Chapter Text
What could be worse than traveling hundreds of miles and wasting several days just to reach your destination and find absolutely nothing of value?
Stanley Pines hated riding horses and carriages, really. It made him sick, the endless jolting exhausted him, and the constant dust that settled in his lungs left him coughing for days. Sailing on a ship was a different matter – it rocked gently, soothingly, as if the waves were cradling him. The salty sea air, the refreshing breeze, and the noisy crew shouting colorful curses were far more pleasant than scraping mud off a horse’s hooves or sleeping anywhere they could stop. But could he do anything about it? Obviously not.
Their first destination was the ancestral castle of the Northwest family. A majestic structure in the mountains, surrounded by a constant fog, it sparked countless rumors – some said the Northwests made deals with the Devil to preserve their wealth and beauty, others claimed they were monsters in human form. Those rumors were exactly what drew the Pines brothers there, far from their familiar sea shores and plains. And for what?
As fate had it, Stanley was born into a family that had, for centuries, practiced the most honorable profession of all: monster hunting. Not everyone believed in the existence of monsters, but that only proved how necessary the Pines’ work was! Destroying monsters, helping those harmed by them – a thankless job, rarely paid for, and demanding enormous effort, but it had its charm. Knowing that his work saved dozens of lives helped him sleep better by day and guard others’ sleep by night.
Philbrick, their father, began taking his sons on hunts when they were only eleven, despite the danger. Even if Stanley and Ford weren’t ready, even if they were too weak, Philbrick didn’t care. Every expedition into dark forests, soul-chilling caves, or thin-aired mountains included two trembling boys clutching silver daggers soaked in holy water. Only by fifteen did they stop being afraid and start living up to their family name. By sixteen, they worked smoothly together – Ford, who devoured every bit of information about monsters he could find in books or stories, became skilled at tracking them, while Stanley handled the heavy, dirty work. Sometimes they even hunted without their father, watched only by Shermie – and most of those hunts ended well… except for that one time when a ghost nearly drove a nail into Stanford’s hand. Unpleasant, sure, but he survived.
What peaceful people would call horror itself was, to the Pines family, as normal as baking blueberry pies on Sundays or watering the flowers in the front garden.
And were there horrors in the Northwest estate? None whatsoever.
The family turned out to be clean, as pure as the first drop of dew at dawn. No baths of virgins’ blood, no infants’ hearts for supper, no demonic pacts… though there were plenty of documents proving their financial frauds. As Stanford read aloud the current lord’s correspondence with the count whose lands bordered their estate, Stanley barely managed not to drop his jaw to the floor. Utter madness! But it wasn’t exactly the Pines’ concern, and they didn’t want trouble with people that powerful, so the brothers had to return home empty-handed.
For a while, anyway.
They had to return to those lands almost the next week – but, luckily, not so deep into the mountains this time. A rather large settlement was located on flatter ground; its people mostly raised livestock and made yarn. Growing crops there was difficult because of the constant cold and the cloudy weather that lasted nearly all year. Nothing strange or dangerous should have happened in such a place, yet it did. Oldman Northwest himself, who was responsible for this area, sent them a letter through a messenger who said that the matter was urgent.
“Every day we receive hundreds of complaints about drained livestock! For these people, it’s a tragedy, since it’s their only source of living. And recently – disaster struck: a young girl’s body was found, completely dry, without a single drop of blood… We beg for your help.”
The Northwests promised to cover travel expenses, and on top of that, there would be a generous payment if the problem was solved. An offer impossible to refuse.
They had to go without their father – he had disappeared somewhere, taking their mother with him. For the twins, it wasn’t a great loss, but the fact that Shermie hadn’t returned from his last hunt was far more troubling. They hadn’t planned to act until Shermie came back, even their mother said they weren’t ready for solo hunts, but there was no time to wait! People’s and animals’ lives depended on them. So the twins prepared for the hunt in record time and asked the old neighbor lady to look after their cat.
