Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, For the straight-forward pathway had been lost. Ah me! How hard a thing is to say, What was this forest savage, rough and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear. ~Dante Alighieri, Dante’s Inferno, Canto I, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translation

“I’ve thought of a wonderful way to start a forest fire,’ Tom said musingly as they were having coffee. ~Patricia Smith, Ripley’s Game

They’re whispering his name through this disappearing land, but hidden in his coat is a red right hand. ~Nick Cave

The wind likes to whisper. Especially in the dark, frigid air of these unknown lands. But he has to keep moving. He’s pushing away old, dead twigs that once made fine bushes, and each step he takes against the snow reminds him to find shelter from the wind before he goes numb. He won’t die to this, but he’d rather not pass out before this whole thing is done.

The air itself is this horrid combination of frigid ice and mucky humidity, like a swamp trying to worm its way into a winter deadland. His steps feel different now, more solid than uneven, and he hears water swishing beneath him. He’s stepping over a wooden bridge now, maybe with unfrozen muck beneath. By the frosty, crappy smell, he can only guess it looks as pleasing as a tumor. Finally, he finds something besides twigs, snow, and more snow; the wind seems to take offense at this and howls louder and harder.

He pushes against it, however, holding his hand out while keeping his eyes as slits. Finally, he touches a mossy surface. The wooden cabin door was stagnant, with bits of moss growing on it, and clearly wasn’t keeping the cold out. His left hand pushed it open; it creaked loudly and fell off its hinges.

“Damn,” he said, letting his shoulder light illuminate the space, whatever it could anyway. 

He walked into the stuffy space and passed the side of a brick wall. The drywall had crumbled to pieces, shaving off to reveal the bricks. He found an old, pale drawer, covered in dust. Out of curiosity, he pulled the top drawer open and found three long brushes, four yellow notes, a brown scrapbook, and a noose. He grimaces and shuts the drawer.

The rest of the house is a dark portrait. No lights to highlight the abandoned clothes, chairs, food, and of course, only his flashlight could reveal the splotches of red blood on the floor. He looked down at it, seeing the familiar sight of a gathering puddle of blood trailing away; a sure sign that some poor soul had been dragged away. He also found claw marks on the walls, and right next to the blood. They were too spaced out to be from any big cat or wolf.

He grimaces; this is where it gets bad.

Before he goes on, he takes out a cigar and lighter, hoping to speed up whatever warmth he could get from this cold, desolate place, and takes a long drag. After pocketing the lighter, holding onto the cigar, since it felt wrong to drop it in a place of fresh death, he followed the trail of blood. It curved into another room, dispersing slightly, until small drops led him to the stairs of a basement.

Coming down the groaning steps, turning right, he found an old table with decaying fruit. He turned his shoulder forward to pass next to the narrow wall and the brown closet opposite it, passed another table, a palette, a dresser covered in dust, more drawers, and, turning right, found a dinner cart. On top, a portrait. He picks it up.

The frame was golden, and the art creeped him out. The art resembles ancient, possibly early Christian, pre-Renaissance depictions, featuring a woman with a disfigured crow’s face. Either the art was marred by time and a lack of care, or that was intentional. He wasn’t an art expert. She appeared to wear a black priest’s robe, with a silver or light blue sash or stole over it, lined with symbols embroidered on the surface. On her chest was a silver heart, spotlighted and held aloft by the little figures on her stole. Behind her, a golden halo carved with figures around the rim, and a red jewel on top, stood behind her head. She looked like the Virgin Mary at a Venetian party.

Her black, smudged eyes seemed to stare at him.

It probably is. He rolled his eyes and dropped the portrait.

He moves on, takes in the smell first, then the sight of bagged garbage piled up with small cardboard boxes. He bumps into the palette, and it clatters to the ground, breaking the silence. He ignores it and the shelves of food and finds himself face-to-face with the object of mystery. Standing in the dingiest corner of this room, lined with dirt and droppings, his light shines on a brown closet. The blood covers its doors.

He steels himself and clenches his fists. No matter what he finds in there, he knows he’s going to be pissed. He makes for the closet, grabs the handles. He listens for anything, the smell of rotting flesh not nearly as powerful as the amount of blood being advertised. He pulls the door slowly, and it creaks at a tenor’s note.

He reels the doors open, clenches…then unclenches his fist. Nothing. Nothing but a pushbroom, a tiny bottle, a yellow pail, and a brown rat, which scurries away at the sight of him. He shook his head. But the tension in his face didn’t lessen.

The ceiling creaked once.

He turned around.

Twice. Three times it tittered and creaked. A loud boom shook the ceiling, bits falling away with the dust, and the sounds of scattering and crashing items filled the silence.

“There it is,” He said expectantly, like a man who knew it would rain on his day. He jogged back to where he came from, making it back up to find the house in a state of chaos, and one room barring him from entry with the closet as a barricade. This didn’t impede him, however, and he made it into the chillier room to find a new trail.

“Regular people use ink,” he said, “but these yahoos use blood for their signature.”

He saw a new, inhuman-sized, splintery hole in the wall, looking onto the snowy outside.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.”

He passed through the golden-barked impromptu doorway, only needing to squeeze through a little bit. Finally, he tossed his cigar away. He hiked up the snowy incline, the wind having gone silent with its whispers, as if it waited in baited silence for what he would see next. He’s barely noticing the twigs, sticks, brambles tugging at his coat, as if pleading with him to turn back. He would not. He had a job to do. Too many people have died, and he needs to know if his friends are among them.

The path showed a sheet of white between two walls of earth, like the end of a gorge. Past them, he found the fog clearing up, and he could see what lay in the distance. 

