Hunted

Hunted is a short story set 200 years before the events of Sinner's Pass. In March, the horror lovers at The Lunatics Project, read Hunted on their horror podcast for demon summoning. You can listen to the episode in button below.

The Lunatics Project: Hunted

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Update 2/13/2026

Sinner's Pass received a re-release on 2/13/2026. Scenes were tailored to be more precise for the "realms" within Sinner's Pass. The hardcover (special edition) also now has the 3 short stories associated with the Sinner's Pass universe. With this, the short stories have all been rewritten for their debut print publication.

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The bang tears Casique from sleep.

His eyes snap open. His heart hammers as he rises into the dark, already reaching for the shape of danger. For a moment, the night holds its breath. Then he sees it: the woven shutters of the abandoned hamlet, rocking in the wind. A loose slat strikes the roof post with a hollow, rhythmic knock.

Relief comes first. Then irritation. Then the familiar edge of contempt.

He had not bothered to secure the wall, and neither, he guesses, had the family before they fled—or died. It does not matter. The shelter is temporary. Everything is temporary now.

Casique folds his arms across his chest and waits for sleep to return. It does not.

Not long ago, he tells himself, he lay as blindly as those who hunt him now, comforting himself with false stories. He understands them differently since his awakening. They are pathetic. Starving men begging at the boots of their conquerors. Drowning men who refuse to swim. He searches for anger toward his own people and finds none. What he feels is colder.

Loathing.

Rain begins to fall, softly at first. Casique opens his eyes again. Rain masks sound. Rain hides movement. That cannot be allowed.

He rises and steps out of the seized shelter. Darkness presses in, thick and absolute, but his eyes adjust quickly. Below the hill, a village sleeps, unaware. It remains still, ignorant of how close he has been. To his right, two bodies lie unmoving in the grass. Their silence is his assurance. No alarm will be raised. By the time the village wakes, he will be gone.

They hunt him for belief. For knowledge. For seeing what they refuse to see.

Five years earlier, he travels north, following the counsel of his elders, attempting peace with the white settlers spreading through the forest like rot. He is not seduced by their tools or their clothes. Their presence drains him. They know nothing of the land they claim. They walk it as if it is inert, harmless.

They are wrong.

They starve quickly. Their strength fails in days. Casique guides them—not out of kindness, but necessity—using his skill to move closer to home. On one expedition, hunting fails entirely. A river mishap ruins what little food they have gathered.

No one would know, he realizes.

Leaving them would be easy. Killing them is easier still.

The decision comes without ceremony. His hatchet works quickly. The sleepers never wake. At dawn, he makes camp and eats until his belly is full.

But hunger follows him south. It is not satisfied. It sharpens.

Among his own people, the craving persists. He clings to old teachings, believing restraint will cure him. It does not. He stays on the village edge, hunting animals, reliving childhood rites. The hunger grows.

Something greater calls.

He begins hunting men.

At first it is difficult. The hills and forests still belong to his people. He must range far to find lost settlers and wandering adventurers. For a time, it is enough.

Then he makes a mistake.

His prey flees faster than expected. A musket cracks. Pain blooms beneath his left arm. He disappears into the forest, bleeding, fevered, certain the wound will kill him. He tends it alone, unable to return, unable to explain.

At night, the visions begin.

The forest blurs. Light pours down from nowhere—not sun, not moon, not stars. Owls cry, but not from the trees; from everywhere at once, as if the land itself watches. Shapes move between trunks. Old stories rise from memory, no longer childish. Things with form and intent. Hunting him.

The nights pass. He survives. He returns home.

The visions fade. The hunger does not.

Casique understands then: he has passed a test his ancestors never named. One they feared. Each day he grows stronger, clearer. His people seem small now—afraid, denying their purpose.

When the hunger becomes unbearable, a boy wanders into his territory. Casique speaks with him for a time. The boy is fearless, quick, well-made. When he bends to examine the fish laid out on a rock, Casique notices the muscle in his legs. The softness beneath.

The rock ends it quickly.

Casique eats until the hunger is quiet.

It does not take long for the village to begin looking for the boy.

Casique knows he cannot deceive them all. Even with the knowledge he has gained—especially because of it—he will be cast out. And once cast out, he will be killed. There will be no trial. No debate.

Night finds him moving through rain, counting distance by pain. The old gunshot wound beneath his arm throbs dully, a cold ache that flares whenever the weather turns. It reminds him that he survived. That he endures. That he is still the hunter.

The sleeping village lies below him. He could return. He could kill again. But that would cost time, and time would seal his fate. Instead, he turns away from the lights and disappears into the forest, letting the rain erase his passage.

He shifts the sack on his shoulder. Inside are the pieces taken from the two he caught unaware in their hut. It will sustain him for days—long enough to reach better ground.

He heads north. Perhaps because hunting lies that way. Perhaps because it is simply the only direction that makes sense.