Stanley shifted on the soft seat cushion, trying to find a more comfortable position. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the way the carriage shook and jumped on stones made his head ache terribly. He couldn’t sleep like this, not a chance. All he could hope for was that they’d arrive by dawn so he’d finally have a reason to rest.
Ford had it easier. Buried in his book, he paid no attention to anything else – except, maybe, the Northwest letter lying beside him. Stanford rarely cared about the world around him, especially when he had a thousand-page tome explaining the differences between an undine and a melusine. Poor lighting was easily fixed with a candle, and the shaking didn’t matter – he always reread every sentence several times anyway.
Stretching his legs, Stan nudged his brother’s ankle with the tip of his boot. Once. Twice. Only the third time did Ford sigh and look up at him.
“What are you reading?” Stanley asked sweetly, smiling with the kind of innocence some saints lacked.
“About vampires,” Stanford muttered unwillingly. “Judging by the letter and what the messenger said, that’s what we’re dealing with. But I can’t tell if it’s a mormo or an empusa…”
Stanley rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, annoyed. Ford was always like this—he had to analyze everything, pick apart every detail, even the smallest one. Stan never understood that obsession. What did it matter, if you could usually deal with them the same way? The only real difference was how much holy water you’d waste.
“We don’t even know if it’s a woman…”
“That’s the point. That’s why I’m confused,” Ford grumbled, flipping through pages covered in notes written by their grandfather. “This creature definitely feeds on blood.”
“We do not know,” Stan said again, clicking his tongue as he snatched the book from Ford’s hands. Ford tried to take it back, but Stan slapped his hand lightly. “Listen. We’ll get there, talk to the locals, and then figure out what kind of freak it is. One letter – especially such a vague one – isn’t enough to judge. It might not even be a vampire at all.”
Reluctantly, Stanford ran his hand through his hair and calmed down a little. His brother was right – he tended to jump to conclusions too early, and the chance of being wrong was huge.
Then Stan added:
“But, you know, I think it’s a vrykolakas.”
“Nonsense!” Ford nearly jumped in his seat, full of irritation. His glasses fell onto his knees, but he didn’t hurry to put them back on.
Stanley slid closer to the edge of the seat and leaned back, hands behind his head.
“I’m starting to think you like those creatures, Ford. Admit it – you’re hoping it’s an empusa, because that’s your only chance to talk to a woman. Remember that mermaid?”
Even if they were twins and close as souls could be, Stanley could be unbearable. So what if Ford once had to flirt with a mermaid to distract her while his brothers prepared to attack? It worked, didn’t it?
“She wasn’t my type,” Ford muttered, pretending to fix his coat sleeve. “And about the vrykolakas... I think the letter would’ve mentioned a ruined grave or something like that. It’s unlikely, Lee.”
“But blood-drinking demons are more likely?”
This could have turned into a full-blown argument, but Ford just gave his brother a sharp look and pulled another book from his leather suitcase. He handed it to Stanley.
“The Vampyre,” by John Polidori.
“How clever,” Stanley ran his finger along the cover and looked at his brother from under his brow. “Father will kill you if he finds out.”
Their old man, when that book first came out two years ago, had forbidden them to touch such filth. But he didn’t realize that forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest – and his boys were clever enough to hide things well. Stanford just shrugged, already turning back to his own reading: their great-grandfather’s journal about lycanthropes.
They arrived before the sky began to lighten. They checked into the hunting lodge provided for them, on the very edge of the settlement, right by the forest, and Stanley slept soundly, wrapped in several blankets and surrounded by soft pillows. From the point of view of the not-exactly-poor Pines family, the place was quite luxurious. Plush pillows covered with smooth velvet, woolen blankets, a leather sofa, and a bear pelt used as a rug in front of the fireplace… And even a silver tea set! Upon waking up, Stanley barely resisted the urge to steal a few forks and knives – or at least a candlestick – but Ford threatened to turn him in, so he had to keep his hands to himself.
