threads of light flickered around my fingertips before vanishing.
Magic.
Real, actual magic.
A grin split my face.
Holy shit, it worked.
Killing Loony—a man who'd wielded enough power to control wendigos—had done something to me. The spells in that book hadn't just been words on paper. They'd left a mark on him. And now?
Now they were in me.
I exhaled, trying to focus. The energy inside me was raw, untamed, like a live wire sparking in my chest.
Can I actually use this?
I glanced at the passenger seat, where Loony's spellbook lay tucked under my jacket. The pages were filled with incantations, rituals, warnings scrawled in frantic handwriting.
"Magic demands sacrifice."
"Power corrupts the untrained mind."
"Do not call what you cannot banish."
I snorted. Dramatic much?
Still, the thrill of possibility buzzed under my ribs. If I could control this, if I could harness it—
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Bobby's name flashed on the screen.
I hit answer. "Miss me already?"
"You kill that cop?" No greeting. Just straight to the point.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel. "Yep."
"Hmph." A pause. "Clean?"
"Clean enough."
"Good. Now listen—Sam called. He's got a lead on something weird. Doctor in Indiana went nuts, shot up a store, then blew his own brains out. Sounds like our kinda weird."
I frowned. "Possession?"
"Maybe. Or something worse. Sam's dreamin' about it. You know what that means."
Yeah. I did.
Visions.
prophet shit.
I sighed. "You want me to check it out?"
"Nah. Winchesters are on it. But keep your ears open. If this is part of something bigger, we'll hear about it."
"Roger that."
The line went dead.
I tossed the phone onto the seat, my mind already racing.
Sam's having visions again. Which means the Yellow-Eyed Demon's plans are moving forward.
And I've got a front-row seat to the apocalypse.
---
(Scene Shift – Third Person POV)
Dr. Jennings walked down the sidewalk, the autumn sun casting long shadows behind him. His cell phone rang, the cheerful tune clashing with the unease tightening his chest.
He answered. "Hello?"
A voice on the other end whispered something—words he couldn't quite make out.
Then the visions hit.
Himself, holding a gun.
Himself, pulling the trigger.
Blood on his hands.
His own voice, deadpan: "All right."
The call ended.
A bus rumbled past, its side emblazoned with BLUE RIDGE in bold letters.
Dr. Jennings kept walking, his steps mechanical.
The gun store was quiet, the bell above the door jingling as he entered.
Dennis, the clerk, grinned. "Doc! You here to finally buy that shotgun?"
Jennings didn't smile. "I'd like to see the Smith & Wesson."
Dennis laughed. "Yeah, right. You hate guns."
"I'd like to see it."
The clerk's smile faltered. He pulled the pistol from the case.
Jennings examined it. "What shells does it take?"
Dennis hesitated. ".38 Special. But Doc, you're not actually—"
Jennings loaded the gun.
Dennis paled. "Whoa, hey—you can't do that in here!"
Jennings raised the barrel. "It's okay. It's all gonna be okay, Dennis."
The gunshot echoed through the store.
Screams. Chaos.
Jennings turned the pistol on himself.
"It's all going to be okay."
BLAM.
SAM WOKE UP GASPING.
---
Ellen's Roadhouse
The Roadhouse was in full swing when I pulled up, the parking lot packed with trucks and bikes. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilled out into the night.
I grabbed the spellbook, tucking it into my jacket, and headed inside.
The moment I stepped through the door, Jo spotted me.
"Well, look who's back." She leaned against the bar, smirking. "Wendigo hunt go okay, hotshot?"
I slid onto a stool. "Would I be here if it didn't?"
Ellen emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. "You're lucky. Most hunters don't survive their first wendigo."
"Most hunters aren't me."
Jo rolled her eyes. "Modest too."
Ellen tossed me a beer. "You sticking around or just passing through?"
I caught it, popping the cap off with my thumb. "Depends. Got any new cases?"
Ellen's gaze sharpened. "Why? You looking for something specific?"
Magic. Witches. Power.
I took a swig. "Just keeping busy."
She studied me for a long moment before nodding toward the back. "Ash!"
A lanky guy with a mullet poked his head out from behind a computer. "Yeah, boss?"
"Pull the recent weirdness files."
Ash saluted. "You got it."
Jo leaned closer, her voice dropping. "You're hiding something."
I smirked. "Aren't we all?"
She didn't laugh. "Be careful, Marcus. This life… it eats people like you alive."
I met her gaze. "Good thing I've got sharp teeth."
Ash handed me a file an hour later.
"Grab this one. Small town in Nebraska. People disappearing, bodies showing up drained of blood. No bite marks."
I flipped it open. "Vampires?"
"Maybe. But get this—some of the victims were found with symbols carved into their skin. Like some kinda ritual."
My pulse jumped.
Magic.
I closed the file. "I'll take it."
Ellen crossed her arms. "You sure? This ain't some lone wendigo. If it's a coven, you'll need backup."
I stood, tossing cash onto the bar. "Then it's a good thing I don't plan on losing."
Jo watched me go, her expression unreadable.
I stepped back into the night, the spellbook heavy in my jacket.
Magic. Vampires. Rituals.
This hunt was just getting started.