Casique follows old game trails, moving slowly, deliberately. The forest closes around him. When the hut and village vanish completely from sight, he stops.

Something is wrong.

There is no sound. No movement. Just a pressure—a sense of imbalance, as if the forest itself has tilted. He lets the rain soak him, trying to wash the feeling away. Fear, he tells himself. Nothing more. Fear born of pursuit, of interruption. Of being denied the work he has begun.

Then he hears it.

A footstep. Low. Distinct. Grass crushed just beyond the right-hand knoll.

Casique moves without thinking, slipping farther down the trail, then freezing. He waits. His body shivers—not from cold, but from something deeper. The air feels warmer, yet his blood runs colder.

Fog creeps over the crest of the hill.

Another step. Then another. Slow. Heavy.

Something passes between two trees.

Casique’s eyes widen.

It is enormous.

The body nearly fills the space between the trunks, swallowing what little light remains. Then it vanishes again behind the rise. The trail ahead should be empty.

It is not.

The forest goes silent except for the pounding of his heart. Then the smell reaches him—first faint, like distant smoke. Then overwhelming. Rotten eggs. Wet copper. Decayed flesh.

A sound follows. A low growl, dragging and broken, like a rabid animal pulled across stone.

Fear seizes him completely.

This is no hunting party. No men. This is one of them.

All his skill means nothing. His knowledge means nothing. He is meat.

Bile rises in his throat.

The presence moves away. Grass crunches, slow and deliberate, retreating into the trees.

Casique does not move. Rain falls, stops, then begins again. At last, a dim gray light filters through the canopy. Dawn approaches.

Only then does he rise.

The wet ground allows him to move silently. At the head of the trail, where the thing vanished, he finds the prints.

They are larger than his head.

Part hoof. Part something else. Deep gouges score the earth alongside each step, as if claws accompany the hooves.

They hunt him.

And now, he knows, his own people will not be far behind.

Casique turns north again. Not far ahead lies an abandoned white settlement, empty for years. Even the most hardened among his people avoided the valley where it sits. The sick of mind and spirit were sent there once, and no one followed them.

A river guards the southern approach, but Casique knows a shallow crossing to the east.

The journey becomes strangely calm. The sky darkens but brings no rain. The sun is muted. He walks for hours, certain now that the events only confirm what he has believed all along: he is chosen. Tested. Proven.

At the river, fish scatter as he steps into the rocky shallows. The water reaches his calves. The current is gentle.

On the far bank, a breeze chills his wet legs. He moves on immediately—and then stops.

At the edge of the trees stands a figure.

Tall. Immense. Motionless.

Even at a distance, Casique knows it watches him. He does not need to see its face. It is the same creature from the forest. Of that he is certain.

The proportions are wrong. Too long. Too broad. A hunter recognizes another hunter.

It shifts slightly, and antlers emerge from the silhouette—jagged, sharp. Heat ripples around its body, distorting the air.

They regard one another in silence.

Then the creature withdraws into the brush.

Casique waits long after it is gone. When he moves again, he stays east, circling wide. He wonders if it smells the meat in his sack. Wonders if hunger binds them.

Owls begin to hoot overhead—loud, sharp, explosive. One call becomes many. The sound builds until it feels as though the forest itself is a vast cavern filled with wings and eyes.

He crosses a small brook at the height of the noise and steps into sunlight.

Below him lies the valley.

The town is abandoned. Burned in places. A blackened shell of a building stands at its center. But it is not empty.

At the far northern edge, a man moves.

A white man.

He works alone. When he walks, he lumbers stiffly, almost diseased. Then he bends and works with sudden strength. The sound of hammering and sawing drifts faintly upward.

Casique watches for a long time. The man is the only movement.

As the sun sinks, Casique begins his descent.

One man will be easy.

And perhaps, he thinks, this is the first true test.

Casique understands how the settlers build their houses. He chooses the first intact structure he finds. Damp air clings to the interior, and weeds push up through the warped floorboards, but the roof still holds. That is what matters.

A table stands alone in the center of the room. Nothing else. Casique sets his sack upon it and loosens the bindings. With a bone knife, he cuts away a narrow strip of meat. He holds it over his tongue for a moment, then lets it fall into his mouth.

Cooking would be better. Safer. But fire would announce him. He will eat first. Then he will find the man.

The crunch of footsteps kills the thought.

Casique slips backward into deeper shadow, knife still in his hand. His other hand closes around the hatchet.

Is it the man—or the other thing?

The air thickens, warm and wet, as if the room itself exhales. A chill races up his spine.

It is here.

Something moves outside the door. A long scraping follows, slow and deliberate, like antlers dragged across wood. Heavy breathing rattles through the planks.

Casique braces for the door to shatter.

It does not.

The scraping stops. Quick footsteps retreat into the dark.

Casique waits.

Perhaps it is only the man.

