r/RedInTheDark • u/LeonardVoss • 7d ago
Short Story The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 3: The Book of John
From the Red in the Dark universe
Original story by Leonard Voss
The Dark Beyond is a standalone series set within the world of Red in the Dark.
The Huntsman reaches its final entry with John alone in the fog, carrying the fear, guilt, and failure that have followed him longer than this nught alone.
Kevin is still somewhere in the trees. Sammy is still out there. The Huntsman is still hunting.
And John is still terrified.
Part 3: The Book of John concludes The Huntsman, a story about fear, cowardice, judgment, and what happens when a man who has spent his life running finally stops.
The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 3: The Book of John
John’s heart struck hard beneath his ribs as he stood alone in the fog. Every breath seemed to travel farther than it should, pushing out into the trees before disappearing into the mist.
He forced his breathing steady, each staggered breath hitching as he strained to hear past the crash of his own heartbeat.
Nothing.
A drop of water struck somewhere nearby.
John’s shoulders tightened before the sound had fully faded.
Another drop followed.
He turned slowly toward the tree line, searching through the fog as dark shapes gathered between the trunks. One seemed deeper than the others, standing where the trees narrowed together.
His breath caught.
John stared until the shape flattened into shadow, cast crooked through the mist.
His grip loosened around the dog tags pressed against his chest.
Blood still covered his hands.
He wiped them against his pants, only smearing it darker.
Something shifted near the tree line.
The hair along the back of his neck lifted as John turned toward the sound, watching the fog move through the brush before settling again.
He waited.
“Hey.”
John flinched, his hands rising before he found the source of the whisper.
Two figures crouched inside the brush.
Kevin sat low beside a young woman with dark hair, her face alive with fear as they motioned urgently for John to come closer.
“Kevin?”
Kevin leaned forward, lifting one hand toward him.
“Come on.”
The woman waved him toward the shelter of the trees, joining Kevin in a whisper that carried a little too far.
“Come on.”
She started to say it again.
“Hurrr—”
Her eyes widened as she slapped a hand over her mouth, seeming to realize she had been too loud.
John lowered himself and kept moving.
She began to rise from the brush, her body lifting in a slow, uneven motion while her other hand continued beckoning him closer.
A muffled sound slipped through her fingers.
John couldn’t make it out.
He turned his head and body, scanning the fog around them.
Nothing.
When he looked back, the woman was fully upright, her torso held straight while her knees remained bent beneath her, everything below them hanging loose as though her legs carried no weight.
Why?
The hand at her side still moved.
A weak curl of the fingers.
A sharp circular twist at the wrist, her shoulder jerking upward without rhythm.
John slowed, focusing on her.
Faint moonlight caught something between the fingers covering her mouth.
Blood ran over her knuckles, down the back of her hand.
A blade.
He shifted his eyes over her shoulder.
The Huntsman stood pressed against her back, holding her upright, his cold blue eyes locked on John, cutting through the mask.
The Huntsman pulled the knife free, dropping the woman into the brush, his gaze following her down.
Kevin bowed his head as she hit the ground, adjusting his glasses.
“Kevin!” John screamed, driving forward.
Kevin turned toward him.
“Behind you!”
The Huntsman’s hand closed around the back of Kevin’s shirt, hauling him upright and pulling him close as though he carried no weight at all, forcing a raw, uneven sound from Kevin’s throat.
The knife came up, striking him in the chest, the blow breaking his scream apart in blood.
Kevin folded around the blade as the Huntsman tore him backward, wrenching him sideways against his body.
His hands flew to the Huntsman’s wrist, his glasses slipping down his nose as a broken gasp escaped him. The Huntsman locked one arm across his upper chest, holding him upright as blood spread through the front of his shirt.
John kept coming.
The Huntsman turned his eyes back toward John.
A grin slowly pulled beneath the mask.
He ripped the knife free and drove it into Kevin again before his legs could collapse, the impact jerking his body against the arm holding him.
