The Cabin Is Always Hungry

LAST RESORT

Part 6

The old, beaten-up F-250 Ford truck stopped about thirty feet from us. Three men climbed out of the vehicle and approached, three pairs of eyes studying us carefully like wolves assessing their prey. Once their gaze landed on me, they couldn’t look away. Their fixation turned into a deep bow: heads down, knees bent, paying their respects to their new master. They didn’t get up until I told them to.

I presumed they were all brothers since the three men looked almost identical: tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, brawny arms and chests. They wore flannel shirts, dark jeans, and leather boots, although the youngest of the three was the only one wearing a tank top underneath his unbuttoned flannel shirt.

Contrary to the creations of all my archetypes, I didn’t know everything about them from the start, especially their names or where they came from. I wasn’t privy to how the System “collected” them and bound them to my service as a dungeon monster.

I had to ask. “Who are you?” I already knew they could answer me since I had given them [ Speech ].

The oldest of the three spoke. “My name is Alan, my lord. Alan Sawyer,” he said. When he called me, I noticed my lord was still strange in his tongue. “And these are my brothers: Garth and Luke.” He pointed to the man wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball cap next to him, who was an inch or two taller, and then to the man with the tank top, who sported a cheeky grin. Once my gaze landed on the two of them, the youngest, Luke, dropped the grin. Perhaps he thought he shouldn’t risk offending me.

The Sawyers. “It’s good to meet you all,” I said. “Where are you from?”

It took Alan a moment to answer. “We are from nowhere, but from what I know, this is where we shit now.”

“Jackson,” Alan said.

“Idaho?”

Alan nodded.

“And you drove all the way from there?”

It was Luke who answered this time, shaking his head. “A glowing portal thingy opened, like in the Marvel movies, you know? Doctor Strange? Only this one didn’t have that golden sparkly ring. It’s more black or a really dark purple. Anyway, my brother just drove through it. He said that’s where the scroll thing needs us to go. Hey, we didn’t get killed, so that’s a plus.”

“Scroll?”

Alan gestured at his brother to speak less. “The System,” he said simply.

“Ah. Well, welcome to North Cedar Lake, gents. Make yourselves at home,” I said, ignoring the questions about the System swarming in my head. Scrolls, huh?

“What can they do?” Demon asked. “Although I can already guess…” she trailed off.

Alan raised his eyebrow at me as if he was asking for permission.

I smiled. “Go ahead.”

Luke cracked his knuckles, preparing himself. Unlike his brothers, he was the one who was most excited.

Suddenly, their backs arched violently, and the muscles in their chests and arms swelled, tearing through the fabric of their shirts. Flesh stretched to its limits, each inch of their skin pulling painfully tight as if something beastial inside was trying to escape. A deep, primal snarl began to rise, gnawing at the insides as their mouths foamed with saliva.

Their breaths became more ragged, and they buckled over, pressed their palms to the earth, fingers digging into the dirt, desperately trying to keep themselves balanced as their eyes changed into the bright golden hue of an animal. Black mangly hairs grew all over their bodies, muscle and bone lengthening, making them taller, more robust, bigger, stronger. Hungrier. Their fingernails were knocked off by sharp claws. Their clothes now lay in tatters on the ground. Facial bones cracked, snapped, and then rearranged, making way for the snout and rows of sharp teeth.

Oh, grandmother, what sharp teeth you have…

The others slowly backed away from the monstrosities that now towered before them.

Huffing.

Puffing.

The Big, big bad—

“Werewolves?” Demon took a curious step toward them.

“Yep,” I said. Werewolves.”

THE WEREWOLF

Dread Score: 5/10

Creature Type: Monstrosity

Cooldown: 1 week

Special Traits

Lycanthropy I

The monster is (Selected race: Human) and can turn into a vicious and violent anthropomorphic wolf hybrid at night—a werewolf. This includes the classic traits: enhanced senses, improved strength, stamina, speed, keen vision, unnatural size, and regenerative healing. Their bite has the ability to turn a mortal into a werewolf by the next full moon. As Lycans, they gain the Speech Trait (available for purchase).