He approaches the door cautiously. Deep gouges scar the wood. Symbols have been carved into it—letters from a tongue he does not know. The meaning escapes him, but the message is unmistakable. It is a warning.

The sight ignites his anger.

He will kill the man. He will eat him.

Casique slips back into the night, weaving through the abandoned buildings. This is no longer hunger—it is war. He will drive out the last invader and reclaim what his ancestors once held.

Ahead, an orange glow flickers. Firelight. He draws closer and sees the half-built structure. Upright beams. A crude frame.

A church.

The thought hardens his resolve.

He crouches near a collapsed wall, waiting for the man to return to the fire. Minutes stretch. The flames weaken, consuming the last of their fuel. Still, the man does not appear.

Casique advances.

Near the fire stands the first fence post. Only now does he see what crowns it. A human skull, mounted carefully at the top. Flesh still clings to it, sagging, merging with the wood.

He passes it without hesitation.

The church doors are marked as well, streaked with words painted in dark, drying stains. By the dying firelight, he can barely make them out.

La lumière est morte.

The letters mean nothing to him, but the color does.

He tests the doors. They do not move. Locked—or barred. He circles the structure, searching for another way in.

At the rear, he finds a smaller door. The soil here is soft, worked recently. Easy footing. Then his foot strikes something hollow.

Bone.

Not one—many.

Casique looks down. The field is littered with skeletons, half-buried, scattered like stones in tilled earth.

The back door opens.

No light spills out. Only darkness. Fog pours from within, thick and wet. The air fills with hooting—loud, frenzied, triumphant. Not a call to him, but a signal. A hunt closing in.

Casique turns and runs.

He tears through the abandoned town, ignoring the rot—the sagging walls, the peeling paint, the warped frames leaning toward collapse. He sprints up the knoll where he first saw the man.

Just over the rise. Then the river. Then escape.

“Got him!” a voice shouts in English.

Casique falls hard. Dirt fills his mouth. Hands seize him—too many. Rope bites into his wrists. He kicks and screams, but it is useless.

They roll him over.

It is not the man.

It is a white settler—and three of his own people.

“It’s the beast,” one says in their native tongue.

“You ran because you knew what you did,” their leader says. “You are a coward.”

“Is this the one killing people?” the white man asks.

Casique feels betrayal like a blade. His crimes are spoken aloud. Made real.

“There’s something coming,” Casique shouts. “The real beast is coming.”

“Cry if you want,” the leader says. “We saw the boy. We found the families.”

“The beast is still coming.”

“Tie him to that tree.”

As they drag him away, Casique feels true fear at last—not of death, but of the stories he once dismissed.

“It’s coming,” he whispers.

No one listens.

“I’ve seen it,” Casique cries. “It’s coming. You don’t want to be here. Take me with you—kill me if you must. But there is a monster in that town.”

The white man turns. “What’s he saying?”

“He lies,” the leader answers in English.

“That’s it?” the white man says. “You’re just tying him to a tree?”

The leader draws the knife from his belt. He does not answer. He does not need to. Casique understands what comes next.

Pain detonates through his body.

Casique screams. The pain eclipses thought, eclipses breath. The leader steps back, knife slick and red. He has cut the thick tendons behind Casique’s heels, clean and deliberate. Casique has expected this. It is an old punishment. He will never walk again. He will be left to die, bound to the tree.

But now he knows the stories are true.

“You are fools,” Casique mutters through clenched teeth.

“And you are dead,” the leader replies.

“Justice served?” the white man asks.

The leader nods.

They turn away. They begin to leave.

“You abandon me?” Casique shouts after them. “Condemned by my own people—and by the invader?”

They do not turn. They walk as if they cannot hear.

Casique has known pain before. He has taken a musket ball and lived. Even the deep, aching throb of that wound cannot compare to the fire screaming through his legs now. Worse than the pain is the waiting. He knows something is hunting him. Now he cannot run.

He stays awake through the night.

At times he wonders if the hunter scorns easy prey. Perhaps he will bleed out. Perhaps hunger will finish him. But when morning comes, Casique knows this is no longer his world.

The sky remains dark, black and glassy, like the eyes of the dead. Yet there is light—thin, wrong, and cold. Fog rolls across the field and over the knoll, bleaching the land. The grass that was green yesterday is brown now, brittle and lifeless.

Then he hears it.

A crunch.

Footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

It emerges from the fog on two long legs. A skull for a head. Antlers coil and twist upward, vast and unnatural. Between them hangs a strip of stolen flesh, stretched like a banner, still wet with blood. Black bulbs fill the empty eye sockets.

The thing advances without haste.

And Casique understands, too late, that it has already found him.

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I hope you enjoyed the story. Hunted is a segue into an upcoming horror novel. Follow me on all my socials and join the newsletter to get updates on the novel. Don't forget to leave a like and comment!

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