“Wow,” he said. “Classic. Stoker would love this.”

The castle stood forebodingly in the distance, surrounded by a gray fog, looking like solid black oil against ashes and dust. The spires were long, like thin, refined stalagmites, pointed upward to the sky, and the ancient architecture loomed against the sky like a burly, shrouded figure, seeming to glare at him. It looked towering and overwhelming against the small, dead trees, standing proudly as if the culprit of a murder, too proud to back down. And yes, it was Transylvanian, maybe neo-Renaissance in design. The sun was barely starting to rise on his left, peaking to see what would come from this confrontation. Ever had the image of a blackened, corroding thing placed smack dab in someone's belly, leaving behind skeletal remains? That's what this castle was like, in contrast to the threadbare, skeletal trees. An overgrown parasite that’s sucked all the life from this place.

“Guess that’s where I’m going,” he said.

A rustling of branches and flapping of wings later, a crow is scrambling out from a nearby tree, cawing loudly and eagerly, and flies toward the castle. He glared, but continued. It was probably nothing. But, then again…

The walk down was steep, and he scraped and slid against the slope as he made his way down. His hand kept him balanced against the decline, keeping him from sliding too fast. Once he reached the bottom, he was greeted with a gruesome sight. A cabin with its log roof knocked about, and a jet-black horse, lying as a rotting, slashed-up corpse on the ground by the tree. He grimaced, his hand resting on his weapon. The air was rank, frosted, and silent. He huffed and watched his breath come out with a puff. He walked up to a dirtied, torn, yellow door and pushed it open. There was a dinner before this happened in this small, modest home, with ornery dishes on top of the window, potatoes lying on the floor, and the white tablecloth strewn about the broken bowl of whatever salad they were eating, unceremoniously on top like gunk. Scratch marks everywhere. And in the other small room, that portrait again.

He leaves the house. The other abodes are in a similar condition: bricks tossed about, scattered household items, food smushed in various parts and uneaten, fresh blood puddles, and scratch marks everywhere. He went along the path, finding multiple footprints in the mud, but too clustered and smothered to determine anything. All he could determine was the obvious: 

“Whatever did this was wild, strong, and hadn’t a shred of compassion.” He observed aloud, “And clearly, had no appetite for anybody’s cooking.” 

The gallows humor tightened the knot in his chest.

What good does that info do me? He thought. Other than I want to let off some anger.

Carriages tipped over, houses blown apart, and a freshly severed goat head was a hanging sign with a post underneath; three signs saying, ‘Graveyard’ to the left, ‘Workshop’ to the right, ‘Ceremony Site’ to the left.

“Ceremony site?” He asked. “That better be a fancy word for ‘concert’ around these parts.”

The severed goat’s head strung up, still dripping its blood, couldn’t disagree with him more. A huge carriage blocked the path to the site. He was half-tempted to go anyway, but he could already hear the Professor’s voice lecturing him about the path not intended can lead to the goal unseen. So, he spared himself the exercise and turned left onto a long path of gray. He had a gut feeling he needed to head down this path, anyway. There could be survivors. He came across another house. Opposite this, a fence had a sign written in another language.

“Slavonic?” He observed, “Some older variant. They have English signs, but they also write in an ancient language?”

By this point, he was starting to get an idea of what had happened around this place: obviously, some kind of attack had occurred, but the people had tried sacrifices to placate whatever god or spirits they worshipped in an attempt to help them out of their predicament. The old Slavonic writing suggests, if anything, that they’ve been engaging in such practices for a while and are, or were, not inclined towards modern practices like calling the police.

“Not that they could have done much, but still,” He mutters. Now, all he can think about is his friends. The knot he had been ignoring hadn’t quite reached a death grip, and he would keep it that way. Answers first.

He inspects the small house: a chicken coop outside, a sink next to the three steps leading to the doorway, greenish-blue walls with the paint crusting off, a very modest village house, as per the standard. Only he notices less mud and dirt around the floor. On a little drawer sits a lantern and a knife. He pulls it out of the wood, inspecting it for any dents. Perfectly straight. He moves into the next room to find a small kitchen in the same state of disorder, with three notable exceptions.

One: lying on a dusty, dirty stove lay a pot full of smelly crap stew. One whiff and he covered his nose, reeling away from the green sludge. Moving on, he kept to exception two: goat skulls sitting displayed against the wall like trophy prizes, right next to the drying rags and above a portrait of the woods. And the third exception stands out from the couch, table, closet, small bookshelf, and anything else: a curtain—a yellow curtain with red stripes.

He pauses, then, listening intently. All he can hear is the wind outside, the creaking of the house, and his breath. He shuffled closer to the curtain.

“Hey,” he says, “anyone there?”

Suddenly, the stillness somehow became even more pronounced. He waited a few seconds.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a friend, here to help.” Unless you’re a freak who did this.

A shudder. He’s flexing his fingers in anticipation.

“Who sent you?” came a haggard whisper.

He told the whisper.

“The…the what?”

He told him again, patiently and without condescension. Some things are pretty hard to believe, but after whatever this poor soul’s gone through, he’ll have to try. Now he’s wondering what his friend's situation was if this guy didn’t hear about his job until now. Did they not interact with the locals, or did this guy simply not meet them with the others? Answers later.

“Listen, I’m going to pull back the curtain,” he said in his measured baritone. “Now, I’m probably not what you’re expecting, okay? I need you to keep calm, alright?”

A pause.

“...Alright.”

He grabbed the curtain. He slowly began to pull it open, revealing shadows. One blinding flash of light and a loud pop bursting apart the wall later, and he’s standing away from the curtain.

“I told you I’m on your side!” he stressed, holding his right hand out.

