As a teenager, Caspar clung to the few precious items he could call his own: his trusty pocket knife, his worn-out backpack, and most importantly, his battered, second-hand laptop. It wasn’t anything special, even before it found its way to a run-down flea market, but to him it was his lifeline. His laptop served as his educator, his window outside the little RV, and, when he was left alone, his only companion.

Soon after receiving it, he became adept at pirating movies. His favorites were The Little Vampire, The Sixth Sense, and The Last Unicorn. It was a bit embarrassing, as a boy, to like a little girl movie about unicorns—or so his mom used to growl in between puffs of her Newman’s. 

However, Caspar couldn’t help feeling deeply connected to the core themes of the film. He saw himself in the unicorn’s journey. How couldn’t he? He was also on a journey, looking for a family who was long, long gone. 

Always looking. Always afraid. 

He’s afraid now, and fear has numbed all his fine-tuned senses. Pain shoots down his neck, his feet stumble in the dark, and every nerve of his being shakes with an animalistic urge to run, run, run! 

His mind is the most affected by his adrenaline. It’s looping through a nonsensical track of his memories from the past few days, the last glare of contempt from his mother, and most foolish, a scene from The Last Unicorn: As the harpy had descended from the sky in the film, death imminent, the unicorn strode away. Never run from anything immortal; it only attracts their attention, she had said.

Caspar knows it to be true. He knows running will only prolong the suffering, but he can’t stop, his body won't let him stop. He hops the fence, diving into the sorghum. His form vanishes immediately into the tall leafy stalks, but even hidden from sight he’s not safe. It’s only a desperate, last-ditch attempt. 

A sound suddenly causes his heart to squeeze in terror. Wings, massive ones, and something landing behind him. Caspar’s foot catches on something. Like a bad horror movie, he falls uselessly into the dirt. There's no time to curse his own idiocy. He stumbles to his feet, returning to his desperate sprint. His aching legs carry him through the fields, through the horse paddock, and finally, to the RV. 

He scrambles inside, hands fumbling with the keys. He turns the ignition on. The high beams illuminate the rustic scenery—

Malakai stands there, face impassive. Behind him, the shadow of wings stretch wide. Too wide. Too wide for a human to comprehend. Caspar feels the feathers brush at the corners of his mind.

“Fuck!” he cries. He hits the gas as he shifts into reverse. 

Malakai’s form is swallowed by darkness as Caspar pulls out of the long driveway. The tires skid on the gravel as he turns the wheel, barreling through a picket fence and diving straight through a ditch. He squeezes tight as the van lurches onto the dirt road. The gas pedal is pressed to the floorboard, barreling the RV away from the farmhouse at breakneck speeds.

Thick swathes of trees pass by in a nightmarish blur as he navigates the twisting back roads. The speed limit here is 20 MPH, but he doesn’t dare slow down. His hands shake, jumping as he imagines humanoid figures in every gnarled trunk and shadowed underbrush. 

In a haze, he drives on autopilot for some time, never blinking and never unclenching his jaw. He drives until, before he knows it, the pale fingers of dawn are already creeping across the sky. 

Suddenly, the van stops. Caspar gasps. 

He’s at a gas station. He looks at the fuel gauge. It's almost empty—how long has he been driving?

Caspar stumbles out of the RV. His stomach lurches as he steps into the sunlight. He rushes to the side, bending over and puking into the grass. It's a few sick moments of coughing and hacking before the last of the acidic bile is on the ground. Caspar gasps and spits. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he spots a lone Frito floating in the murk.

He looks up anxiously from the ground, wiping his mouth. There's a few people milling about the gas station. A woman at the pump side-eyes Caspar, while her husband snickers and makes some snide comment into her ear. 

Caspar swallows thickly, averting his eyes away from them. Embarrassment flutters in his stomach, but it's overpowered by relief. He’s amongst others now. In the light of day. That means he’s safe. 

As safe as he can manage, at least. 

He walks back to the RV, pulling the gas pump out. He presses the fuel button, inserts the nozzle, and pulls the trigger. Nothing. Caspar squeezes harder. “C’mon. Fuck.”

He peeks over at the other couple. A receipt is in the man’s hand as he pumps the gas. Did he pay inside? Caspar looks through his wallet. He has just enough cash for a full tank and something warm to eat. 

He locks the RV, heading for the gas station with money in hand. Inside, an old man glares from the front desk as the door opens with the chime of the welcome bell. Caspar ignores the look, heading toward the smell of something greasy. He leans over the display case, stomach turning at the sight of stale taquitos and ancient pre-wrapped burritos. 

Not feeling up to various hours of puking and shitting himself from food poisoning, Caspar opts for the donuts instead. He stuffs three into a little paper pastry sleeve before following his nose to the coffee station. It’s all low-quality shit, but at least it gives him something to focus on beside the gnawing, anxious ache in his bones. 

As he drinks his quote-on-quote cappuccino, he opens his messages. No new notifications. His finger hovers over Jacob’s phone number. 

Caspar turns his phone off. There's no use asking him for help. Besides, Caspar doesn’t want to bring Jacob to Malakai’s attention. Anxiety is already gnawing at his brain over the realization that Malakai most likely already knows Jacob’s voice from the phone call. 

He sighs shakily. It’s fine. Duncan had to have some book or record of demons at his cabin. Caspar just needs to get there in one piece. 

He pays at the counter for his food and gas, refills the RV, and gets back on the road. 

Now that the sun has begun to shine down on the road, Caspar’s mood starts to lift. Although he knows it’s a false sense of security, he feels a little safer now that the light is banishing all the shadows. Come nightfall, that security will be long gone, but for now, it's enough to allow himself the radio as he drives. 

