The dirt road to Topoli stretched under a sky the color of tarnished silver. A few lonely crows cut across the horizon as Azazel walked, suitcase in hand, his boots scuffing against uneven stones. In his pocket, the two mission slips crinkled softly.
He paused under a leafless oak and unrolled the first.
[Report of Disappearances near the Old Well.
Two children missing. Locals hear crying at night.
Suspected malevolent presence.
Payment: 2 silver.]
The second was written in the same nervous hand:
[Spirits in the Pine Forest.
Travelers report whispers, moving shadows, and sudden chills.
The villagers dare not pass at night. No victims. Yet]
Azazel frowned. Half an hour apart. He decided to start with the well, figuring that whatever lurked there was the more immediate threat.
By the time he reached Topoli, the sun was already dipping toward the treeline. The village itself was small and quiet, its homes hunched together as though in fear. Smoke drifted from two lonely chimneys. Dogs barked in the distance, and an old woman made a hasty sign of the cross as Azazel passed.
The well stood at the far edge of the village, half-swallowed by weeds. Its stone rim was cracked, and the bucket rotted to splinters. Even before he reached it, he heard it:
A faint sobbing.
A child's voice.
Echoing from the dark throat of the well.
Azazel's grip tightened on the suitcase. He knelt by the stones and opened it, methodically pulling out the tools of his new trade—all scavenged from his grandfather's hidden arsenal:
A vial of holy water
A pouch of powdered salt mixed with iron filings
A silver bell, engraved with protective runes
A thin candle made of beeswax and blessed oil
He set the candle on the edge of the well and struck a flint. Its flame flickered, bending toward the opening as if drawn by something unseen.
Azazel reached for Johann Weyer's journal, flipping to the section on well spirits and forest entities. His grandfather's cramped handwriting danced across the page.
"Beware the Utopiec, the drowned soul.
Born of tragedy, it drags the living down to join its sorrow.
Purification requires light, salt, and the breaking of its tether to the mortal world."
Azazel closed the book, exhaling.
"As I guessed, Utopiec," he muttered. "Time to leave this world."
He sprinkled salt around the well in a careful circle, leaving a narrow break for himself to enter. Then he poured a drop of holy water into the dark, listening as it hissed faintly upon impact.
The crying shifted. Became a wail. Then a growl.
From the black throat of the well, a shape rose with the water—a dark, dripping silhouette of a child, its face a mask of sorrow and rage, empty eyes glowing faint blue.
Azazel felt a chill crawl up his spine.
He didn't draw his pistols.
Instead, he rang the silver bell. Once. Twice. Thrice. The sound was pure and sharp, slicing through the night.
The Utopiec screeched, thrashing against the invisible barrier of salt. Azazel threw the powder directly into the well, and the figure writhed as if burned by light itself. Finally, he poured the last of the holy water over the rim.
The shadow shattered into mist, a faint sigh echoing up from the stone shaft.
Silence.
Azazel exhaled and wiped sweat from his brow.
Then, from the well, a soft voice whispered:
"Thank you… mister…"
A brief shimmer—a small boy's spectral outline—smiled up at him. Then it faded into light, leaving the night quiet.
Azazel packed his tools, slinging the suitcase over his shoulder. He turned toward the treeline.
The forest waited, dark and full of whispers.
His second hunt had just begun.