First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The motel room smelled like stale air and cheap detergent, the kind of place where the carpet stuck to your socks and the AC rattled like it was on life support.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone, Carrie's words echoing in my head.
"They talked. Whispers… in my head."
Wendigos didn't talk. They hunted. They killed. But they sure as hell didn't whisper sweet nothings into their victims' ears.
Something was off.
I dialed Bobby's number.
He picked up on the third ring, voice gruff. "You dead?"
"Not yet."
"Then why you callin'?"
I leaned back, rubbing my temple. "Got a weird one. Wendigos acting… off."
A pause. "Off how?"
"Victim said they talked to her. Whispered in her head."
Bobby went quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly: "That ain't natural."
"No shit."
"Could be black magic," he muttered. "Hex, maybe. Someone controlling 'em."
A memory flickered—something I'd barely registered in the cave. A flash of cloth, strange symbols.
A hex bag.
I groaned. "You're telling me some witch was piloting those things?"
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Internally, I smirked. If I kill a witch, do I get magic?
Out loud, I said, "Great. Just what I needed. More monsters with management."
Bobby snorted. "You check the cave?"
"Not yet. Was a little busy not getting eaten."
"Priorities," he deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes. "Speaking of, uh… I got an upgrade."
"What now?"
"Killed the wendigos. Got stronger. Faster."
Silence. Then a long, weary sigh. "How much faster?"
"I outran a car."
"Christ." Another pause. "You feelin'… different?"
"Aside from the sudden urge to join the Olympics? Nah."
Bobby's voice turned serious. "Marcus. Powers like that… they don't come free. There's always a cost."
I flexed my hand, watching the muscles shift. "I can handle it."
"That's what they all say."
"Who's 'they'?"
"Every damn fool who ever got in over their head."
I grinned. "Good thing I'm a fast learner."
Bobby muttered something that sounded like "God hates me." Then: "You goin' back to that cave?"
"Yeah. Gotta check for that hex bag."
"Take salt. And don't touch nothin' shady with your bare hands."
"Wasn't planning on licking the evil magic bag, Bobby."
"Smartass."
I laughed. "Love you too, old man."
"Shut up and don't die."
The line went dead.
---
The woods were quieter this time. No laughter. No whispers. Just the crunch of leaves under my boots as I retraced my steps.
The cave mouth loomed ahead, darkness swallowing the fading daylight.
I flicked on my flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom.
Bloodstains. Bones.
And there, tucked into a crevice near the back—
A small burlap sack, tied with red string.
The hex bag.
I crouched, careful not to touch it. Up close, the symbols stitched into the fabric pulsed faintly, like they were breathing.
Definitely witchy.
I pulled out a Ziploc bag (because Bobby wasn't the only one who could be paranoid) and scooped the hex bag into it.
The moment it was sealed, the air in the cave shifted—lighter, like a held breath finally released.
Someone was here. Someone controlling those wendigos.
And if I found them?
I smirked.
Magic might just be the next thing on my menu.
******
The hex bag sat on the motel table, taunting me.
Like it knew something I didn't. Like it wanted to be found.
I'd spent half a day combing that cave—scraping dried blood off the walls, prying bones out of packed earth, choking on the stench of rot and wet stone—trying to trace the scent of something that shouldn't have existed. Wendigos didn't follow spells. They didn't take orders. They fed. They hunted. They killed.
But these? These ones had moved like soldiers.
I dropped into the motel chair with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. My brain felt like it was vibrating in my skull. Too many dead ends. Too many bodies. And none of it added up.
Think, Marcus. Who the hell commands monsters?
Witches. Cursed objects. Demon bargains.
But the energy on that hex bag wasn't demonic. It was messy, scattered—like someone learning to ride a bike by aiming it straight downhill.
That's when I remembered the book.
I'd almost missed it in the cave—half-buried under a mound of rotting leaves and dead animal skins. Looked like garbage. Probably was, if you didn't know what you were looking at.
I'd yanked it free and wiped the muck from the cover.
Beginner's Guide to Practical Spellcraft.
I blinked, then barked a bitter laugh. No fucking way.
The kind of thing you'd find on a new age store shelf, next to incense and mood rings. Except this one had dog-eared pages filled with handwritten notes—symbols, incantations, nervous scribbles and red ink warnings like:Do not perform under duress.Do not bind with emotion.Do not attempt necromancy alone.