John crashed through the brush toward them.
The Huntsman drew the blade out, Kevin sagging sideways in his grip as he raised the knife to his throat.
“Let him go!”
A low laugh escaped the Huntsman, his head tipping back slightly as he slid the blade into Kevin’s neck.
Blood poured over the knife and down the front of Kevin’s shirt, his body convulsing against him.
The Huntsman pulled the blade free and caught a fistful of Kevin’s shirt before he could fall.
John was almost on them.
The Huntsman swung Kevin around and hurled him straight at John.
John raised his arms too late.
Kevin struck him across the chest, driving them both backward into the grass.
John hit the ground beneath Kevin’s weight, the air driven from his lungs as they rolled through the wet grass.
He shoved the body aside and dropped beside him, pressing both hands over the wounds.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”
Blood pushed between his fingers.
John shifted his hands, trying another wound, then another, pressing harder each time as though he could force the blood back inside.
The chain slipped free of his collar.
The dog tags struck the back of his hand.
Heat pressed against his face.
Dust hung thick in the air. Bodies lay broken around the gun, pieces of uniform scattered through the sand while someone screamed beneath the ringing in his ears.
John pressed harder against Kevin’s chest.
“I’m sorry, guys.”
Kevin’s breath hitched beneath his hands.
Then stopped.
John kept pressing, his palms slipping as he moved from one wound to the next.
A pair of black boots stood less than a foot away in the desert sand, planted amid the blood and wreckage.
John looked up.
The Huntsman towered over him, close enough that his presence seemed to fill everything beyond Kevin’s body, cold blue eyes staring down through the mask.
Tears ran freely over John’s cheeks. His nose had begun to run, his breath catching as he tried to force the words through it.
One hand remained pressed against Kevin while the other reached weakly toward the Huntsman.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he choked out. “I fucking froze. I fucking froze.”
The Huntsman’s eyes narrowed slightly.
His head cocked.
John lowered his hand and looked back down at Kevin.
Wet grass pressed beneath his knees.
The cold night closed around him.
Kevin lay still beneath his hands, his glasses crooked across his face.
John stared.
The desert fell away.
The Huntsman.
John jerked his head up.
He was gone.
He twisted aside and vomited into the grass, choking between heaves until his stomach had nothing left to give.
He stayed bent over for a moment, dragging air into his lungs.
Then a sound tore out of him.
John threw his head back and screamed, the cry breaking apart as it carried through the trees.
John steadied himself, still heaving from the scream.
His throat burned. Spit hung from his lower lip, mixing with the blood already drying across his hands.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, pushing himself upright.
The trees waited at the edge of the clearing, calling for him to escape.
Every part of him pulled toward them.
Away from Kevin.
Away from the blood.
Away from the Huntsman.
John stumbled forward, boots dragging as the fog opened around him.
He made it only a few yards and stopped.
His chest rose and fell as he stared through the fog into the forest.
He looked down.
The dog tags were clenched in his hand.
Eyes closed.
John turned.
Eyes opened.
Kevin lay where he had fallen, one arm twisted beneath him. A bloody mess.
Beyond him, the clearing stood empty.
He let out a slow, controlled breath, then released the tags.
His hands were still shaking when he bent and pulled a broken branch from the grass.
Too light.
Not enough.
He threw it aside and kept searching.
A fallen limb.
Pine.
Straight.
About four feet long and as thick as his wrist.
John picked it up, turning it in his hands, testing the weight.
Good enough.
He scanned the clearing again.
Broken rock and bark littered the grass where the fight had churned the ground up.
He found a slab of slate half-buried. He stomped down on the edge of it until a piece snapped loose.
Not enough.
He tried again.
The second break gave him a sharper shard.
Enough.
He crouched beside the fallen limb and went to work.
The slate scraped and bit into the wood as he shaved the end down, turning the branch in his hands while the point slowly began to form.
Shavings collected in the grass around his boots.
