Well, that sure was a long session. Generally, he’s a bit more circumspect about his nighttime dalliances with death, preferring to let the reader fill in some of the blanks. Not tonight, though. I haven’t really seen him like that before.
Seems Mr. Grey’s been getting these strange dreams about his fellow killers, or Wolves, as he oft calls them. You see, he believes all the killers in the Great Bloody Wolf Hunt share a single, if highly compartmentalized, dream. Initially, the dreams were just so much “red static,” but as the number of players lessened with each kill, the dream became more coherent. Eventually, the dream allowed the remaining killers to not only communicate with each other while they slept, but even, if they had a mind to, mosey into one another’s dreams.
Recently, there’s been some drastic changes to the Game. Specifically, a major player just got himself clipped, but not by another player—by a “creature who abides the spaces beyond the Game, within a white wasteland of plastic bones and solid souls.” Worse still, this outsider has begun murdering the other murderers. All of this was the gist of Mr. Grey’s most recent dream.
Oh, and it was indeed a body my captor was dragging behind him when last I wrote. You might recall that shit-bird a few years back who filled up his victims’ emptied corpses with the ashes of cremated children. Well, it was that guy. Gordon Flint was his name. At least, that’s what his driver’s license said. After Mr. Grey took what he wanted from the body—more on that in just a bit—we left the ruined thing behind, bobbing in the Arkansas mud. As I said, the corpse has since been identified by the cops, so there’s your proof in the pudding, folks! But Gordon didn’t feature too largely in tonight’s debriefing, so it’s best I move on.
The most important part of tonight’s transcription was that at some point during Mr. Grey’s clash with Flint, something showed up and interrupted the showdown—a monstrous creature that “had the appearance of borrowing from Hell its least attractive characteristics.” The monster’s presence forced the two adversaries into an awkward alliance—to fight it off so they could get back to fighting each other.
Unfortunately for Mr. Flint, the creature proved too much for even their combined strength, and Mr. Grey ended up dragging what was left of him back to the house. As for Mr. Grey’s performance in the brawl, I can only assume it was good enough to get him the hell out of Dodge while the getting was good. Though I have to admit, it’s a little hard to think of my abductor as an underdog in any fight.
Now, on more than one occasion, I’ve seen hints of what Mr. Grey gets up to when he’s on the hunt, and I can tell you it’s some dark and dangerous business, indeed. One horrible rainy night, while we were hiding out in an old abandoned candy factory, I got to see one of my keeper’s infamous Wolves up close and far too personally. The guy just seemed to melt out of the shadows, dripping with all these clinking hooks and chains, and wearing the most bizarre mask you can imagine. (At least, I hope it was a mask.) Before I knew it, the thing had spread out his chains all across the ceiling and walls like some Goddamned metal spider web. He sprang into the middle of the web and crouched down into the darkness of the room. What I hadn’t noticed was that I’d been attached to the web by means of a hook that’d slid through the palm of my hand. Didn’t even feel it, at first. Mr. Grey later told me the killer laced his hooks with some kind of chemical agent that dulled nerve endings, so the victims wouldn’t know they’d been snagged. Anyway, I started to scream, which I suppose was the point—to lure Mr. Grey into a trap.
My kidnapper, whether or not he’s a century old, is an uncommonly wise fella, and had already prepared for the killer. I was the bait, you see—to lure the killer into thinking I’d be good bait for luring Mr. Grey, if you can follow all that. Mind you, before that point, I’d never seen my captor participate in The Great Bloody Wolf Hunt, and I was a little worried about his chances against the web-casting freak. I had nothing to fear, it turns out. Mr. Grey dealt with the other killer handily, jumping onto the chain-link web and, like some berserker gymnast, kicking and slashing his way to a gory victory.
I only mention all of this to introduce you, dear reader, to another of Mr. Grey’s weird claims—his “kill list.” Apparently, every killer in the Great Bloody Wolf Hunt is given an old yellowed list—how they come by them, I’ve no idea—on which is printed the names of the killers they’re responsible for murdering. I know this because after the chain and hook guy was dead, Mr. Grey slid a piece of paper out from the corpse’s inside pocket. Then, while he pursued the names on the paper, he explained to me what he was doing. He said, “Every list marks a Wolf by his God-given name, which I use to track my prey. And every Wolf I bring to ground, their names I shall inherit, until no Wolves are left and the Dire Shepherd stands before me, bearing a red prize.” And that’s just what he did—copied the names from the other killer’s list onto his own. That’s how I know the real names of the killers he dispatches—his kill list.
All of this comes to bear in my most recent rap session with Mr. Grey. Apparently, while he and Mr. Flint were battling the creature, Mr. Grey caught sight of a piece of paper tucked into the beast’s back pocket. After some fancy and violent finagling, my captor managed to grab hold of it, scanning it for a brief second before the creature snatched it back. My kidnapper then informed me that “it was a complete list, from A to Z, of every Wolf left in the contest, written in the rigid script of a corpse, the neatest of lines crossing out the names of the dead.” Among the other unusual features of the monster’s kill list, there lurked a stark departure from any murderer’s catalogue he’d ever seen before—there was one name which wasn’t crossed off, but only had a question mark next to it. He only glimpsed the first name.
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