I’ve done this before. More than three hundred times, I think. It’s hard to keep track. I’ve relived this day so many times.
The current time for me is 5:32 AM. In forty-five minutes and twenty seconds, the thing will push the retracting ladder down from the attic and drop into the hallway.
The creature is small but unbelievably fierce. Standing two and a half feet tall, it is a dense chunk of muscle and sinew. Blistered gray skin stretches tightly over its frame. It has two stubby arms contrasted by the long, almost frog-like legs. An anvil-shaped head protrudes from the torso, accented with two glowing pink eyes. Black, glistening teeth fill its cruel mouth. A leather vest and loincloth accented with human teeth dangle from its body.
Within seconds it will begin using its blood to draw runic symbols on the floor. I’ve seen it peel away a dry scab and dab at the purple blood before scrawling its wicked design. The wood smokes as the wet claw scrawls the hellish message.
I usually live longer if I can destroy some of the runes before I make my escape.
When the cryptic writing is complete, it will drop to its hands and knees before beginning a guttural chant. I still don’t understand what the words mean and likely never will. The last three dozen times I have listened to it closely through the door. I’ve committed the chant to memory, but have yet to find a translation for it.
I doubt it is from our world, anyway. Even if it was, I have no way of knowing if the spelling is correct. But I’ll keep trying. It seems I have all the time in the world.
Zeshrack dumrav skrashtek dimia zoorn.
After uttering the chant five times and emitting a bone-rattling roar, the hunt officially begins. If I don’t make a preemptive move, the process takes less than forty-five seconds after the battle cry. When it first appeared, I was still in bed scrolling mindlessly through a social media application. My bedroom door burst open and the thing sprang onto the bed. It was over before I could react.
I can still feel the first time the cold blade slid into my carotid artery. I gazed into those pink eyes and the thing only smiled in return. None of the memories fade. No matter how many times I awaken to relive this day, I remember them all.
I’ve started calling it Hunter. Why not? That’s what it does.
It isn’t stupid by any means, but it is simple to fool at the outset of the hunt. Stuffing pillows under my blanket and hiding behind the door is the only method I’ve discovered that allows me to get out of my bedroom alive. Hunter flings itself onto the bed and uses a red metal blade to ravage the pillows beneath. I have ten seconds at the most before he discovers the ruse.
Quietly, I’ll slide around the opened door as Hunter shrieks and rips at the blankets and pillows. This is when I can wipe away a few of the runes. I’ve gotten pretty good at sliding the hallway rug onto them. It doesn’t seem to take much to disrupt their power so this is a step in the process I use every time.
My main concern is to destroy the rune closest to my bedroom door. This seems to make him slower. The less rapidly Hunter can move, the farther away I seem to get. Destroying any of the other markings is just a bonus. I haven’t figured out what all of them do quite yet. Sadly, I think I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.
I’ve died around fifteen times trying to destroy them all. That’s a work in progress. This process isn’t perfect. It’s difficult to think through the hundreds of variations I’ve tried each time while my mind is flooded with fear. I’ve tried to write notes, but they vanish each time I die and wake up again.
This still scares me. I’ve died hundreds of different ways. Loss of blood, decapitation, disembowelment, suffocation, blunt force trauma. My methods for attempted survival are improving with each attempt. I can’t say the same for my mental stability.
Escaping the house is the method that always allows me to live the longest, but comes with the greatest cost. Whenever Hunter tracks me through the town, it kills everyone it sees. A trail of viscera and carnage follows behind the beast as it tracks me.
I’ve watched as it cuts, bites, and claws its way through crowds like a hot knife through butter. Those people are less prepared than I am. It’s as though I’m allowing a fox into a chicken coop. Their screams and pleas haunt me almost as much as the creature.
Even after sacrificing all of these unwitting souls, it still finds me. That is the constant. Hundreds die, but I never escape.
Knowing that leaving the house always ends in bloodshed, I’ve decided I have to keep the damn thing in my house. I have no way to know for sure, but one day this loop has to end. If I’m right, I couldn’t handle knowing all of those people died in my cowardly attempt to escape this thing. It only tracks me, so why should others suffer a grizzly demise as I scramble to survive?