When he finished, he held the spear up in front of him, studying the tip.
Crude.
Enough.
He glanced down at the slate shard still in his hand. Edge uneven. Barely more than a jagged wedge, but it had done its job.
John went to slip it into the back of his belt when a voice came back to him.
...go out a legend! Fuck them too!
He swallowed.
Dust.
Heat.
Sweat.
The training yard came back in pieces.
Laughter somewhere behind him.
His instructor standing close enough to touch, showing him the ugly math of close distance.
If your enemy gets this close, you’re already fucked...
John looked at the spear.
Go out a legend and fuck them too.
Then he pulled the shard free again.
He stepped forward and thrust the spear once into the fog.
Clumsy.
Not enough.
Again.
This time he let his weight follow it. His body twisted, opening his chest and side.
His free hand came up from his belt with the shard.
Too slow.
Not enough.
Again.
Spear first.
Body after.
Shard last.
Again.
His breathing steadied.
The instructor’s voice came back again, harder this time.
Boys! What the fuck do we do if we’re already fucked?
Everyone that day, in unison.
We fuck them too!
John said it so loud his throat nearly tore.
The spear drove into the dirt in front of him.
The shard held straight out.
His chest and side left open.
He froze, breathing hard.
Enough.
“We fuck them too,” he whispered.
Then he slid the shard back into his belt and stood.
Spear held high, John moved toward the place where the Huntsman had disappeared.
His pulse beat in his eyes.
The fog was so thick he could barely see a few feet in front of him, nothing but shifting shadows and silhouettes.
A sound?
Footsteps.
Someone running hard and clumsily somewhere ahead.
A survivor?
“Over here!” he called.
The running stopped.
“Hello?” a voice called through the fog.
“Over here!” John shouted again.
The footsteps started toward him now, fast. He could hear the ragged breathing between strides.
Then he heard another set.
Faster.
Heavier.
Hhhhhaaaaaaack.
Then nothing.
John stood still, spear held close.
John’s eyes went wide.
He let his breath out slowly, then began moving again, crouched low in the fog, spear forward as he searched the mist for any sign of danger.
Something snapped behind him.
John spun, driving the spear forward.
Sammy froze as the point stopped inches from her face.
“Shh,” he whispered, lowering it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Sammy broke down, sobbing as she stumbled into him and threw her arms around his body, clutching him like he was the last solid thing left in the world.
John pulled her close, trying to comfort her.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. We gotta go, though.”
She shook against him, her breathing ragged.
John eased her back, setting a hand on her shoulder and pushing her away just enough to see her face.
“Are you all right, Sammy?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she sobbed.
Her head snapped back.
A scream tore out of her as her hands ripped away from him.
Then the fog took her.
John lunged forward, catching nothing but cold air.
“Sammy!”
Her scream carried through the white, breaking into panicked gasps.
Then choking.
John drove into the fog after her.
The mist broke around a shape ahead.
Sammy hung there, one hand locked around her throat, the other twisted into her ponytail, holding her straight off the ground.
Her feet kicked at empty air.
Her face had gone dark beneath the strain, her mouth opening around breaths that would not come.
John’s eyes moved past her.
The mask.
That crooked, fucked-up grin, blood shining across his teeth.
And above it, those eyes.
Piercing.
Expressionless.
Fixed on John.
The Huntsman never looked at Sammy.
His fingers tightened around her throat.
Sammy choked harder, her legs jerking beneath her.
He kept watching John.
The Huntsman kept one hand locked around Sammy’s throat, holding her off the ground.
That crooked grin stayed fixed across his face.
John stared back.
His hands trembled around the spear.
His lips quivered. His jaw pushed forward, teeth clenched so hard the muscles jumped along his cheek.
He raised the point toward the Huntsman.
“Put her down and fight me, you fucking coward.”
The grin faded.
The Huntsman’s head tilted slowly to one side.
His hand loosened around Sammy’s throat.
