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The gun goes off with a bang!

The moon is high, the sorghum fields dance in the wind, and Caspar is all alone yet again.

He stares. His feet shuffle back, away from the pooling red-black blood pouring from Malakai’s head. The man lays at Caspar’s feet, dead, body limp and eyes blank.

“No, fuck, no—I’m sorry—I thought—”

How could Caspar make such a fatal error? How could he kill an innocent human, mistaking them for a monster?

The sound of twigs snapping makes his eyes dart up.

He doesn’t even get time to mourn. The clearing is unnaturally silent, lacking the characteristic call of cicadas. The reason is obvious.

Surrounding him, four scaled, angry beasts stare at Caspar with hateful yellow eyes. Sharp dorsal spines flex, drool pools from fanged teeth. They’re all stock-still, hunched over on all fours, waiting for him to move. Waiting to lunge and tear into him like a pack of starving dogs.

Maybe he should let them. Maybe death is all he deserves.

Earlier this week

On a lonely, desolate road, Caspar parks his motorcycle in the underbrush. With a crunch of gravel underfoot, he enters the shoddy RV park, approaching the last known location of Delilah Shaw. He enters the empty RV with a squeeeeeak of the aged door. Dust motes float about, disturbed by his arrival. “Mom?”

He flicks on the light. An ancient yellow fluorescent shudders on, buzzing in protest. There’s no sign of Caspar’s mother, but her RV is just as he remembers: basically a glorified van with a bed in the corner, a run down kitchenette, a cot cubby above the driver’s seat, and a squat, foldable coffee table.

He looks at the corkboard on the coffee table. It's a mess of red yarn, fuzzy images of barely obscured creatures, and lots of neon yellow sticky notes. Caspar traces his finger to the central sticky note, the one surrounded by monochromatic prints of a humble-looking church.

They’re hiding something here. They won’t go undetected for much longer, his mother had written in red ink.

Caspar sighs. He pulls out his phone.

Ring!

We’re sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be reached. Please leave a message after the tone.

Beep!

“Hey. Uncle Duncan. I know you’re still mad at me, but I need your help. Mom’s gone missing. Again.”

Caspar pinches the bridge of his nose as he parses his thoughts. His eyes dart to the window.

Outside, he sees nothing but the fence surrounding the RV park and dense woodlands. He’s in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Texas. Caspar grits his teeth. “Are you still ignoring me? I know you didn’t want me to enroll, but I—I just can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live on edge all day, waiting for something to come from the shadows to end me. I can’t—”

He pauses. He looks around his mother’s RV.

It’s barren. There are no little touches that mark this place as a home. Caspar feels sick to his stomach, realizing the only comforting thing about this room is a stale scent of cigarettes. He never picked up the habit. It was always his mom’s favorite treat. He still remembers peeking over the edge of the comforter to find her blowing out a puff, her eyes cold as they meet his.

Caspar pinches his nose, trying to shake the sour memory. “I’m 25 and I have no friends, Duncan. I don’t have anything. All I have is you and mom, but you make it so hard—”

Message length maximum reached. End the call to send this message, press one to re-record, or press two to re-dial.

Caspar stares at the phone.

He could turn it off right now and head back home. Or at least, back to the shitty motel he’s been sleeping in. He could wait out the summer and forget everything. He could pretend he’s just a normal late bloomer getting his bachelor’s in biological sciences.

Or he could, that is, if he hadn’t seen Uncle Duncan’s leather jacket under the coffee table. Casper picks it up, thumb creasing the well-loved leather.

So Duncan was here, but his Harley isn’t. He went somewhere. Did he go after Mom? He must’ve, but he didn’t come back…

Caspar presses two.

Ring!

We’re sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be reached—

Caspar ends the call, redialing. His heart is pounding.

Ring!

We’re sorry—

Caspar ends the call. He pulls up his messages with his uncle. His fingers move quick on the screen.

>Wherever you and mom are, I’m coming.

>I’m bringing the van. I don’t have my hunting gear

Packing to go is a short affair. His bag is already on his motorcycle, filled with his clothes and toiletries. He planned to skip town before the motel realizes he isn't going to pay for his stay or his continental breakfast. What takes longer, though, is figuring out where the fuck his only family has vanished to.

