I remember the night it all started, clear as the blood on my hands. It was in Blackwood Hollow, a sleepy town nestled in the Appalachian hills. I had moved there to escape my past—a wife and daughter lost to a drunk driver years ago—but fate has a cruel way of dragging you back.
My name is Jack Harlan, and I was forty-five, with a grizzled face and eyes that had seen too much. I worked as a private investigator, taking odd jobs to pay the bills. That night, I was called to the edge of town by Sheriff Elias Crowe, a grizzled old-timer with a gut full of whiskey and a badge tarnished by years of neglect.
"Jack, you gotta see this," Crowe had said, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. We drove to the old Miller farm, where the air smelled of rot and something worse—sulfur, like the bowels of hell.
The scene was a massacre. Bodies littered the ground, their eyes wide with eternal terror. Men, women, children—twisted into unnatural shapes, as if something had sucked the life from their bones. But it wasn't just the deaths that chilled me; it was the marks. Each victim had a dark, oily stain on their skin, like a shadow that had burned into their flesh. And in the center of it all, footprints—human-like, but with claws at the edges.
"That's not all," Crowe muttered, shining his flashlight into the barn. There, huddled in the corner, was Old Man Miller, barely alive. His eyes were wild, flickering with madness. "It was a man," he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. "But not a man. Eyes like coals, skin like oil. And... things with it. Demons, Jack. Like shadows come to life."
I didn't believe in demons back then. But as Miller's life faded, I saw them—or at least, the aftermath. The Stain had moved on, leaving Blackwood Hollow as its first grave. It wasn't just my town; reports trickled in from other places—Whispering Pines in Ohio, Raven's Creek in Pennsylvania. Small towns, all wiped out in a single night. The Stain was spreading, an unstoppable force.
That was the night I became a hunter. I armed myself with my old service pistol, a silver knife from my grandfather's collection (a family heirloom with strange engravings), and a journal to track the horrors. Little did I know, the Stain was waiting for me.
: The Army of Shadows
The Stain looked like a man, but it wasn't. Witnesses described it as tall and gaunt, with pale skin that shifted like liquid in the moonlight. Its eyes were black voids, sucking in light, and its voice was a low rumble that echoed in your mind long after it spoke. But what made it truly terrifying were the demons—its army.
I learned about them in Dusty Ridge, a ghost of a town in the Midwest. I had tracked the Stain there after piecing together patterns from news reports and survivor accounts. It struck at night, always under a new moon, when the veil between worlds was thinnest. The demons were like extensions of the Stain, shadowy figures with elongated limbs, jagged teeth, and eyes that glowed like embers. They didn't speak; they screeched, a sound that curdled blood and drove men mad.
In Dusty Ridge, I met Emily Thorne, a young journalist who had been investigating the disappearances. She was in her late twenties, with sharp green eyes and a determination that matched my own. Her family had been taken in the last attack—her sister, devoured by the shadows. "I saw them, Jack," she told me over a flickering campfire on the town's outskirts. "The Stain walks like a man, but the demons... they're like his guards. They swarm out of nowhere, tearing through anyone who gets in his way."
We decided to team up. Emily had smarts and a camera that could capture the unseeable; I had experience and weapons. Together, we set a trap in an abandoned church on the edge of town, baiting it with blood from a fresh kill—a deer, to mimic the Stain's scent.
That night, it came. The air grew thick, like breathing tar. The Stain emerged from the darkness, its form wavering as if it wasn't fully in our world. Behind it, the demons skittered—half-human, half-beast, their forms twisting in the wind. They moved as one, an army of nightmares.
Emily hid in the shadows, her camera rolling, while I confronted it. "What are you?" I shouted, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat.
The Stain turned, its black eyes locking onto mine. "I am the end," it rasped, its voice like nails on bone. "The stain of humanity's sins. And you... you will join my army."