“What are you?” the voice shouted, sounding like a frightened old man.

“I already told you,” he said, “now please, point that thing somewhere else. Especially since…”

But his voice trailed off when he heard a new noise. A loud, inhuman, monstrous screech harshly smashing through the still air. The first one sounded distant, but the second sounded closer.

“Oh, crap,” he said.

Suddenly, the old man’s fears were directed elsewhere, and he hobbled out of the shadows to view out his windows, moving past him. Seeing what he expected to see, whatever it was, the old man, a grayish-green peaky beret, brown leather jacket, and jeans, would have fallen in dismay had the table not stopped him.

“Oh no!” His old voice broke, “They're coming.”

He looks at his new guest. His strange, new guest.

“Do you have a gun?” He asks urgently. “Please tell me you have a gun.”

He pulls out his gun.

“Never leave home without it,” he tells him.

The old man stares, “Good man.” 

Something lands on the roof, either it has heavy footfalls, or is making a sadistic show of it.

The old man skitters around, seeing something in the window behind his guest, and fires his gun. His lip trembles, his old eyes stained with fear and waning hope, but he looks at his guest in puzzlement.

“Who are you?”

And why wouldn't he? His guest is a good 6'5", crouching in the small home, and has red skin. Not a trace of Caucasian, and no racial exaggeration. His skin was a wine-red on a formidable, almost hulking figure, wearing a long, heavy, brown duster coat, which he wore very solidly.  But his most stunning features were his face, a broad, goateed, sideburned face with a lantern jaw, pointed ears, yellow pupilless eyes, and two huge, circular stumps on his forehead, where a full head of hair was missing and instead receded. The old man found the two stumps very strange and could not understand why. His guest’s head whips upward to the sound on the ceiling.

He points his gun, and the sound is like a crack of thunder to the old man’s ears, both in sound and action, demolishing his ceiling in a way his rifle couldn’t. The gun itself was a tremendous revolver, the barrel itself as big and sturdy as a brick, as he held it with one hand. His left hand. The other striking thing about his guest was demonstrated when something tumbled through his ceiling in a splintery heap. Whatever it was, it tried to scramble to its feet. 

“Sorry, pal,” the guest raised his right fist, “you weren’t invited.”

And his stony, robust, four-fingered, red right hand pulverizes the floor with the strength of a mighty hammer. The old man reels back from the impact, and with his back turned, he sees a long tail. The old man’s eyes widened at the sight. The old man remembers when a goat with long horns knew its fate somehow and had its horns sawed off before it was beheaded. Those stumps resembled those of two horns. Horns and a tail and pointed ears and red skin…

“Could you…” He said softly, “Could you be the devil himself? Is that why this plague is upon us?”

“Not him, codger,” the guest replies gruffly, “One last time: I’m with the B.P.R.D.” He fixes the old man with a solid look, “Call me Hellboy.”

Hellboy grabs the old man and leads him back to his dark hiding spot. The old man nearly points his gun at the action, but Hellboy gently and firmly holds the rifle’s barrel away from his person.

“Listen,” Hellboy tells him, “stay here, don’t make noise, and don’t draw any attention to yourself.” Before pulling the curtain, he holds up his huge pistol: “The Samaritan and I are going to be your welcoming committee.”

And once he is enveloped in darkness, he slides against the wall, his legs turned to jelly. No one can see his most vulnerable moment; his unfiltered emotions that could be relief or sadness or despair. Perhaps it’s confusion and clarity — and maybe even hope. Whatever his face displays, not even he knows. All he can hear are the sounds of monsters and of battle and his voice:

“After all our years of worshipping gods…has the devil come for us?”

Chapter Text

“No more outta you, furball!” Hellboy said as the wiseguy struggled to free his foot from Hellboy's stone hand. He was big, but Hellboy was bigger and proved it. The monster gripped the ground floor, its claws dug and pierced into the earth desperately, but Hellboy plucked it from its spot and slammed it back into the ground. Then, Hellboy turned it on its back and smashed his stone hand into its chest. Hellboy stood back up, observed the creature as it twitched and oozed blood from its eyes, then stopped growling, moving, breathing.

“Damn lycan,” Hellboy said. Indeed, it was a lycanthrope, the fancy word the Professor uses for a werewolf. It lacked a wolf's muzzle, but it had a blend of human and canine features, albeit a large, hooked nose and sharpened, malformed teeth. What had once been a man was now a gray, wrinkled, muscular humanoid, its clothes torn, with splotches of blood everywhere, and elongated fingers and toes ending in wicked claws. Its eyes were a glowing white with a maddened red sclera, and its hair was as corpse-pale as its skin, gray fur trailing wherever skin should have been.

“Next time knock,” Hellboy said, taking out a Cuban cigar, lighting the match against his stone hand, and inhaling the taste. Crunching snow brought his eyes away from the dead vermin, seeing the old man walk toward him with hesitant steps.

“You alright?” Hellboy asked.

The old man nodded. 

Hellboy ascertained the man to be a casual hunter, going out for sport, maybe catching rabbits or ferrets. Hellboy looked down at the lycan, realizing that this might be beyond his skill, at least at this age. Hellboy dropped his cigar and crushed it under his hoof.

“What’s your name?” 

By then, the old man, wide-eyed and shallow-breathed, had closed the distance to meet Hellboy. He stared down at the beast, a myriad of emotions crossing his creased, tired, beaten face. He looked at Hellboy.

“Finian,” he said.

Hellboy nodded, softening his features, “Fin, you catch sight of any more survivors?”

The nickname brought Finian out of his daze, blinking and looking almost indignant, before a nostalgic smile crossed his face for the first time. Hellboy guessed he wasn’t the craggly sort.