The voice on the radio broadcasts the weather, nothing of particular interest to Caspar, but it tricks his brain into believing someone else is here with him. He lets his autopilot take over again, focusing on the road.

By the time the afternoon sun is beating down on the road, Caspar is turning onto a dirt road. It's a relief for the hard-working AC as the canopy of trees shields him from the intense light. A short drive through a winding forest road, he’s here. Duncan’s cabin sits invitingly, warm sun highlighting the worn log walls.  

Caspar parks the RV, grabbing his bag. Before he steps out, he pauses at the door. 

The crucifix he stole from the church sits on the bed. Caspar grabs it, stuffing it in his bag before leaving the RV. It didn’t do much to Malakai, but there’s nothing wrong with indulging a superstition.

The RV door squeaks as Caspar steps out and locks it behind him. He looks out, observing the cabin. He’d been here recently, just before he went to visit his mom. At that time, neither Duncan nor Delilah had shown any hide or hair, but Caspar still held onto hope they’d be here now. 

To his disappointment, though, he finds Duncan’s motorcycle is still nowhere to be seen. 

Caspar brushes his anxiety off, hurrying to the front door. He uses his keyring to unlock it, rushing inside and dead bolting the door. With a deep breath, he looks out the peephole for a good 10 minutes before he decides the coast is clear.

He turns around to examine the state of the cabin. 

It’s a modest little shelter, with the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and dining room all being combined into a small 200 square foot space. Above it is a loft where Duncan’s desk and bed are, alongside his bookshelf, computer, and other things. 

Caspar climbs the ladder to the loft. He lets the nostalgia sink in as he sits on the ancient bed. Besides the RV, this was the only place he could call home. Whenever his mom got tired of his bullshit or she went on a particularly dangerous hunt, this is where Caspar would end up. Duncan would string up a hammock next to the window, and Caspar could look out at the woods, watching the sun set behind the treeline. 

But now the cabin feels anything but cozy. Dust has started to settle on various surfaces, including the bookshelf and desk. Caspar feels even more alone than ever before. 

He shakes off the feeling, looking through Duncan’s bags. He finds what he’s looking for— red spray paint. 

Caspar climbs down the ladder with it, shaking it vigorously. With an unpracticed wobble, he sprays a clumsy pentagram on the floor in front of the door. His uncle will kill him, no doubt, but desperate times call for desperate measures. After the door, Caspar moves onto the few windows and above the bed. He has no idea if any of this will be effective when the symbol is lacking any of the runes he saw, but maybe it will act like a deterrent, at least. 

He returns to the loft, looking through the bookshelf first. Several books, including bibles and ancient mythology are pulled down. Caspar lays them on the bed to read before he goes to sleep. Next, he searches through Duncan’s desk. He looks for something, anything, that can tell him where his uncle has gone. Unlike Delilah, Duncan is known for his careful record keeping and plans.

If it’s written down though, Caspar can’t find it. Most of the notes and scribbles Caspar finds on his desk are to-do lists regarding supplying Delilah with specialized weapons or stolen credit card information. Nothing in regards to his next hunt. 

Caspar pushes the papers and notes to the side with a frustrated grunt. Instead, he turns his attention to the scratched up laptop sitting in the corner of the desk. Opening it and pressing the on button, it whirrs to life with an ancient hum. The blue screen illuminates Caspar’s face with a sickly glow, greeting him with a plain Input Password text prompt. 

Caspar looks around the desk. Finding nothing, he types in his birthday.

Wrong Password. 

He tries his mom’s next. 

Wrong Password. Need a hint? 

Caspar clicks it. 

What monster kills humans, but can’t be killed by hunters? 

Caspar blinks. A riddle? Really, Duncan?

“Nerd,” Caspar groans. 

He takes a moment to think. Demons, he types. 

Wrong Password. 

“Damn! That should be it!”

Caspar leans back in the chair. Maybe it means an undead monster? Something that can’t be killed because it’s already dead?

Vampires, Caspar types. 

Wrong Password.

Ghosts, Caspar types. 

Wrong Password. 

Caspar takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth. Wraiths, he types. 

Too Many Incorrect Attempts. Locking for (4) hours…

“Damn it!” 

Caspar gets up from the chair abruptly, nearly knocking it to the ground. He has an insane urge to slam the laptop closed violently. Instead, he shuts it and sits on the bed. 

He covers his eyes, hunching over. Why does he have to do this alone? 

A ragged gasp escapes his mouth. He covers it with his hand. Sickeningly, his mind conjures the memory of Malakai sitting across from Caspar at the diner. He’d been smiling so kindly. A perfect simulacra of exactly what Caspar needed. Rage builds in his chest, acidic and hot, burning every inch of his body.

He turns his head out to look at the window. The ugly pentagram obscures the sight of the sunset. Caspar stands abruptly, pushing the window open forcefully and leaning out. 

“I don’t need you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, monster!” he screams. 

The woods rustle in the wind, ambivalent to Caspar’s crisis. He squeezes the windowsill so tight the old wood squeaks. “I’m not scared of you! I’ve killed worse things than you, bastard!”

He swallows. A cloud passes over the sun, casting darkness across the trees. Caspar waits for something. For the sound of wings and sudden, brutal, fight.

Nothing happens. Caspar is left with nothing but the woods and his thoughts, and that's more tortuous than anything this god-forsaken creature could have done to him. Caspar shuts the window with a violent rattle. 

He’ll find out soon enough. Night is approaching quickly. If Malakai is coming to kill him, it will happen tonight. Caspar grabs his gun from his bag, sitting on the edge of the bed.