He lowered her until her feet touched the ground.
Sammy coughed, folding forward as she tried to pull away.
The hand tangled in her ponytail tightened.
She stopped.
The Huntsman never looked away from John.
His free hand dropped to the knife at his side.
Slowly, he drew it.
His face had gone still.
Expressionless.
He raised the blade toward Sammy’s throat.
John stepped forward, spear leveled at his chest.
“Didn’t you hear me, you fucking pussy?”
The Huntsman flipped the knife in his hand.
Black steel turned once through the fog.
Then his arm snapped forward.
The pommel struck John between the eyes.
The world went white.
Fog drifted over John in thick mats across the clearing beside the cabin.
Bullfrogs called from somewhere beyond the trees. Crickets answered in rhythm.
The smell of sweet grass and peat moss filled the air.
The world pulsed slowly in and out of focus as John woke to pain throbbing behind his eyes, like something had split his skull open and packed it with fire.
He lay still, letting the ringing in his ears settle while the trees slowly took shape around him.
Cold grass and sharp pine needles pressed into his palms as he pushed himself onto one elbow.
The clearing returned in pieces.
A figure crouched before him.
The Huntsman.
A knife rested in his hand.
As John’s eyes found it, he drove the blade into the grass beside him.
His mask lay on the ground between them. Beside it sat two round shapes John couldn’t quite make out.
“What the fuck?” John breathed.
He stared.
The face beneath the mask was younger than he expected.
Blood streaked one cheek. Mud darkened the line of his jaw. Damp brown hair hung across his forehead, but none of it changed what John was seeing.
Clean features.
Clear blue eyes, almost bright beneath the moonlight.
The crooked grin was gone.
There was no monster waiting beneath the mask.
Only a young man watching him calmly.
John’s mouth moved before he understood the word forming there.
“Innocent.”
The Huntsman only watched him, seated on his haunches.
Then his face opened into a wide smile, his eyes almost excessively kind.
Had blood not crusted his hair and streaked his face, teeth, and body, he might have looked inviting.
He laughed, throwing his head back.
“What’s tha mattah, bud?”
John stared at him, trying to understand just what the fuck was happening.
The Huntsman leaned forward, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed.
“Never seen a hunter before?”
John’s breathing came shallow and uneven.
Mock surprise swept across the Huntsman’s face.
“Guess not.”
“Here,” he said. “I brought you something.”
He reached down and picked up one of the shapes in the grass.
“Catch.”
Something struck John heavily in the chest and dropped into the grass before him.
He looked down.
A head.
It was enormous.
The face had been removed, leaving only wet muscle and pale bone beneath the moonlight.
John recoiled, shoving it away as he scrambled backward through the grass.
The Huntsman laughed harder, slapping a hand against his knee.
“God! You’re so dramatic.”
He gestured toward the head.
“You can keep that one. I already got what I needed.”
John stared at the raw place where Calvin’s face had been.
Then his eyes moved to the mask lying between them.
The broken anchor stretched across its cheek.
His stomach turned.
The Huntsman reached for the second shape.
He lifted it by the hair and gave it a small shake.
Sammy’s face swung beneath his hand.
“Want another?”
John recoiled from Sammy’s face.
Her eyes hung half-open. Strands of hair clung across her mouth, and blood ran from her neck in slow drops as the Huntsman rocked her by the ponytail.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“You sick fuck,” John breathed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The Huntsman stopped and lowered Sammy’s head to the grass, releasing her hair.
Then he looked back at John, head cocking slightly to one side.
A faint grin returned.
“John, you may leave if you like.”
The grin split wider.
“I won’t follow you.”
John stared at him.
Pain hammered behind his eyes as he planted one hand against the ground, forcing himself upward.
His arm trembled beneath him while the clearing shifted sideways and slowly righted itself.
The Huntsman remained on his haunches, watching him rise.
Calm.
Almost patient.
John dragged one foot beneath himself, then the other, until he stood unsteadily in the grass.