Finian stammered, seeming to choose his words after forgetting how, “Luiza’s house. Yes, she… I heard her voice coming from my radio some time ago.”

“Where’s that?”

Fin pointed in the direction, and Hellboy saw the distance.

“Crap,” He said, shrugging tiredly, “Well, better get started. Any chance you need me to carry you there?”

Finian scoffed, “I’d rather die!”

Hellboy chuckled. “That’s pretty likely.”

“Oh, don’t remind me.”

Humor through horror.

Of course, it didn’t always work, since they toiled against a horde of freaks. Two enemies became five, before it bumped down to none, and they just kept coming. They attacked when Hellboy was busy reloading, forgetting that he didn’t need a gun to be dangerous. Still, there were a lot of close calls, and for a minute, Hellboy felt he was going to avenge the old man instead of saving him. At one point, Fin tripped against a tree, allowing some lycans to try to crowd him. Hellboy jumped in, crushed the lycan’s head with his right hand, and, after helping Fin back up, knocked the tree down before launching it into the horde. 

They clumped together from every side, killing any silence or respite they might find with their growls or snarls. Fin’s rifle ran out of ammo, so he resorted to his pistol, his eyes wide as he frantically searched for an exit, but all he saw was a lycan in every space like a horde of wasps. The clop-clop of horseback came next, and the dreaded beasts came riding on black horses like feral crusade knights, makeshift lances wrapped with barbed wire like demonic papal knights on a crusade, preparing to enact judgment in the name of a greater power. Rapid hunting dogs seemed a more fitting comparison.

“Look at that, Fin.” Hellboy called out, “Animals riding animals.”

One of the riders' head twitched at his comment, pointing his lance at Hellboy. A new sound cut through the animalistic chorus. A clear, resounding bell rolling in the distance. The lycans all snapped their heads around at the knell, and an evident, sadistic disappointment could be felt as they hissed sibilantly at the two before turning away, breaking their circle around them. They left Hellboy and Finian alone.

Fin watched them leave, his hand shaking.

“Where are they going?” He asked.

Hellboy shrugged, “Bingo?”

“...Be serious.”

“I've played cards with ghosts before. It could happen.”

Now, the sounds of bells jingling twittered through the air like a bird after a massacre, the only sound to make sense of madness. Hellboy looked around for the noise and ushered Finian behind him. No beast was around, no bells could be found. Hellboy continued through the mud and snow, which reminded him to wipe the mud from his face, grumbling as it smeared across his red face.

They saw the hunched figure, then, with a tall walking stick, moving it and confirming the source of the bells. The sound carried a yuletide timbre, and the figure moved placidly past the red-colored barred gates. 

Hellboy narrowed his eyes, “Tell me you want me to follow you without actually saying it.” And he turned to Finian, “Recognize that one?”

“She’s alive…” Finian said slackjawed, gaze fixed on the gates, “She’s our crone. A devotee who–”

“Village crone, got it.”

Hellboy lifted his head and walked toward the gate, a jingle interspersed between his steps. When Hellboy found her, she was drawing in the dirt. Her stick resembled a charcoal-black, elongated deer spine with antlers on top, featuring two skulls wrapped around one antler and bells. One skull had a gaping hole on the side. Bones adorned her large, wooden ring on the other antler, with some turned into a little praying puffet at the bottom.

Hellboy could see her skin past her hooded rags, and it was purple. He saw the beads and bones wrapped around her neck, her silver hair, too, and he could hear her dry, rasping breaths. Hellboy approached slowly, holding his shoulders upright but with a bland patience about him. Best to let her run her mouth first. They always love the sound of their own voice.

“In life and in death,” she said in a high-pitched creaking voice, “we give glory…”

“You don’t say,” Hellboy said, waiting to see if she would turn into a werewolf or something.

She looked up, then, her bright, ecstatic face pale with deep, shadowy wrinkles, and gray eyes glinted with mischief. Clipped to her hood were various beads, claws, and teeth from different animals, adding to the pagan look.

Finian seemed to shrink behind Hellboy. He peeked behind Hellboy’s mass to glimpse the ancient, withered crone. Her face brightened when she saw him, a huge, open-mouthed smile stretching like moldy, hardened clay as she saw him. Something in Hellboy told him to stay between her and Fin. So, he did. He shifted in place, standing tall before her, and interjected.

“Any chance you can shed light on what the hell’s happening?”

She laughed, “Hell itself, my boy, Hellboy!”

Hellboy’s eye twitched.

She continued in an almost reverent tone, “Oh, yes, I know who you are! We all do… Mother Miranda told us all of a coming darkness, all since those strangers arrived…”

“Strangers?” Hellboy asked. “Any of them a fish man and a girl?”

She seemed poised for an answer, but her breath was baited and wavering. But ringing out across the land was a bell. Not her jingling ornaments, but the dull one in the distant tower, following its ominous, steady rhythm. She moved past Hellboy, then, her eyes landing on Fin, the old man shuddering under her almost ravenous stare.

“Hey!” Hellboy said, “You didn’t answer my question.” However, he suspected he knew the answer already, since he had never even told her his name.

“You know danger is coming,” the crone says, retreating to the gate, “as surely as the bell heralds thusly. Why would you ask what you already know?”

She cackles loudly, pushing the doors with her staff.

“The bell tolls for us all! They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Another maddened cackle to ring out with the deep, resonant bell, paired with the heavy shutting of the red gates, and they were alone. Hellboy looked at Fin, seeing the old man’s knees ready to buckle, asked him if he was okay, and after a delayed nod, patted him on the back gently.

“Nice company you keep ‘round here,” He commented.

“Let’s,” Fin began, swallowing, “let’s just leave.”