Weakness: Vulnerable to silver; Weaker human form; Infectious creature.

Pack Tactics I

These monsters hunt in a maximum pack of three (3). Their hunting tactics and intelligence increase when in proximity with the others, increasing Dread and rapidly lowering a delver’s Resolve when faced with two (2) or more monsters at once. When hunting in a pack, their endurance and regenerative properties increase.

Berserker (Lycanthrope) I

This monster can enter into an extreme form of Lycan bloodlust, further enhancing their strength, fortitude, speed, and lethality. They gain an insatiable taste for killing prey at all costs, reducing the chances of Lycan infection. Higher likelihood of leaving no delvers alive during a single encounter. Delver’s survival rate drops to two percent when stacked with Pack Tactics.

Duration: five minutes (cooldown: one hour)

Speech I

This monster has Lycanthropy. They can speak naturally in the Dungeon’s native language (American English).

Alan let out a deep, guttural howl that rattled the night, and the others joined him in his wolf song. Their resonance burrowed deep into the bone, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this was what death sounded like before the big bite, before you say bye-bye to the great beyond. It was almost comforting, yet frightening to listen to: Their backs arched, snouts pointed to the sky, teeth glinting sharp and murderous. I admired their ferocious, primal beauty.

Out here in these woods, they were in their natural habitat. And I have a pack of them.

Once Alan finished his song, the others did, too.

As my domain continued to expand, Old Growth couldn’t protect the border alone. The Sawyers would be those guys. Normal humans during the day and primal hunters at night. I planned to create a gas station and a large ranch in the new area I expanded into close to the highway. That empty stretch would fit perfectly as the Sawyers’ lair. I might even name the ranch: Sawyer’s Ranch–owned by an old rural family with roots tied to these lands since the early 1900s. I asked Oracle to draft and manipulate the estate deed and then snuck it into city hall’s computers in Point Hope and at the state capital, Salem. The State of Oregon officially recognized their lands with just a punch of a few buttons on the keyboard.

With their presence inside my domain, everyone in the surrounding area was vaguely aware of the Sawyer family’s history of these woods. They’ve lived here for as long as I can remember, some would say. They mainly kept to themselves. Very good boys, others who were polite, chimed in. Fucking hillbillies owes me money. They should leave, a handful would spat. Little fake memories courtesy of the System.

Once I finished writing the rumors for all my archetypes, those memories would solidify into a life of its own.

But I wasn’t done yet. I expected another guest. The seventh archetype. Lucky number seven.

The fog arrived slowly, encroaching through the woods in a wall of white barely taller than Goliath’s hips. But I felt his presence within the fog—within the dark woods itself. Although each archetype arrived in my domain by different means (Goliath crawled out of the ground, Demon materialized into thin air, and Old Growth splintered off a tree, among others), this was a familiar entrance. The archetype’s presence blinked into existence deep in the woods not far from us, surrounded by the shadows, which welcomed him.

I invited him to come forward, and he followed, cautious but excited. And yet, I could not hear a heartbeat. “I summon you, Duke,” I said.

A man stepped forward, his polished two thousand dollar shoes making soft but deliberate steps. He didn’t care that his expensive shoes were caked with mud. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, the kind that was tailored just for him— sleek, dark, and effortlessly elegant. He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his clothes with a natural ease, and his posture was impeccable, exuding confidence without the slightest hint of arrogance. Dark hair, neatly styled, framed his sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and warm light blue eyes that were instantly disarming.

There was something magnetic about him. True to its purpose, I thought. I designed him that way.

His gaze was transfixed to me like the Sawyers were a few minutes ago. And was that a flicker of fear in his eyes? Awe? Enthrallment? He bowed like all archetypes were accustomed to. No, not just archetypes, but even the administrators. Oh shit, I’m probably gonna have to get used to this.

He straightened his back. “I am at your service, my lord dungeon,” he said. He sounded posh, the Queen’s English maybe, but with a deep and commanding voice like rolling thunder.

