The Hunter’s Journey: Blog #8

Forgotten Hollow is not silent tonight—it is listening.

The mist drapes itself over the cobblestones like a shroud, twisting into shapes that dissolve when I stare too long. No light spills from the windows of the crooked houses; their shutters are fastened tight, their inhabitants hidden away. The villagers here do not speak of the manor. They only glance at it from the corners of their eyes, muttering prayers to gods who have long since abandoned them.

Straud Manor rises above them all—stone and shadow, its towers clawing at the sky. It is a house, yes, but also a throne, a prison, a monument to something ancient and enduring. Even the moonlight seems reluctant to touch its walls.

I cross the threshold. The door moans open as though it resents me.

The air inside is damp, rank with mildew and age, yet beneath it lies another note: metallic, coppery, faint but unmistakable. Blood. My skin prickles. The floorboards creak beneath my boots like bones snapping.

Then comes the music.

The organ drifts through the halls, notes like knives dragged slowly across glass. It is not melody. It is memory. Each chord carries centuries of grief, cruelty, triumph. The house trembles with it, and so do I.

“Lost, are you?”

His voice glides from the shadows, velvet and cold. Vladislaus Straud steps into view. His presence swallows the room, though he moves with the grace of a man accustomed to both court and battlefield. His eyes linger on me—ancient eyes, patient, knowing.

I let my lips tremble. “I… yes. My boyfriend and I—there was a fight. He drove off and left me here. My phone died, and I saw your light. I thought maybe—maybe you had a phone I could use?”

Straud’s smile is almost tender. “Ah. The cruelty of young men. Rash. Thoughtless. You must forgive him; time will teach him patience… if time is kind.” He chuckles softly, the sound resonant, practiced. “But no, I keep no such device. Telephones, they chatter endlessly. They leave no room for silence, no room for thought. And I value silence… immensely.”

My stomach tightens. His words sound reasonable, even poetic, yet beneath them runs a current that makes my pulse stumble.

“I could try your neighbors then—”

Straud’s hand flicks, elegant, dismissive. “The neighbors,” he interrupts smoothly, “are not as hospitable as I. They cling to their little lives with trembling fingers and distrust all who wander near. They would sooner bolt their doors than offer you kindness. No, no… here, you are safer.”

I lower my gaze, feigning hesitation. “I don’t want to intrude…”

“You mistake me, dear girl.” He steps closer. The candlelight dances across his pale skin, flawless as carved marble. “Hospitality is not intrusion. You will remain here tonight. At dawn, I shall see that you are escorted to a place more… suitable.”

He extends his hand. I hesitate, then allow mine to slip into his.

His skin is cool—too cool. Smooth, almost unnaturally so, like polished stone warmed just slightly by touch. His grip is firm, yet his thumb brushes the back of my hand with a gentleness that borders on intimate. My chest tightens. The hunter in me screams at the wrongness, but the mask I wear forces my lips into a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” I whisper, forcing a tremor into my voice. “You’re very kind.”

He inclines his head as though accepting praise, but his smile lingers too long, too sharp. “Kindness is rare, is it not? But then, I have had… lifetimes… to learn it.”

Lifetimes.

He guides me up the staircase, his hand never loosening from mine. Each step feels like a surrender, the boards groaning as though warning me to turn back. His presence is overwhelming: the scent of old parchment and faint smoke clinging to his coat, the subtle pull of power that radiates from him. He is not simply a man escorting a guest. He is a predator leading prey deeper into the lair.

And yet I let him.

I play the part, wide-eyed and timid, as he shows me to a room draped in heavy velvet curtains, the bed carved with grotesque faces that leer from the headboard.

“Rest,” Straud says softly, his hand brushing mine one last time. “Tomorrow, all will seem less dire. The night always magnifies sorrows.”

His words are comforting, almost fatherly. But his eyes—those ancient, pitiless eyes—betray something else. Hunger. Curiosity. Possession.

The door shuts.

In my pocket, the vial of elixir presses hard against my thigh. My salvation. My weapon.

I lay down, calm on the surface, though my pulse races in my throat. He believes me harmless. Helpless. Caught.

But tomorrow, it will not be my sorrow the night magnifies.

It will be his ruin.