Elena felt her eyes burning as she watched her father wriggle and moan, but she held back her tears. He sat against the wall, a window above, his black coat barely stained from his red blood. He huffs every breath out, though he’s trying to silence it. His silver-haired stubble dripped with spittle and blood, and he had a black eye.

Elena searched this cabin: “They must have some bandages left here!” 

She came back at his side, watching his wrinkled face twist in agony.

“Forget it, Elena,” he wheezed, “Just give me, give me a minute to catch…” He coughed, trying to stand up, and slid back down.

“Papa,” she said, tugging at her brown hood, “I can tie this around your wound until we find something better.”

“I told you, I–” 

But then, they heard noises and voices. They hushed themselves, and Elena rushed for the door to listen to the snow crunching outside. She shuddered her warm breath out and brought her ear to the crack in the door. Just outside this house, Luiza’s house stood barring any entry. These were survivors, then, like themselves, since she heard no snarls. Elena would not make noise, though. She listened to the gate being pushed.

“Damn,” said an old voice, older than her father’s, “she’s locked us out!”

“Give me a second,” said a deep, smooth, strong voice, “I’ll open it from the other side.”

They want to open the gate! She thought, and hope entered her heart.

She turned around, “Papa, there’s someone–” But Elena had covered her mouth before he could shush her. The door slid open a crack, and she returned to her father. In her excitement and curiosity, she hadn’t realized how loud she had been. But if they could speak like humans and not snarl like monsters, surely this mistake wasn’t a deadly one, right? Elena searches for a weapon, finds none, and braces herself when she hears the door thud.

In comes old Finian, his rifle pointed at her before lowering when she said:

“Close the door! Please!”

He eyes her, nods in agreement, relief on his face, and waves someone else in.

At the newcomer, Elena’s heart sinks, and she drops to her knees.

“What is it, girl?” Finian asked, “You look like you’ve seen a…” He turns around, “Oh, right. Now, please. He’s not with those things.”

“He’s…” The words couldn’t escape Elena’s chapped lips, her legs wobbling, her hand shakily raising in supplication or to somehow protect her father, who by this point had found his second wind and scrambled around, trying to get up.

“Demon!” said her father, pointing his machete at Hellboy, “Stay away from us!”

“Nice company,” Hellboy said dryly, “I’m not here to hurt you.” He holstered his weapon and held his hands up.

“He speaks the truth,” said Finian, holding his arms out as if to shield Hellboy, “He saved my life. Several times, as we came here!”

“Keep that thing away from my daughter!”

Finian scoffed, “Didn’t you hear a thing I said, Leonardo?”

“Hey,” Hellboy said, “it’s alright. How about I open that gate for you? Leo looks like he’s got a bad scratch.”

Elena caught the words and started to stand back up.

“Yes,” she said, nodding furiously, “yes, please! Luiza isn’t answering.”

“Quiet, girl,” Leonardo growled, “He’s a demon, and an outsider.” But his words sounded flat even before the guttural roar called out for more blood, setting everyone’s hair on end. All except for Hellboy, who scowled.

“I’m also your only chance to get to safety,” Hellboy said. He turned for the door, “Stay here. Be right back.”

Finian asked Leonardo, “Can you walk?” and walked to him. Finian was a close enough friend of Leonardo, who had been good friends with his father before he passed into darkness. Leonardo had always been stout and stubborn on their hunts through the woods and in times of harsh weather, so seeing him carrying that fire within his heart, even now as blood pooled beneath him, brought hope into his own. But it also twisted as it took both himself and Elena to lift him, even as Leonardo tried to push them away.

“Who is this outsider?” said Leonardo, his machete arm hanging over Finian’s shoulder to stabilize himself. Elena looked at Finian with her father’s free hand on her shoulders, equally curious.

“As I understand it,” Finian said, “he may be our best damn hope to see another sunrise.”

Leonardo hummed before devolving into another dry, hacking cough that tore at his throat and stung his body. 

Then, the howls and growls came. They all froze, with Leonardo unhooking his arms from Elena and Finian, unconsciously lifting his machete toward the door. But the sounds sounded farther from the cabin, and among them was Hellboy’s voice, frunting and yelling, the sounds of combat rooting them in place. They heard what sounded like a rock crumbling, blood splattering against snow…then nothing. They stood together, listening closely. 

A new sound: a barred lock slides across. And a heavy gate rattling, creaking slightly, then a thunk :

“Come on! Hurry”

Finian smiled widely, looking at faces that had once been his own, and led them out of the cabin. Holding Leonardo upright, Elena and Finian trudged and limped toward the newly opened wooden gate, Hellboy standing between the gap. Finian pointed his rifle around, to be sure. They released Leonardo at the gate, the man breathing loudly and deciding he could walk the short distance. His pale face glared pettily at Hellboy.

“Took your damn time,” He said and pushed past him to the house.

“Take it outta my cheque,” Hellboy deadpanned.

Elena smiled lightly at Hellboy, “Please don’t mind him. He’s not used to getting help from others.”

“I guess most of us reach that age,” Hellboy shrugged.

“Yeah?” Finian said, “And how old are you?”

“Bah,” Hellboy said, waving dismissively.

After the three humans moved past the gate, Hellboy shoved it closed, locking it with his left hand. Hellboy mumbled to himself, moving past Finian, who continued to eye him.

Elena tugged Hellboy’s sleeve, “We’ll be safe here, won’t we?”

Hellboy looked at the gate, “We’re not screaming our heads off, so there’s that.”

Elena nodded, but Finian grimaced from behind. That wasn’t an answer. Leonardo had already climbed the two steps and began knocking on the door, which soon turned into pounding. The others gathered round the door.