The demons lunged. I fired my pistol, the bullets tearing through one, but it reformed, laughing with a sound that wasn't human. Emily screamed as one grabbed her, its claws sinking into her arm. Blood sprayed, and I swung my silver knife, slicing through the creature. It dissolved into black smoke, but more kept coming.
We barely escaped, fleeing into the night as the town burned behind us. The Stain didn't pursue; it just watched, as if toying with us. Dusty Ridge was the second town to fall, and I knew we were next.
: The Trail of Death
The Stain's path was a map of despair. From Blackwood Hollow to Dusty Ridge, and now toward my hometown of Elmwood Bluff, it left a wake of destruction. I researched stolen library books and online forums, piecing together its origins. Legends spoke of an ancient entity, born from a ritual gone wrong in the 1800s—a man who sold his soul for power, only to become a vessel for something far worse.
Emily and I traveled by night, avoiding main roads. She bandaged her wounds and documented everything, her resolve unshaken. "We have to stop it, Jack," she said one evening, as we sat in a dingy motel room. "It's not just killing; it's... consuming. Turning people into those things."
I nodded, my mind racing. The demons weren't random; they were created from Stalin's victims. A bite, a touch, and you'd become one of them—twisted, soulless, part of its army. We encountered stragglers on the road: a farmer named Silas who had escaped his town, his face scarred with the oily mark. "It whispers promises," he told us, shaking. "Power, eternal life. But it's a lie. It takes everything."
As we neared Elmwood Bluff, the attacks intensified. In a roadside diner, we overheard truckers talking about a "man in black" who had passed through, leaving bodies in his wake. That night, in a nearby forest, we found evidence: mutilated animals, trees scorched with demonic symbols, and that same sulfur stench.
The Stain was close. I could feel it watching us, probing my mind with visions of my lost family. In my dreams, it showed me my wife and daughter, alive but trapped in its shadow world. "Join me," it whispered. "Or watch them suffer."
Emily saw the toll it was taking on me. "You're not alone, Jack," she said, gripping my hand. But I knew the truth—we were outmatched.
: The Reckoning
Elmwood Bluff was the final stand. The town was quiet, too quiet, as if holding its breath. We rallied what few survivors we could find: Sheriff Crowe, who had followed us, and a few armed locals. We set up defenses in the old church, arming ourselves with silver weapons and homemade explosives.
Midnight struck, and the Stain arrived with its army. The demons poured in like a flood, their screeches piercing the night. They swarmed the town, dragging people into the darkness. I fought like a man possessed, my knife gleaming as I cut through their forms. Emily fired her shotgun, her face a mask of fury.
Then, the Stain stepped forward, its human guise flickering. "You cannot stop the inevitable, Jack Harlan," it said, its voice echoing in my skull. "Your world is stained. Join us, or be erased."
I charged, driven by rage. The Stain moved like smoke, dodging my attacks. Its touch burned, and for a moment, I saw the truth—it was a gateway to something else, a horde of ancient evils feeding on humanity's fear.
Emily tried to help, but a demon overwhelmed her. I heard her scream as it pulled her into the shadows. "No!" I roared, plunging my knife into the Stain's chest. Black ichor sprayed, and for a second, it faltered.
But it wasn't enough. The Stain laughed, regenerating. "You are too late," it hissed. The demons closed in, and I felt their claws tear at me.
In that moment, I realized the horror: the Stain wasn't just killing; it was preparing for something bigger. A ritual to spread its army worldwide. As the world faded, I whispered a final curse.
Epilogue: The Shadow Spreads
I survived, barely. Wounded and broken, I crawled from the ruins of Elmwood Bluff. Emily was gone, taken or transformed—I don't know which. The Stain moved on, leaving another town in ashes. Reports come in daily now: new attacks in distant places, the Stain's mark appearing everywhere.
I'm still hunting it, but I'm not the same. Sometimes, I feel the stain on my own skin, creeping in. Is it calling me? Or have I already lost?