Staying in my house keeps others safe but cuts my survival time at the very least, but I do have more control there. My attempts to hurt or kill Hunter have mostly been ineffective. Kitchen knives don’t pierce the thick hide. The old shotgun I keep in the downstairs closet knocks the thing off of its feet but deals no lasting damage. I have even bludgeoned it with a crowbar, but it continues its relentless pursuit.
Five deaths ago, things changed for the better. After slipping out of the door as Hunter slashed and ravaged my bed, I slid the rug onto the runes and shot down the stairs as always. As Hunter once again discovered my trick, it tumbled out of my room and began to scramble down the stairs. For the first time that I can remember, its foot slipped and it began to fall head over the foot to the landing below.
My pulse was rapid and my throat tight as I watched the ugly thing roll down the final few steps and slam into the wall. The red blade slid from its grip and skittered across the floor to my feet. It was already pushing itself back onto its feet when I picked up the blade and pointed it toward the beast.
Our eyes locked and Hunter bared his black teeth in a sneer. The pink eyes darted from my gaze to the cruel blade now in my hand. Countless times, this knife had taken my life. I could almost feel the combined weight of all of my deaths in the blade. My hand throbbed as I held it steady toward Hunter.
Its powerful legs retracted and pushed off against the floor causing the thing to fly through the air in my direction. I drew the red blade above my head and brought it down in a wide arc as Hunter grew closer to me. It connected with an outstretched arm and sliced through. The blade continued through the muscle and bone and slammed to a stop against the leather vest on Hunter’s torso.
For the second time, it fell to the floor. Purple blood oozed from the severed arm and the floor began to smoke as it pooled. Shrieks and ragged pants shook my eardrums as the wounded thing on the floor shuddered in pain. The startled reaction didn’t last as long as I had hoped.
Claws gouged the floor as Hunter shuffled backward to make room between us. I trained the knife in its direction as it retreated. Once it was comfortably removed from my reach, it began to laugh.
The remaining hand slid into a pouch tethered to the loincloth. Hunter retrieved a handful of black powder and rubbed it onto the stump where its arm had been. The flesh sizzled and began to seal itself into a tangle of scar tissue.
Once the wound finished healing, Hunter stood again and angled its body toward me. It lifted the remained hand and snapped its thick, sharp fingers. The blade in my hand vanished and reappeared in Hunter’s clutch.
It lunged onto me and slid the blade across my throat. While Hunter usually killed me quickly, this time the wound was shallow enough that it took me minutes to bleed out. As the blood poured from my throat and mingled with the purple pool of Hunter’s only inches away, I smiled.
I hurt it. After all of these hundreds of times, I’d made it bleed. The disgusting little gremlin may be immune to any weapon I have, but now I knew its weapon could kill it.
The following few deaths end the same as a majority of my other experiences. Hunter never dropped the blade and I was never able to wrestle it away. My attempts to stand my ground and retrieve the weapon were futile.
Hunter’s arm had returned, but during the struggles, I could see something different about it now. A thick ring of gnarled flesh circled the arm that I had cut off. It had healed, but it left a permanent scar.
I’m not sure exactly what this means for me. Some of my fear and despair have been replaced with a sliver of hope. Hunter can be hurt. Maybe it can be killed. It could end the loop.
Anyway, I only have two minutes and fifteen seconds left before the attic stairs drop down. I guess you could call this pass through the loop my break. No preparations have been made. Hunter will probably kill me quickly. That’s fine. It takes time to leave these messages. I fear it but I’ve accepted it.
I’ve left dozens of these messages over the last hundred deaths. Each time I update it just a bit. Maybe this seems familiar to you. You may not remember, but perhaps something here seems familiar. This likely isn’t the first time you’ve read this. Maybe it will save someone else if they end up trapped in this nightmare.
Eventually, I’ll succeed. It won’t be soon, but I’m learning. The process is improving every time. I know how to hurt the thing.
Time to slide behind the door.
For now, I’ve got to go. Hunter will be here soon.