By noon, well-rested and fed, the twins set out for the village center. They didn’t question just anyone, of course, but chose those who seemed most reasonable. Every person was odd in their own way, but the Pines brothers weren’t exactly normal themselves.
Three hours of questioning led to nothing useful, which irritated Ford. The answers were all different, vague, and pointed to monsters of all kinds. Some said they saw a wolf sucking blood from a goat’s corpse, others swore it was a ghost… But the truth kept slipping away. The only advantage was that they got a chance to examine the body of the dead girl – it hadn’t been buried yet. With the priest out of town, no one was responsible for the burial, since the girl had been an orphan.
There wasn’t a real hospital there, just something like a small infirmary. The bodies awaiting burial were kept in the basement, and that’s where the brothers went. While Stanley unemotionally examined the corpse for any visible wounds, Ford quickly wrote down his brother’s observations in a notebook. Every detail mattered; they couldn’t afford to forget a thing.
“I don’t get it,” Stanley muttered through his teeth, wiping his hands on his trousers. The body wasn’t dirty, but touching a corpse was unpleasant anyway. “She’s completely dried out. Totally. But there are no wounds! No bites, nothing.”
Ford scratched his temple with a pencil, looking at the body again.
“Even witches couldn’t do this… probably,” he said thoughtfully. “And everyone we talked to said she didn’t have enemies. Witches don’t curse people for no reason, especially not so cruelly, so we can rule that out. Which leaves us, as I said before, with vampires. No one else can drain blood so thoroughly.”
It was starting to drive Stanley mad. They really shouldn’t have come without Shermie. What could two sixteen-year-old, half-trained hunters possibly do?
Stan bit his lower lip, nervously tapping his fingers on the flask of holy water hanging from his belt, and looked toward his brother when Ford spoke again.
“We haven’t checked everything,” Stanford said slowly, a little unsure, nodding toward the two small cloths covering the girl’s chest and thighs.
Stanley blushed bright red at the mere thought.
“Are you out of your mind?! We can't just… She’s dead, Ford!”
“Exactly. And we need to find out why,” Ford said calmly, though the thought made him uncomfortable too. “Some vampires hide their marks and bites to avoid being found. Sometimes in the hair, sometimes in… less obvious places. Grandfather said we should examine the entire body – even the mouth – since some vampires somehow drink blood from there too. We have no choice, Lee.”
Awkwardly, Stanley reached toward the cloth covering her chest but quickly pulled back and turned away, shaking his head.
“No. No, you do it yourself.”
“At least check her hair!” Ford insisted, putting his notebook into the small leather bag he always carried. It held everything needed for a safe hunt. He rolled up his sleeves and approached the table where the body lay.
While Stanley carefully combed through the girl’s thick hair, searching for any sign of a bite around her head or neck, Stanford lifted the cloths. It was very awkward. The pale, slightly bluish skin on her chest was clear, without a single scratch, so he covered her before, after a moment’s hesitation, examining further. Thankfully, things became clear almost immediately when he saw two torn wounds on the inside of her thigh, near the groin. There were also bruises on the other leg, as if someone had gripped it too tightly.
Ford exhaled heavily, covered her again, and called his brother. Stanley didn’t look right away, but eventually, he had to.
“What a nightmare…” Stan whispered, studying the wound. The skin around it was torn and nearly black. “That creature was very hungry and probably lost control.”
“Yeah,” Ford nodded, carefully moving the girl’s leg to get a better look. “Bit right into the femoral artery… damaged the muscles pulling the fangs out… Since only animals died before this, it must’ve been starving and snapped.”
They had seen all they needed to. Stanford noted the details of the wound in his diary, and afterward, they went to a small tavern – if it could even be called that. It was where the whole village usually gathered after a hard day to drink beer or, in the case of teenagers, juice, and have a snack. The air was filled with the scent of hops, salt from bar snacks, and something sweeter, like baked goods.