He looks back down at the corkboard. Of course, his batshit crazy mom couldn’t just write where she was going. She had to go the asinine X-files route.

Plucking the central photo out from its crimson web, Caspar squints. His mother had printed it in the shittiest quality possible, most likely so that she wouldn’t have to pay more than the bare minimum. As a result, the sign on the church is chunky and pixelated, just barely legible.

“Everlasting Light - Non-denominational Church of Redpine. Mom, why the fuck are you so interested in some podunk church?”

Caspar inputs the name into his GPS.

Immediately, his phone locates his destination. Only 45 minutes away from where he is now. He heads to the front of the RV, finding the keys conveniently still in the ignition. With a rumble of the ancient engine, he pulls out from the parking spot and onto the desolate road.

Being so far out in the country, nobody else is here to slow him down. Taking advantage of that, Caspar manages to arrive in Redpine ten minutes earlier than planned. He makes it just in time to watch as townies start to filter out after the afternoon service.

The churchgoers mill about leisurely, making small talk as they return to their vehicles. Nothing seems particularly off about them. Like true civilians, they live in ignorance of the supernatural, not even sparing Caspar’s RV a glance as they all leave the weathered white-wood building.

Somehow, it makes him feel nostalgic watching the little families leave hand-in-hand. He remembers the safety religion used to bring to his life. Of course, that illusion went by the wayside quickly living as a hunter.

He brushes aside his wayward thoughts, focusing on the parking lot. He doesn’t see his uncle’s motorcycle here.

Caspar sighs. He takes a glance at himself in the rearview mirror.

Despite the bags under his dove gray eyes, his face still retains a boyish look of youth. It must be the shaggy blond hair and freckles peppering his cheeks. He looks meek, despite his large frame and the ugly scar that crosses the bridge of his nose. He can only hope that's enough to make him look unassuming. If this truly is where his mom and uncle are, their rescue will depend on Caspar fooling their captors.

Just before he leaves the safety of the RV, he opens his phone. The name Jacob Freeson haunts his contacts. Caspar sends a text.

>Hey Jacob.

>Mom has gone missing, this time with Duncan too.

>I’m heading into a case. I don’t have time to wait, but if you can, I could use the help.

>Let me know. I'll send the coordinates.

Caspar doubts he’ll get a response any time soon, seeing as Jacob is almost certainly on his own case at the moment with his team. However, he is supposed to be in Texas right now, and it’s always better to work with friends. Even if Jacob is more of an estranged former friend at the moment.

Regardless of the tense state of their relationship, Caspar just doesn’t have the luxury of waiting around this time. If this is where his mom and uncle went, every second is precious.

He exits his smoke-stained sanctuary, straightening out his wrinkled blue flannel and heaving his backpack on. He looks straight ahead at his destination, intent on hiding his nerves. The large brown-painted doors are still propped open wide, inviting newcomers in.

Caspar holds his breath as he enters.

He's been in quite a few churches growing up, so there's not much here that he hasn’t seen before. The main chamber is modest, just a small altar up front, four rows of lacquered pews, and a large stained glass window casting multicolored light. Caspar takes a moment to study the way the light refracts off the clouded, incense-filled air. It gives the whole place a sense of eerie calmness that twists him up inside. It might be because of the presence of the supernatural, or it could be his negative associations with religion.

Maybe it’s the intricate details of the window that are making him feel odd. It's strangely ornate for a little town in the boonies, featuring a depiction of Michael the Archangel slaying Lucifer, white wings gleaming as he raises a flaming sword high. Caspar can’t help but focus on the demon underfoot of the angel. It looks strangely defeated, ragged wings held open in surrender as it accepts its doom.

“Hello, can I help you?”

Despite his best efforts, Caspar jumps at the deep voice. He swivels around to find a gray-haired man in a pulpit gown smiling kindly. “Oh, sorry, son. Didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

A tall, pale man leans over the pew. His face is weathered by age, and his gray hair is slicked back. From the blood red stole hanging from his neck and the white robes, Caspar assumes this must be the priest.

The priest is smiling, eyes kind. Caspar knows better to trust a smile, though. He swallows the lump in his throat as their gazes meet.

Hazel irises lock on. Caspar notes the ring of tarnished yellow that borders each pupil, contracting with interest.

Caspar smiles up at the priest, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re fine. Hello.”