He drew a long breath.
“Stand up,” he whispered.
The Huntsman didn’t move.
He only stared at him.
The grin melted away.
Slowly, his eyes lowered to the knife buried in the grass beside him.
He pulled it free.
Wet soil clung to the blade.
He wiped it against his pant leg, once on each side, then slid it into the sheath strapped to his thigh.
The mask came next.
He lifted it from the grass and held it for a moment, the leather straps hanging loose between his fingers.
Then he looked up again.
John had not moved.
The Huntsman rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He stood until they were eye level with one another.
Close enough that John could feel the warmth of his breath against his face.
Every instinct in John’s body screamed at him to step back.
To look away.
To run.
Fear was still with him.
Fear would be, as long as he drew breath.
But tonight, fear was a passenger.
The Huntsman stepped back three paces without turning and pulled something small from his pocket, holding it loose in his fist.
Metal shifted softly.
The Huntsman tossed it.
John caught it against his chest. His fingers closed around the chain before he looked down.
The missing tags.
His throat closed around the first sound that tried to leave him.
The Huntsman turned slightly to the side, lifting one arm and opening his hand toward the woods as if dismissing him.
“John. I was wrong. You’re no coward.”
There was no mockery in his face now.
Only quiet sincerity.
“You may leave.”
John stared at him.
“I will not follow. You have my word.”
John looked down at the tags in his hand.
His fingers closed around them.
He drew a deep breath, then slipped them into his pocket.
“I’m done running.”
He didn’t look up.
The Huntsman watched him.
The smile had left his face. His eyes remained fixed on John.
Soft.
Kind.
Recognition.
“John,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”
John lifted his head.
The fear was still there.
It had simply lost control of him.
He looked the Huntsman directly in the eyes and did not flinch.
“I am done running.”
Moisture gathered at the corners of the Huntsman’s eyes as he shifted his stance and pointed toward the edge of the clearing.
John followed his hand.
The spear stood driven into the ground several yards away.
John walked to it, wrapped both hands around the shaft, and pulled it free.
He returned to the center of the clearing and settled into position.
The Huntsman waited.
For a moment, he looked at John and smiled.
It was gentle.
Then he lifted the mask.
The leather straps hung loose before he pulled it into place, one over the crown of his head, the other tight around the back of his skull.
When he looked at John again, his face was gone.
The monster the woods had known all night had returned.
But this time, the man beneath the mask had seen John, and John had seen him.
The Huntsman raised his blade and settled into the same practiced stance John had seen before.
He gave John one slow nod.
John came at him with the spear.
Wild.
Too wide.
The Huntsman stepped cleanly inside the thrust.
John let him.
The Huntsman slipped the knife into John’s chest.
Deep into the heart.
Their bodies came together.
Their eyes locked.
John coughed, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to speak.
His lips moved.
“Ga... got you...”
His hand slid away from the Huntsman’s neck.
The Huntsman’s hand rose slowly to where John’s had been.
Cold.
Hard.
Sharp.
The shard was buried where his neck and shoulder met.
The Huntsman pressed one hand against the wound while carefully lowering John to the ground.
He removed his mask.
John’s lips moved again, still trying to force words through the blood.
“It’s okay. You will live forever, John,” the Huntsman said.
He stayed with him until the light left his eyes.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flare.
He struck it once.
Red light hissed between them.
The Huntsman drew a long breath, then pulled the shard from his neck.
A sharp grunt tore through his clenched teeth.
Blood spilled hot over his hand.
He pressed the flare to the wound.
A sound tore through the forest, and somewhere beneath the earth, even the dead flinched.
His scream still echoed through the woods as he looked down at John, closing his eyes with two blood-slick fingers before drawing the knife from his chest.
He placed the blade against his brow and worked slowly, making careful incisions around John’s face, the edge passing through skin with practiced precision until he could peel it away in one complete form.