But today, the place wasn’t crowded. Of the five long wooden tables that were normally full, only three were occupied. Stanley and Ford sat at an empty one near the wall and exchanged glances. They both knew why there were so few people—many feared for their lives after rumors spread about a murderous monster. On their way there, the streets had been nearly empty too; as the sun began to set, terrified townsfolk had locked themselves inside.
A waitress, a young woman with dark hair, approached them.
“What can I do for you, boys?” she asked politely, forcing a practiced smile. Her eyes, though, betrayed exhaustion.
“Juice and a slice of blueberry pie,” Stanley said without hesitation. He rested his head on his folded arms on the table, feeling pressure in his temples. Half a day gone, and they’d achieved almost nothing! They’d only confirmed it was a vampire – and that was far too little. Their father would’ve already found and killed the monster.
Ford scratched his chin thoughtfully. He was just as tired as his brother, but he had some ideas on how to move forward with their small investigation.
“Treacle pie and tea, please… And, miss, may I ask you a question?”
“Just Susan. What do you want to know?” The waitress hesitated, nervously twisting the string of her apron. She clearly wasn’t sure if she should answer, but couldn’t resist that sad, curious look behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Have you been working here for a long time, haven't you, Susan?” After she nodded, Ford raised an eyebrow slightly. “Do people from other towns visit often? Maybe someone new arrived recently?”
“Not often,” she replied. “And when they do, they don’t stay long. Though… about three or four months ago, a wealthy man, Mr. McGucket came here with his wife. He’s a teacher, works with the children at the school. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious. Thank you,” Ford said with a polite smile, and the waitress left.
Once they were alone again, Stanley straightened and arched a brow, nodding toward the door she disappeared through.
“What?” Ford asked irritably. “We had to know about newcomers anyway. Tomorrow I’ll talk to the farmers and find out exactly when the livestock started disappearing, and if it matches, we’ll visit McGucket.”
“And if it doesn’t match?”
“I don’t know. We’ll just shove garlic in everyone’s face.”
Stan gave a tired chuckle, rubbing his face. Unfortunately for both of them, the backup plan was useless – for one simple reason: vampires weren’t afraid of garlic.
The next morning, another body was found.
Behind the tavern, near the back door, lay Susan’s corpse. Her clothes were soaked in her own blood, her hair disheveled, her face frozen in an expression of horror and pain. It terrified not only the townsfolk but also made the twins uneasy. Could it be that the vampire had been in the tavern that evening and killed the waitress to silence her? Though they still had to determine whether this was truly the work – or rather, the fangs – of a vampire.
As planned, Stanford went to speak with the farmers, while Stanley returned to the infirmary. The atmosphere there was heavy, the air thick with the scent of herbal ointments and something unpleasantly similar to the smell of wet laundry he always forgot to hang outside after washing. This time, he wasn’t alone. A young woman from the infirmary accompanied him – dark curls, slightly tanned skin, nearly a head and a half shorter than him. She was tasked with preparing the body so Susan’s relatives could begin funeral arrangements, and Stanley’s help made it easier.
With a damp cloth, they moistened parts of the clothing stuck to the corpse from dried blood. Then, after removing the torn fabric, the woman washed the blood off the girl’s face and neck – and that’s when Stanley noticed two small wounds just above the collarbone. He leaned closer, carefully brushing the hair away from the body’s neck.
They were unmistakably vampire bites. A strange feeling struck him – a mix of anxiety and excitement. This time, the vampire hadn’t completely drained the victim and had bitten in a rather obvious place, likely getting blood on himself in the process. The audacity to do such a thing right in the middle of the settlement… But this meant they were getting closer to finding the monster.
“Sir, I need to continue my work,” the woman said softly, touching his shoulder. “I must hurry. My husband is ill, and I’d like to return home early. So, if you’ve seen all you need, I’ll ask you to leave.”