“Nobody’s answering!” came Leonardo’s haggard words.

“Let me try,” Hellboy said, keeping his left hand down to bang on the door, “Hey! If anyone’s in there, open up!”

He kept doing this, but still, the door was unmoved. A knot formed in Hellboy’s stomach, his brow furrowing and his eyes narrowing. Elena and Finian saw his hand reaching for his gun, and his stone hand reaching for the door.

“Wait!” Elena lightly nudged him aside, “Maybe they need a familiar voice…”

Hellboy looked at the old red door, the black, decorated grills in front of their windows; he nodded to her, but kept his hand on his holster. Elena took her turn. She knocked as they had before her, called out Luiza’s name, announced herself, and the door opened. 

Elena’s eyes widened, her hands slowly raised as the gun barrel came within her face.

Hellboy acted on instinct, and suddenly, his right hand covered the barrel, and a second later, a muffled but still loud bang popped in his undamaged hand. Elena screamed; Hellboy heard Leonardo call out for her; the door flung open at the same time the double-barreled rifle reeled away, dragging a short man with it, hitting the porch on his belly. The man in a green duster coat, gray beret, and big ears looked up, wide-eyed at Hellboy, who stood imposingly over him.

“That’s no way to greet your guest,” He said.

Big Ears looked ready to scream when Elena stepped in, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“Elena,” he said, sputtering slightly, words failing, “You, you, you brought a monster?!”

“No, no!” Elena urged.

“That’s nice.”

“No, please!” Elena held a placating hand before Hellboy, “This is just Iulian, he’s a good man.”

“Never accused him otherwise,” Hellboy said, “He still pointed a gun at you.”

“I was,” Iulian(Hellboy would call him Big Ears) stammered, “I am protecting this place!”

“What’s going on?” said a voice within the house. 

“Luiza, get a weapon!” Iulian said, bordering on hysteria, “They’ve brought a beast!”

“No,” Finian pushed past Hellboy, “Luiza, it’s me and Leonardo, and his daughter. This is Hellboy. He helped us get here.”

“And my father is bleeding and needs help!” Leonardo pushed past Finian, and, as if to illustrate Elena’s point, his knees seemed to him to the stone floor, incessant, dry, scratching coughs following this action. He looked paler than before. Hellboy frowned in his direction.

“The blood will attract the monsters! The sound–!” 

“All the more reason to let these people in.” Hellboy interrupted.

“He’s right,” said Luiza, walking past the door frame and helping the three villagers inside, smiling kindly, “These people are our friends, now come in.” After shuffling inside, Luiza came to see the newcomer. Her face said it all.

“You…” She sought the right words, “are not from here.”

“What gave it away?” Hellboy asked, brow raised.

The woman’s lip quirked. She was middle-aged and mature, with not many gray hairs, and had a slope-shouldered, almost regal posture. She wore a black dress that was better suited for a funeral. Her gray eyes glinted, no doubt analysing every scenario that could come from allowing this outsider into her house.

“Iulian’s a cautious one, but he’s a good boy.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Hellboy said, glowering at the young man.

Luiza nodded, “And I will discuss it with him, but may I ask you to let him up from the floor? Besides, you also look tired and should probably come in.”

Hellboy stepped away from Iulian, resuming his casual slouching stance. Iulian, whose eyes somehow got wider, gawked at Luiza, scrambling to his feet.

“Luiza, have you gone mad?!” His hand pointed to Hellboy, as if she somehow missed him, “Look at him! He could be one of them, sent here by, by whatever to kill us all! What if he’s deceiving you?”

“Iulian,” she said, looking him directly, “if he really wanted to come into this house to destroy it, or hurt you …he would have done it by now.”

“She’s right, you know,” Hellboy raised his right palm and blew into it. Iulian’s face began to settle into some form of resigned dread as the image of his stone hand sank into the depths of his soul. Hellboy’s seen those looks before. He ignores it and drops the gun on the floor.

“If Finian vouches for you,” Luiza said with a stern face, “so shall I. If Elena trusts you, so do I.”

Iulian reached for the gun, hefting it slowly, keeping his eyes on Hellboy and standing slowly as if afraid a sudden movement would displease him. Hellboy almost sighed, but Luiza beat him to it with a hard command to check the grounds, make himself useful. Iulain nodded just as slowly and moved aside. Hellboy took one last look outside, knowing the guy was right about the noise. 

It was quiet, though. Hellboy’s eyes narrowed when he saw a crow perched on the gate. It flapped off in a harrowed storm of feathers. Hellboy glared at the bird, now with a bad feeling forming in his gut, but otherwise, he walked inside the house. Hellboy took in the house: red rug formed into a cross in the center, brown leather chair in the corner, long, green wooden chair on his left, wooden floor, old walls, a rather spent-looking house that’s seen better, richer days.

“Hellboy,” Luiza said, standing before the left doorway, “can you wait here, please? I must check on the others. Make yourself comfortable. And I must prepare them for… Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

Hellboy nodded, “I understand.”

Hellboy took to the leather chair, lifted the letters off, and sat down, his legs and arms cracking into place as his body relaxed. Hellboy took the letter in his hand, and it might have been rude, but he read it.

Luiza

They broke in again, got more of the livestock.

There were a few optimistic messages like, I think if we pull together, or, If we send someone out to , but they were crossed out, and instead:

I don’t think we’ll make it through winter at this rate.

“Poor Ernest,” Hellboy said, “whoever he is, and wherever he is.”

The last message piqued his interest.

Has Mother Miranda abandoned us?

That name again. Mother Miranda. Who was she? A cult leader, likely, if she has a village of followers. These people seemed to have depended on her for protection, food, everything. Is that bird lady Miranda? More importantly, is she responsible for what’s happening and Abe and Liz’s disappearances?