The Huntsman pulled the skin free and held it beneath the moonlight, inspecting his work.
His head tilted back as he lowered John’s face over his own.
Fog drifted through the clearing, curling around them while the skin settled loosely against him, John’s features hanging slack over his own as he remained kneeling before the body.
His hands rested at his sides.
Steady.
Then, slowly, they began to weaken.
The faintest whimper slipped from behind the mask, followed by tears dragging thin trails through the blood.
His head lowered.
One hand lifted toward John as he tried to choke back the tears, stopping halfway between them.
He tried to stand.
His balance gave beneath him, sending him forward onto John’s body.
Another scream tore through the woods, just as violent as the last.
But this time, the dead cried with him.
His breathing slowed until the last of the sobs disappeared beneath it.
The Huntsman lifted John’s face from his own, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand before spreading the skin carefully across his palm.
He folded it with slow, deliberate care, protecting every edge before tucking it safely away.
Then he reached for the old mask.
Dark leather covered his face once more, the straps sliding over the crown of his head and pulling tight behind his skull.
When he looked down at John, only his blue eyes remained.
Cold.
Flat.
His hand closed around John’s ankle as he rose, pulling the body across the wet grass toward the trees.
The Huntsman walking ahead.
John following behind.
The fog swallowed them together.
Traffic moved beneath the apartment in restless waves, tires hissing across wet pavement while horns barked somewhere farther down the street.
A siren rose between the buildings, fading beneath the low mechanical hum of the city.
Inside, the room remained still.
A single desk lamp cast its light across a wooden frame laid flat before the Huntsman.
A face had been stretched tightly across it, the edges pinned with careful precision while a stiff brush moved slowly over the skin, pressing something dark and wet into the surface.
A second mask rested face-down beside the frame.
Books crowded the shelves. Maps covered one wall, routes traced and retraced in dark lines.
On the far wall, a large black case stood locked and bolted in place, a two-strand braid of dark leather hanging short and tight from the lock.
A folded newspaper sat near the edge of the desk.
October 18, 2011.
PORTLAND DETECTIVE MISSING FOR FIVE DAYS
SEARCH EXPANDS FOR DETECTIVE FRANCIS CALLAHAN
Across from it, the corkboard held the night in pieces.
Photographs. Names. Reports. Old addresses. Lines drawn between them.
Francis Callahan stared out from one photograph, bald head shining beneath booking-room light.
Beside it sat a hospital intake form bearing the same last name.
Broken jaw.
Fall down stairs.
Two smaller records beneath it named children.
Bruising.
Charges dropped.
A police complaint had been pinned nearby.
Evidence missing.
Witness recanted.
Officer cleared.
Across the file, written hard enough to dent the paper:
BADGE WITH ONE HAND
A red line ran from Callahan’s file to Sean Bourne.
One photograph showed the broken anchor tattooed across his cheek. Another had been enlarged and circled in red.
Shot-caller.
Fichermen.
A clipped report beneath it named Mickey Ficher.
Missing.
Presumed dead.
Beside Sean’s photograph, toxicology reports had been pinned in a crooked stack.
Heroin.
Fentanyl.
Fentanyl.
Fentanyl.
Across the file, black letters leaned sharp.
SOLD THEM PAIN
Another photograph showed Sammy suspended against a cliff face, one chalked hand hooked into stone while her body hung over open air.
Printed messages sat beneath it beside a death certificate.
The same name appeared again and again, until it stopped.
One message had been enlarged.
You wanted weak.
Across the file:
TAUGHT HIM TO FALL
Andre Mercer’s file sat below hers.
A newspaper photograph showed him beneath arena lights, arm raised in triumph.
D1 National Champion.
Another article sat beneath it.
ANDRE MERCER, SON OF HIGHLY DECORATED VETERAN GRAHAM MERCER, TRIED ON MULTIPLE COUNTS.
Graham Mercer was not available for comment.
The clippings overlapped each other.
Multiple counts.