“Apologies,” Stanley straightened and washed the blood off his hands. He really had seen enough – and wanted to leave that gloomy basement as quickly as possible. He was already heading toward the stairs when he stopped, as if remembering something. “Could you remind me of your name? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Emma-May McGucket.”
McGucket. Stanley swallowed hard. His hands trembled.
“What happened with your husband?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Food poisoning. He stopped by the tavern yesterday – probably ate or drank something spoiled,” Emma-May answered lightly, covering Susan’s body with a sheet.
“I wish your husband a speedy recovery,” Stanley managed to say.
Maybe it was all just a coincidence, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that McGucket himself was the vampire. A man who had moved here only recently, who hadn’t been afraid to come to the tavern when danger lurked, and on the same night the waitress was killed… He needed to find Ford immediately.
His brother arrived at the square near the church, where they had agreed to meet, just after noon, and Stanley had been pacing restlessly the whole time. He had learned more about McGucket from several townspeople, and his suspicion only grew stronger. Unsociable, frail-looking, unnaturally thin – Fiddleford McGucket hardly spoke to anyone except the children he taught. He spent most of his time at home, claiming he felt unwell, and only went out toward evening. If he wasn’t a vampire, then Stanley was a lousy pirate!
As soon as he spotted Ford, Stanley jumped up from the bench and rushed to him.
“Well? What did they say?” Stanley asked impatiently, gripping his brother’s shoulders.
“Corduroy said his sheep started turning up dead about three months ago,” Ford replied, slightly startled by his brother’s intensity.
Stanley’s breath caught for a moment before he hurriedly told Ford everything – what Emma-May had said, what he’d heard from others, all his conclusions. Ford listened carefully to every word, frowning by the end.
“We have to expose him!” Stanley finished, his voice burning with determination. He was excited, ready to dash straight to McGucket’s house that very second.
“These are still just suspicions. We can’t barge into his house and accuse him of this, Stanley.”
“We’ll give him holy water to drink,” the younger twin said, rolling his eyes. There were so many ways to confirm if someone was a vampire, and Ford was still hesitating! “Besides, it’s probably a vrykolakas and those are easier to spot and kill.”
It was hard to argue with that, and worse yet, Stanley’s guess about the vampire’s type actually made sense. Tight-lipped, Ford shook off his brother’s hands from his shoulders.
“All right, all right. We’ll visit him tonight. For now, we prepare.”
Stanley clapped his hands, delighted. His favorite part was about to begin – the moment when the hunter became the hunted.
The evening turned out nothing like the twins had planned.
Their careless talk in front of the church had been overheard by some of the locals – deeply superstitious people – and soon the McGuckets faced the wrath of the crowd. When the twins arrived, they saw a mob hammering at the doors, which somehow still held together. People were armed with torches, pitchforks, and stakes, ready to tear Fiddleford and his family apart. They shouted curses and threats. Stanley had never seen such rage, not even in the eyes of the monsters they had killed before.
The brothers pushed their way through the mob – Stanley shoving the stubborn ones aside while Ford followed, clutching his bag to his chest. They had heard of such witch hunts from their father and grandfather, but witnessing one up close was… strange. And infuriating. These fools were ruining everything.
“Emma-May!” Stanley knocked on the door. “Please open the door! I swear, we won’t hurt you. We came to help!”
He wasn’t lying. The woman didn’t seem like a monster to him, more likely a prisoner, a victim of the vampire.
After a few moments, the lock clicked and the door opened a little. Emma-May peeked out, her dark eyes filled with genuine fear, and she let the twins in. Ford entered last and quickly closed the door behind him.
“We must talk to Fiddleford,” Stanley said directly once they were in the cozy living room.