And then I found it. Wedged between pages like a forgotten receipt:
Loony, A.
My stomach clenched.
Officer Alfie Loony. The guy who'd handed me the initial case file, who'd been sweating bullets when I asked about the missing hikers. Friendly, overly helpful. Nervous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
I remembered how his hands had trembled when he passed me the evidence bag.
Son of a bitch.
A slow grin curled across my face.
Gotcha.
---
Small towns run on routine.
People eat at the same diners, walk their dogs down the same two blocks, flirt with the same waitresses they've known since high school. Loony was no exception.
I tailed him from the sheriff's station, watched him pretend to enjoy meatloaf at Lila's Diner, then saw him walk out just after sunset—shoulders slouched, keys spinning around his finger, patrol car rumbling in idle.
He didn't see me coming.
One second he was reaching for the door. The next, my hand clamped over his mouth, the other locked tight around his throat. I dragged him back behind the dumpster, out of view of the main road.
"Evening, Officer," I murmured into his ear.
His eyes bulged, breath hitching under my grip. He tried to twist, but I tightened the chokehold and yanked his keys from his pocket telekinetically. They zipped through the air and slapped into my hand like metal bees.
"Try to run," I whispered. "And I'll break your legs."
He stilled.
Smart man.
---
I dumped him into the chair, salt already lining the windows and doors. The motel smelled like mildew and bleach, but I'd warded it tight. No spells. No escape. No outside help.
Loony wheezed, coughing into his sleeve. "What the hell—"
I tossed the hex bag onto the bed. It landed with a soft thunk.
"Recognize this?"
His face drained of color.
Bingo.
I leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "See, Alfie, I've got a theory. You found a little book in your basement. Learned a few tricks. Then you thought—hey, why not send a few monsters after your ex-fiancée and her new boyfriend?"
He stared at the hex bag like it was a live grenade.
"You don't know shit," he said, low and shaky.
"Then enlighten me."
Silence. Just the soft hum of the motel AC and the tension creeping through the room like a second presence.
I sighed and drew my machete. "Or I can start cutting pieces off until you talk. Your call."
His eyes locked on the blade. Hands shaking, lips twitching, he finally exhaled. "She deserved it."
I tilted my head. "Carrie?"
He nodded. Bitter, trembling. "We were engaged. Two years. And then I come home early—there she is. With Benny. In my bed."
His voice cracked.
"I loved her," he said, as if that explained anything.
I didn't move. Just let the silence sit.
Finally, he muttered, "The book said it could… channel pain into power. Emotions. I didn't even know the spell worked. Not at first. Then they started dying, and I couldn't stop."
I kept my voice flat. "So you summoned monsters to tear them apart."
"I just wanted them to feel what I felt," he snapped. "That emptiness. That rage."
He wiped his eyes. There were tears, but they weren't grief. They were frustration. Fury.
"The spells," he added quietly, "they change you. I started seeing things. Hearing things. I couldn't sleep. So I burned the rest of the book."
Bullshit.
I stepped forward. "Try again."
"I'm serious," he hissed. "It got inside me. The voices. The shadows. I thought if I destroyed it, it'd stop."
His hand twitched toward his waistband.
I didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
The machete flashed.
His head hit the carpet with a wet thud. His body followed, slumping sideways in the chair like a puppet with its strings cut.
---
Blood seeped into the cheap motel carpet.
I stood over Loony's corpse, the book clenched in my hand.
No remorse. No second thoughts. Just cold, methodical calm.
I'd seen what these kinds of spells could do to people. What they turned them into. Maybe he had been a victim once. But now?
He was just another monster.
I knelt beside the book, flipping through the pages again.
Symbols. Incantations. Wards. Curses. Summonings.
Some of it I recognized. Some of it was way beyond anything I'd studied.
But all of it? Dangerous as hell.
And yet…
I felt it. That low thrum of power. Temptation curling at the edges of my thoughts like smoke.
Could I use these?Would killing a witch make me stronger?Could I twist this magic into something useful? Something good?
A thrill ran up my spine.
Dangerous questions. The kind that changed people.
The kind that turned hunters into the hunted.
I tucked the book into my jacket and stepped over Loony's body, leaving a trail of boot prints in his blood.
No turning back now.
Time to go hunting.
---
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