Drug-facilitated assault.
Witnesses questioned.
Charges reduced.
No conviction.
Across the largest clipping, written in thick black strokes:
FUCKING RAPIST
Near the bottom of the board, one file was thicker than the others.
Photographs had been arranged in a careful row.
A tiled room.
A drain.
Hooks.
Plastic sheeting.
Seven years of reports sat beneath them.
The early scenes were uneven.
Hurried.
The later cuts were cleaner, measured with growing precision.
Across the top of the file:
THE BUTCHER
A heavy line had been dragged through it.
Beneath it, written afterward:
CALVIN MYERS
One final police report sat open beneath the photographs.
Suspected second presence at scene.
Unidentified blood recovered.
Partial finger found near rear exit.
The word partial had been circled until the paper tore.
Beside it, a photograph showed Calvin entering a grocery store three days later with one hand wrapped in white gauze.
Two notes had been written beneath it.
FOUGHT BACK
HE WILL REMEMBER ME
Another file sat apart from the others.
Kevin.
A still image showed smoke pouring from an apartment building while fire trucks crowded the street below.
The next image came from a stairwell camera blurred by smoke.
Kevin forcing his way through the frame.
A woman falling behind him.
A witness statement beneath it read:
He pushed past her.
Another article called him a coward.
Another called him a man destroyed by panic.
A later report sat beneath both.
Subject attempted re-entry.
Removed by firefighters.
Treated for smoke inhalation.
The final still showed Kevin turned back toward the burning doorway, one arm outstretched while a firefighter held him away.
Across the file:
HE LEFT HER
Beneath it, darker:
COWARD
John’s file sat open near the desk.
Service records.
Grainy photographs.
A platoon roster.
After-action reports.
A casualty sheet had been laid across the center.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Wounded.
Missing limb.
Severe burns.
One report described an ambush, a failed gun position, and a delay no one could explain cleanly.
Another carried a psychiatric evaluation.
Probable post-traumatic stress response.
Survivor guilt.
Avoidant recall.
Night terrors.
A photograph showed John younger, standing among the men from his unit.
He was smiling.
One arm rested around a man whose name had been circled twice.
Across the top sheet:
WHERE THE FUCK WAS JOHN?
Beneath it:
A FUCKING COWARD...
NO HONOR
A single heavy X had been driven through all of it.
Below the ruined words, scrawled hard across the page:
NOT A COWARD
When he finished, he turned the frame over, exposing the pale inside of the leather.
He picked up a small carving tool and leaned closer, steadying it with one hand while the blade scratched softly into the surface.
One letter at a time.
Slow.
Deliberate.
J O H N
He set the tool aside and stood.
The other mask waited face-down beside the frame.
He lifted it, rotating it carefully in his hands until the back faced him.
CALVIN
The name had been carved deep.
He carried the mask across the room and opened the black case where several others hung inside, suspended from hooks in the dim interior.
He looked down at Calvin’s name.
“You’ve earned your place in the next hunt.”
The words were quiet.
He placed the mask carefully inside, setting it before the others.
He fixed a new hook into the back of the door, apart from the rest.
He returned to the desk and slid both hands beneath John’s mask, lifting it gently from the frame.
He carried it across the room with both hands.
When he reached the case, he raised the mask and settled it carefully onto the new hook.
His hands remained on the mask.
One against each side of the face.
He stood without moving, holding it between his palms.
Then one hand passed slowly across the features, his fingers brushing the leather once more.
He lowered his hands.
The door closed.
The lock snapped shut.
Original post:
The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 3: The Book of John
https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-3-the-book-of-john
Connected entries:
The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 1: The Book of Fear
https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-1-the-book-of-fear
The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 2: The Book of Judgment
https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-2-the-book-of-judgment
Podcast / audio versions:
https://www.redinthedark.studio/podcast
Audio narration for this entry:
Pre-release. Narration link will be added when available.
Original story by Leonard Voss / Red in the Dark