If only that hag had been more forthcoming. Hellboy knew he would see her again.

In any case, despite Hellboy fearing he’d be the worst paranormal fly-swatter, he and Fin arrived at this house. The funeral assessment was the right one. It was as quiet as one, every creak and moan from the old wood punctuated by the somber silence, the high wind howling, and not a scurry or scratch heard anywhere. But it felt less like respite and more like a patient, predatory silence. Who will make the first move?

The door opened with a squeaky creak.

“This way,” Luiza said.

She led him to the others. Pushing past a curtain in a doorway, Hellboy found the other survivors in a darknened room with only a lanterns and a fireplace as their source of light: closest to the door, a heavyset man in brown, tattered suit with a bottle in hand, Leonardo and Elena sitting by the table in the center of the room, and Luiza offered him a chair to sit with them. At the far end of the room, a young man lay still on the couch with heavy bandages wrapped across his left eye, blood stained on them. By his side, a young woman sobbed, trying to stifle them, looking small and vulnerable with her peasant’s dress and white rag over her head.

“What?” the man with the bottle stood, “What is this? This thing you’ve brought in here!”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Hellboy said.

The rest shuffled, eyes wide and torn between running and pleading, until Finian stood by his side.

“He is not one of them, I already told you, Anton.” Finian patted his shoulder, “He saved our lives.”

“We were doing fine by ourselves,” Leonardo insisted, his daughter rubbing his back.

“Save you?” Anton asked, starting to his feet. “And tell me, demon: exactly what have you saved?” He advanced to the couch, “A worthless invalid? A stupid, wailing bitch?!”

The woman began to sob louder. Hellboy scowled, standing up.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, striding to him with the chair, ignoring Luiza’s calling, “I’m gonna need you to calm down. I get that you’re having a bad day, but screaming’s not helping anybody.” He looked down on Anton, sniffing the whiskey around him, his left hand twitched with the smell, “Take a seat. Trust me.”

The woman’s sobs stuttered into sniffles, and the silence that followed could be properly tense. Anton’s scowl fluttered in and out with Hellboy’s stature, illuminated by the fireplace to give him a vibrant appearance. Anton muttered something about outsiders and madness, but made his way back to his seat. Hellboy turned to the woman, smiling.

“Hey, come on, I can’t stand to see a pretty woman cry…” He placed the chair next to the couch. “What’s your name?”

“Roxanna,” she answered after a moment. “This is Sebastian.” She motioned to the young man on the couch.

“Hey, Sebastian,” he waved. 

Sebastian, for his credit, waved back as best as his battered, sore, bandaged form would allow, only fliching a little bit with the action. Everyone in the room seemed to understand that whatever preconceptions they might have had at the sight of Hellboy were dashed away. The stifling air became less oppressive and heavy with the despair of the victims, and more akin to camaraderie — as though the answer these people might have sought in the dark time appeared like a light. 

Hellboy knew better, though. He took out his walkie.

“B15, this is Red. Can you hear me?”

The whine pierced his ear, and he pulled it away. When it subsided, he heard a male voice call out:

[Hey, Hellboy, any chance you can speed this whole thing up?]

A beat passed. “I’m fine, thanks, Max.”

[Yeah, sorry, but it’s just…I couldn’t tell you how, but we can literally smell the blood all the way down here.]

Hellboy grimaced, “Oh…crap.”

[My thoughts exactly. But never mind that, how are you?]

Hellboy rolled his eyes, “I got civilians down here.” He eyed the occupants as he saw Leonardo cough up blood on the table, his skin paler than ever. He walked over to him. “Hey, humor me a second?”

[Gothca, Hellboy. Where are you?]

“What? His brooding face looked rutted and badgered at once.

Hellboy took out his gun, popped a bullet out the barrel, and handed it to him, “Hold onto this tight, okay?”

Leonardo sighed exaggeratedly, “I’m not going to hold some–”

“Leo,” Hellboy said softly–dangerously so, “Trust me.”

Leonardo’s bleary eyes narrowed. He scoffed and held out his hand.

[Hellboy?]

“Yeah, I’m still here,” He said, never taking his eyes off the man, “We’re in a house behind a metal gate, east, close to the big castle, has a small porch. You’ll know it when you see it. Seven in total, one needs medical attention.”

[Anything else?]

“This village is overrun with freaks; they look like werewolves, but…” He never took his eyes off Leonardo. His eyes caught the wound he had past his jacket. “I feel something off with this picture. Bring guns. Big ones.”

[Mmm, I don’t know how soon we can get reinforcements down here.]

“I don’t care what you have to do, but get these people out of here.”

[Copy that. No promises, but I’ll try to get a copter down there in 30 minutes.]

With that, they signed off.

“But…my family–this house has protected my family for generations!” Luiza said suddenly, startling everyone. “And besides, with you here, surely we…”

Hellboy shook his head, taking his eyes off Leonardo.

“Let me put it this way: I can break these walls, no problem. What makes you think they can’t?”

Luiza clasped her hands, made to speak, but Elena spoke:

“Wait, Luiza, where’s your husband?”

Luiza paused, looking away, “He… He, he, he went to get help. And… Yes, he’s gone to get help.” She looked at Hellboy, her gray eyes appearing dull and…wrong, somehow, “Perhaps he’s met your companions and…”

Hellboy eyed her sympathetically. “You’re not staying here. You’ve got too much going against you.”

Luiza’s lines etched themselves deeper, a war breaking out on her features, every reason fighting to convince her what she must do. A new voice put in a suggestion:

“Let us pray,” Roxanna said. When all eyes landed on her, her weathered and drained face, now with more vigor, flushed from the attention. “For your husband, I mean, Luiza…and for all of us.”