“He’s unwell right now. He can’t–”
“I understand, but it won’t take long,” he insisted, but Emma-May shook her head stubbornly and backed toward the stairs, which probably led to her husband. Stanley sighed in irritation and looked at his brother pointedly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ford took off his bag and tossed it to Stanley. Then he stepped toward Emma-May.
“Forgive me, ma’am, but you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said, grabbing her wrists and pulling her aside. She struggled, but he didn’t let go.
Stanley had just turned toward the stairs when the crash of breaking glass made him freeze. Someone had thrown a rock through the window. A man climbed inside, holding a burning torch in one hand and a wooden stake in the other. Ford, too busy holding Emma-May, didn’t react in time before the man struck him across the face. Ford wasn’t strong – one blow was enough to send him stumbling back. His glasses fell to the floor, one lens cracking.
The second hit knocked him down completely; his head hit the edge of a small wooden table. Stanley rushed over, checking on his brother – thankfully, the wound near his temple wasn’t deep, though blood trickled down his face. The air smelled of metal and burning resin.
The man turned to Emma-May, raising his stake.
“Die, you unholy creature!”
But she moved faster. She knocked the stake from his hand, and when she was close enough, she sank her teeth into his neck. Stanley saw her fangs lengthen in an instant before they pierced skin. The man struggled at first, but as she drank greedily, his body went limp and pale. The torch fell, and the fire caught on the wool rug, spreading fast.
Emma-May turned toward the twins, licking the blood from her lips, and stepped closer. Stanley helped Ford to his feet and stood in front of him protectively, but Ford shook his head.
“Go,” he whispered, pulling a silver dagger from his coat – its blade shimmered faintly blue in the firelight. Stanley’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected his brother to bring a weapon blessed with moonstone. “I’ll handle this.”
Nodding, Stanley ran for the stairs while Ford moved to block Emma-May’s path. She failed to break through and turned on Ford instead, slashing at him with her nails and teeth. She managed to knock him down and pin him to the steps, fangs bared, but Ford switched the dagger to his free hand and drove it into her stomach.
Stanley saw it from the second floor. He let out a shaky breath and hurried on, checking room after room. The bedroom was empty – drawers open, clothes missing, someone had clearly packed in a hurry. Then, in the nursery, he found him. Fiddleford McGucket sat by the window, his back to the door, clutching a small bundle.
“Emma-May?” he called, but when no answer came, he turned and froze.
Taking a steadying breath, Stanley drew his dagger from the bag and stepped closer.
“She’s gone,” he said quietly, hoping the vampire wouldn’t notice how his hands trembled. “And you’re next.”
Fiddleford backed toward the window, stopping just before he might have fallen. There was nowhere left to run.
In the dim light, his glowing blue eyes showed something painfully familiar – grief and sorrow, but not fear. It was as if he was ready to accept his fate without resistance, to die by the hunter’s hand after losing the one he loved.
Then the bundle in his arms moved, and a piercing cry filled the room. Stanley froze. He leaned closer, pulling the blanket aside and saw a baby. A tiny infant, barely a month old.
But with fangs already grown.
Every instinct screamed at him to kill them. Kill the vampires, kill the monsters, save the lives of countless people and animals. He was trained for this since childhood. It was what he had to do. He should have plunged the dagger into the vampire’s heart, then into the child’s. That was duty. That was the law of hunters.
But he couldn’t.
Slowly, Stanley lifted his dagger and made a small cut across his palm – just enough for a few drops of blood to fall. Clenching his fist, he let the blood drip into the infant’s mouth. The crying stopped.
Fiddleford stared at him in shock, unable to move.
“Go,” Stanley whispered, glancing at the door, terrified Ford might appear. “Go now! If I see you again – I’ll finish it.”
It would have been madness not to take the chance. Fiddleford clutched the baby to his chest, opened the window, and jumped. Stanley watched as the vampire disappeared into the darkness.
It was a mistake. The worst a hunter could make. But somehow, deep down, Stanley knew he had done the right thing.