Fate of the Marked

They Do Exist

We found a quiet corner in the back of the pub, away from the crowd, though not for mystery's sake. The kid spoke so softly that I could barely catch her words over the clamor of voices, clinking mugs, and the occasional outburst from one of the more enthusiastic drunks.

She sat across from me, fidgeting with her hands, casting nervous glances around, as if something might leap out from the shadows. I waited, giving her a nod, and slowly, she began to speak.

"It started... maybe a few months ago," she whispered, eyes darting up to meet mine before dropping back down to her hands. "Mama and Papa, they just... changed." She said it quietly, but there was a tremble in her voice, like even saying it out loud made it real. "They look... wrong. Like, tired. Real, real tired. And their eyes—" She stopped, thinking. "They got these dark, funny marks under 'em. I told Mama she looked like she hadn't slept in years, and she just... didn't even laugh. She always laughs."

I leaned forward, urging her to go on, and she nodded, swallowing hard.

"And when they talk... they talk real slow. Like... like it's hard for them. Like they're trying real hard to remember the words." She paused, twisting a strand of her hair. "Mama told me to stay out of the basement, though. Said it was 'cause of a ghost down there." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, like she was almost afraid to say it out loud. "I believed her... I mean, sometimes, I hear stuff down there—like voices. But not like Papa's or Mama's. Deep voices. Rough. I thought maybe... maybe she was right."

She stopped for a moment, hugging her arms around herself, her eyes going glassy, distant. "Papa... he started bringing animals down there, too. Goats, chickens, even a dog once. He didn't say why. But... but after he did, they'd come back upstairs and look... better. Happier, like. They'd smile a little more, and the dark under their eyes wasn't so big."

I felt a chill settle over me as she continued, and she looked up, her expression haunted.

"Then, one night... Papa called me down to the basement. It was his voice, but... Mama and Papa always said not to go down there." She swallowed, her small fists clenching on the table. "But he kept calling, and he sounded like he really needed me. So... so I went."

The child's voice grew even softer, trembling as she relived the memory, and I had to lean in close to hear her.

"When I got down there," she whispered, "I saw... I saw Mama... h-hanging, like... like she was a doll, with chains all around her arms and legs, holding her up like she couldn't move. Her head was down, but she... she was breathing." Her small voice hitched, and her fists clenched tighter. "Papa was right next to her. He was on his knees, crying, like he wanted to make it stop but couldn't. He kept saying, 'Please, please, I'll do anything,' like he was... like he was begging."

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she pressed on. "In front of them was... was a woman. She looked beautiful, almost like a princess in a green dress... but her skin... it kept changing. And her face looked different, like... like it was Mama's, but then it wasn't. And her eyes... they were like they could see right through me."

I felt an involuntary shiver run down my spine. I'd heard my share of children's ghost stories, usually about strange "women" or "monsters" lurking in attics or under beds. But this? This wasn't some shadowy beast or woodland creature driven mad with hunger. No, this thing sounded... calculated, like it had a purpose, a mind twisted around dark intentions and manipulation. That glint in the kid's eye, that haunted expression—it told me she'd seen something no child should ever witness.

In all my years, I'd learned to categorize creatures, to keep them locked in neat little boxes in my mind. Beasts of claws and teeth? Easy. I knew their weaknesses by heart. Wraiths, night fiends, shadow crawlers—monsters I could face with confidence. But what she described... it was something else entirely. A presence that could shape-shift, distort reality, twist emotions... something with a level of intelligence and cruelty unlike any beast I'd ever hunted.