“Yes,” Luiza says, as if the thought had yet to cross her mind, “Yes! Good idea.”

Hellboy watched as the villagers assembled, helped Sebastian to his feet with Roxanna, and they circled around the table. Their hands found each other, forming a ring. Anton shunned them away, finding comfort in the bottle. Hellboy watched as Leonardo’s hand tightly clasped the bullet, while his fingers slid outward to try to hold Sebastian’s hand. Elena offered her hand to Hellboy.

“No thanks, he said, “Go nuts.”

And they said before him, heads bowed and in unison:

“ Great ones, hear our voice together as one in reverence. We call on thee within the endless dark to deliver us into fate’s hands. As the midnight moon rises on black wings, so we make our sacrifice and await the light at the end. In life and in death, we give you glory, Mother Miranda. ”

That last line stood out to Hellboy, striking a chord of familiarity. Hellboy knew faith to be a powerful thing. Priests and shamans who believed in their gods without question could push back the monsters of darkness. The Christian cross wasn’t enough if the prayer was hollow. And without that faith, fear would take its place, which was just as effective, if in small doses. To Hellboy’s eyes, these people did not look invigorated from this prayer, and to be fair, no one ever is until the light shines through. But here, they looked…drained.

Sebastian and Leonardo nearly toppled in place, while everyone else seemed to develop a far-off, hazy look in their eyes. The only one who didn’t seem affected was Luiza. She stood straighter, clasping her hands in satisfaction.

“Now, the tea should be ready,” she said. She and Roxanna went for it, while everyone situated themselves. Sebastian had chosen to sit down next to Leonardo, and the haggard man continued to clutch the bullet.

“That prayer,” Hellboy said, “I heard it while we were out there. I’m assuming the old lady is a regular?”

Leonardo began to chuckle, a languid smile forming.

“You mean the hag?” He asked.

“She is our seeress,” Sebastian croaked out.

“Dumb bitch is as crazy as they come!” Leonardo’s fist began to shake irregularly.

Luiza rounded on him, “There is wisdom in her belief. And I pray that hers has saved her just as it protects us.”

But as Leonardo tried to laugh, he began to cough. As he coughed, it warbled and strangled into a blood-curdling, pained growl. He clutched his wound as though something contorted his bones and meat from inside, one hand on his machete and the other pressed into his wound. He knocked the lantern to the floor, setting it ablaze, and Anton immediately began to stomp on it. Hellboy saw what Luiza saw: his machete-less clenched fist burning. The silver had done its work. Hellboy pulled out the Samaritan.

“Get back!” He called out.

“No!” Elena shouted, placing herself between Hellboy and her father. That second was enough for Leonardo to act. He raised his machete, dropped the bullet, and cleaved his weapon into his daughter’s shoulder. She screamed. Blood spilled across Hellboy's arm, and she tumbled in his arms.

The growling monster that was Leonardo seemed to shrink back for a moment, and his eyes widened at the sight of his dead daughter. Anton sneaked up behind him and smashed his bottle against his head. Leonardo fell to his knees, shards of glass sprinkling around him. He placed his face deep into his hands, muffling the despairing growl he made. 

“Kill me!” His voice garbled and quavered. His neck twisted, and he continued to growl. His pupils dilated, and his forehead bled from where his new claws dug in. He looked up and found a gun barrel staring him in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Hellboy said, and blew Leonardo’s brains out. Someone screamed out as Leonardo’s body flew slightly and landed in the flames.

After Hellboy holstered his weapon, he took back the bullet he had loaned the man. Something seemed to settle in the villagers as he patted the fires down with his right hand. It was subtle, but it was as though a fog seemed to clear. The rest happened in tandem: Hellboy knew the smell of blood would attract more freaks, so he offered to take them out and bury them. Everyone thought he was mad, but he didn’t care.

Finian stepped up, feeling some sense of obligation to go with Hellboy. They both knew Finian was too afraid to back out, and Hellboy placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him No one blames you, but my job is to hunt monsters, not yours. From there, Anton, of all people, scrambled and stumbled for some tablecloths to wrap the deceased. Iulian came in at some point, demanding to know what had happened, to which Hellboy gave him some gentle cliff notes. From there, they gave him a shovel. Hellboy took the haphazardly wrapped bodies over his shoulders, inclined his head toward the occupants, who looked at him with a somber respect, and made for the door. Luiza held the door open for him. Hellboy passed onto the porch quietly.

“Hellboy,” she said.

He faced her. She was staring up at Hellboy with a strange look in her eye.

“I know I must be useless compared to you or your friends,” She began.

“You’re not useless–”

“Please, let me finish,” she interrupted, “For however long you are here, Hellboy, I will pray for your safety. But I will also pray that you’re quest leaves us all with sanctuary. I thank you deeply for saving my friends and my home. Some of us only have this life, and we have worked so hard to keep it…”

Hellboy tried to gauge her expression. Her expression seemed to plead, but otherwise, it was like a mask. He would have had more time to digest her meaning, whether it was good luck wrapped in a warning or something else, before he heard the howling.

“I gotta go,” He said, walking away, “Wait for my reinforcements. Stay safe.”

Luiza slowly shut the door. She stood there, staring at the door, her expression obscured by the shadows. Her hands clasped together, and they began to shake. Luiza’s nails seemed to want to dig into the skin. She whispered something under her breath, softly, deliberately, and the sound became more hoarse as she dragged every word out.

“Luiza?” Roxanna said behind her, grief still choking her words. “Is something wrong?”

Luiza opened her gray eyes.