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The trunk of the Nissan 350Z looked like a hunter's wet dream.
Silver knives. Holy water. Salt rounds. A machete sharp enough to decapitate a werewolf mid-leap.
And now, thanks to my new magical upgrade, a leather-bound spellbook stuffed with enough dark incantations to make a demon blush.
I slammed the trunk shut, dusting my hands off.
"Think that's enough firepower?" Jo leaned against the Roadhouse porch railing, arms crossed.
I smirked. "For a normal person? No. For me? Just getting started."
Ellen stepped out, tossing me a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "Take this."
I unwrapped it. A silver pendant, etched with Enochian symbols.
"Protection charm," she said. "Against whatever the hell you're walking into."
I raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you stock magic jewelry?"
"Since hunters started coming back wrong." Her gaze flicked to my jacket—where the spellbook was hidden. "You're playing with fire, Marcus."
I pocketed the pendant. "Good thing I'm flame-retardant."
Jo snorted. "More like flammable."
Ellen didn't laugh. "Just come back in one piece."
I saluted. "No promises."
Then I slid into the Nissan, fired up the engine, and hit the road.
Five hours of empty highways, bad radio, and the occasional telekinetic soda-can-crush later, the sign for Black Hollow, Nebraska loomed ahead.
Population: 2,346.
And shrinking fast, if the case file was right.
I rolled into town like a storm cloud, the Nissan's engine growling as I passed boarded-up storefronts and too-quiet streets. The local cop shop was a squat brick building with a flickering "Sheriff's Department" sign.
Time to go full FBI.
I clipped the badge to my belt—Bruce Banner, because screw subtlety—and strode inside.
The sheriff, a grizzled man with a gut that said "I survive on donuts and regret", looked up from his desk. "Help you?"
I flashed the badge. "Agent Banner. Here about the disappearances."
His face went grim. "Feds finally taking this serious, huh?"
"Bodies drained of blood tend to get our attention."
He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Eight people in three weeks. No signs of struggle. Just… gone. Then they turn up in ditches, pale as chalk."
"Any connections between victims?"
"Not unless you count 'living in this godforsaken town'."
I leaned against his desk. "What about the symbols carved into them?"
His fingers tightened around his coffee cup. "How'd you know about that?"
"Classified."
He scowled but pulled out a file. "Here. Coroner's photos."
I flipped it open.
Yep. Definitely ritualistic.
The symbols weren't just cuts—they were precise, deliberate. Enochian, maybe. Or something older.
I snapped the file shut. "I'll need to speak to the families."
The sheriff scribbled an address. "Start with the Millers. Their boy was the first to go missing."
I pocketed the note. "One more thing—any new faces in town lately? Strangers? Cult types?"
He snorted. "You kidding? Only strangers we get are lost truckers."
Or hunters.
Or monsters.
I nodded. "Appreciate the help, Sheriff."
As I turned to leave, he called after me, "You really think you can stop this?"
I didn't look back. "I know I can."
After that, i went to my car and get the engine started and drive it to the Miller house where it's just 4-5 minutes driving.
After arriving there, I quickly scan the surrounding area. The Miller house was a rundown farmhouse on the edge of town, the porch sagging under the weight of grief.
Mrs. Miller answered the door, her eyes hollow. "You're that FBI agent."
I nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss. Can I ask a few questions?"
She let me in, the house smelling of stale air and old photos. A teenage boy grinned from frames on the wall—Tyler Miller, 17, gone too soon.
I kept my voice gentle. "Was Tyler into anything unusual? Occult stuff? New friends?"
She shook her head. "He was a good boy. Quiet. Loved his video games."
"Anywhere he liked to hang out? Parties? Woods?"
"Just the old quarry with his friends." Her voice cracked. "They found him there. In the water."
I made a note. Quarry. Possible hunting ground.
"Did he have any marks on him when he was found? Cuts? Symbols?"
Her face twisted. "They wouldn't let me see him. Said it was… bad."
Yeah. Ritual murder tends to be.
I stood. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll find who did this."
She grabbed my wrist. "You promise?"
I met her eyes. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
---
The next stop was the home of victim number three—Lena Carter, 24, waitress at the local diner.
Her roommate, a twitchy girl named Rachel, let me in after some convincing.
"You think this is connected to the others?" she asked, chewing her nails.
"I do. Did Lena act differently before she disappeared?"
Rachel hesitated. "She… met someone. A guy. Said he was 'different'. Special."
I leaned forward. "Description?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Wore this weird necklace—like, bone or something."
Bingo.
"Where'd they meet?"
"The bar outside town. The Rusty Nail."
I stood. "You've been helpful, Rachel."
She grabbed my arm. "Agent Banner—if you find him… make sure he can't do this again."
I smiled. It wasn't friendly.
"Already planned on it."
Back in the Nissan, I spread the coroner's photos across the passenger seat.
Eight victims. Eight symbols.
But not random.
They're a sequence.
A summoning? A sacrifice?
I traced the markings, the spellbook's words echoing in my head:
"Blood calls to blood. Power demands payment."
Whatever was happening in Black Hollow, it wasn't just vampires.
It was something worse.
I started the engine.
Time to visit The Rusty Nail.