Hunt the Darkness

The sky oozed blood red as the sun dropped below the lonely forest and the moon crept upwards. The day was gone and the darkness settled across the empty hamlet. Here was where he had been brought to remove, the great shadow that hung so malevolently over the whole area. Clymold the monster slayer had been called on by the town elders to free the people from the clutches of the creature.

He looked at the small but crowded graveyard. For somewhere where there were so few houses the number of new crosses told a tale of great tragedy. Clymold grasped a dagger expectantly as he strode boldly through the empty streets.

Suddenly all was deathly. He wrapped a thumb around the handle and tensed every muscle as though danger was already there. A flutter just out of the corner of an eye, the atmosphere curdled as menace seeped out across the scene. He stood ready, the nerves surging through every muscle. No matter how many dangerous beasts the monster slayer had faced he would never allow complacency to settle. Those nerves kept the razor sharp focus that ensured Clymold would walk away at the end of each day. He was sure today would see no change.

The temperature dropped as the shadows lengthened and churned around the empty houses. The moment was near. He could sense that the creature was close. Ahead, around, he sensed the presence but could not see whatever lurked amongst the darkness.

Suddenly a gust knocked Clymold down. He dropped the blade onto the ground as the breath was squeezed away. He scrambled up and grabbed for the dagger. A crazy lunge and Clymold was back, stood tall and ready for whatever was near, but there was no creature to be seen. He scanned around, no beast or monster, just shadows. Shadows that moved, and closed, and teased with great menace. He took a deep guttural breath and fled to the church. He was an expert at dealing with real beasts he could see and touch but ghosts and demons he was not.

The old church was dark, the sole glow from four large grey candles allowed Clymold to see the scattered pews that had been left by the locals as they fled. He shouldered the heavy wooden door shut and threw the metal bar across the latch as the shadows thundered at the church door.

He darted around the small stone chapel, each bound he took over the strewn seats tempted a fall. Desperately he scrambled about in the low yellow rays as he searched for a cross, holy water or most needed of all, the word of God. Suddenly an outstretched thumb felt the telltale corner of a book. He grabbed and dragged the heavy tome across the grey, dusty floor. Clymold clutched the book close and moved less carefully around. Bravery returned and courage flowed. The monster hunter was back.

He strode and glared through each of the coloured glass scenes towards the dark hamlet beyond the church. Every so often a sharp flash of darkness as one of the grotesque shadows swooped past on the hunt for the merest gap that would allow them to enter.

“A plan.” He thought. “A plan.”

Every monster he had ever faced had a weakness. A fear that could lead a hunter to success. The ghosts beyond the church walls would surely have the same. But what was the weakness here? What would lead to another dawn?

Shadows. They were all shadows. Shadows fear the sun. How could he drag them towards the warmth of the day so late. He began the smallest kernel of a thought. As he pondered, the rhythm of the raps on the doors and the glass and now the roof threatened to break Clymold’s focus. How could he draw the day closer when the moon was embedded above amongst the stars.

The cacophony of thunder on the church grew and spread as Clymold paced around the floor. Gradually a plan began to form and he started to collect the pews around the chancel. He stacked them and stuffed any cloth, rope or straw between the arms, legs and other gaps. He worked apace and completed a c shaped wall, at the heart he placed pages of the holy book and made a path of them that led to the door.

He made sure he knew where each entrance was and other than the front door he secured them. All that was left was the bolted wooden door. He was ready.

One last look around the hall and the trap was set. He grabbed the candles and placed them around the wooden arc. He made sure to keep one and strode powerfully towards the door. The moment was near and he knew what was at stake. One chance to walk away and get home.

Thud, thud, the shadows swooped and shuddered at the walls, the glass rattled and almost shattered. He knew that all rested on the plan’s success. He lay the candle on the page nearest the door, almost at once there were flames and sparks leapt from page to page and raced towards the wooden wall. Clymold grasped the door handle and knocked the bolt. He dragged the door open and moved along so he could not be seen. He paused as the shadows screeched and swooped through the open door. They followed the carefully constructed path of sacred pages that now crackled with flames and found they had moved to the heart of the now savage red forks that scratched at the wooden wall. Clymold reacted and swung the heavy door shut. The shadows were left to face the rage of the flames.

The monster hunter ran as fast as he could towards the safety of the merchant’s road. He found the camp he had left, grabbed the horse’s saddle and hauled over before he galloped to safety. Hours later, the clear of day drew the monster hunter back to the hamlet where he found peace. The people had returned and the future amongst the charred church seemed to have be reborn.

The town elders made a path towards the man who had returned the hamlet to them. They offered thanks and held out a small purse of gold. Clymold, head bowed, accepted the thanks but handed the money back to the alderman. No more words were spoken as he mounted the horse and rode through the daybreak and out of town.