“I smell death,” Demo sniffed the air. “No, undeath. Let me guess: Disgustingly handsome? Check. Pale as a ghost? Check. No heartbeat? Check. Centuries of aristocratic arrogance? Check. Craves blood? Check. Are you a vampire, sir?”

Duke blinked, and his irises instantly turned blood red. He parted his mouth slightly open, and fangs protruded out of it.

THE DUKE

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Dread Score: 7/10

Creature Type: Undead

Cooldown: 1 week

Special Traits

Strict Vampirism I

The monster becomes an immortal vampiric entity that does not age. The monster can turn a mortal if the creature feeds on its blood three times and drinks its blood twice. This decreases the chances of a vampiric plague. As a vampire, they have increased strength, agility, and a faster healing factor.

Strength: The monster can sire one (1) loyal vampire spawn and one (1) familiar at the cost of one essence each.

Weakness: Sunlight (Vulnerable to UV rays), stake to the chest.

Bat Morphology I

The monster can fly. It can levitate in its humanoid form or grow bat-like wings to increase its flying speed and trigger Dread effects. It can also fully transform into a large bat twice the size of a grown (human) man with sharp talons and teeth. While flying, it can also carry one (1) large creature or two (2) medium-sized humanoid creatures.

Cunning Predator I

The monster has six skill expertise of your choosing: Speech, Charisma, Culture (Human), Occultism (Alchemy), Stealth, and Athletics.

Speech I

You have selected a Speech skill from (Cunning Predator). This is a free trait and will automatically occupy the monster’s fourth trait slot. It cannot be replaced unless the skill is replaced first. The monster can speak naturally in the Dungeon’s native language (American English).

The monster has an improved Culture Rating. Select (7) languages of your choice: Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic, Hindi, French, German, and Russian.

The monster has an improved Occult Rating. Select (6) ancient languages of your choice: Egyptian, Ancient Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Old Norse, and Sanskrit.

“I am, my lady,” Duke answered.

“Oh, I’m no lady, pretty man,” Demon said, mocking an offense. “This body is mine. Keep out of it.”

“Ah, I see,” Duke sighed. “Fiend, I presume?”

“You presumed right.” Demon gave him an elaborate, playful bow. “At your pleasure.”

Duke also lowered his head to a polite bow to the demon.

Demon gave me an amused look.

Vampires and Werewolves. You can’t go wrong with the classics.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where’d you come from?”

“I lived in London with two other flatmates who refused to wash the dishes and didn’t know how to cook to save their lives. I was called Henry Richards in my past life,” Duke said. “You call me The Duke now. So, that is my name.”

“Do you prefer something else?”

Duke thought about it momentarily as if thinking, or perhaps, looking at his new stat block. “You created me to be a vampire, right? Then, I shall play the part. I will play it with ease. I will go by the name of Duke Henry Louis Duncan. Duncan is my grandmother’s maiden name. Was her maiden name. If you allow me such a connection to my past life, I will be eternally grateful. She was the only one who was kind to me.”

Compared to Goliath, Duke was a little more eager to relish in his old self. And like the Sawyers, the System picked another archetype from Earth. Interesting. “I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you, my lord.” He glanced at something beside him—the stat sheet only he was privy to. “Ancient languages? Am I to play an ancient vampire then?”

“You can. Maybe at least three thousand years old? Can you manage that?”

“Write my rumor, and I’ll experience it firsthand.”

I tilted my head. I didn’t realize my archetypes would also be affected by the backstories. Same with the mortals. “I see. I’ll start drafting everyone’s rumors once the cops are finished with the fake crime scene. Oh, and I’m also open to everyone’s suggestions about their rumors, okay?”

Everyone nodded.

Duke Henry looked around the cabin. “Where will I stay?”

“A new area opened up by the northwest side, close to the mountains. It’s just across the lake. I will build you a Neo-Gothic mansion on top of a cliff. Will that work as your lair? It makes sense for an ancient vampire.”

“I shall play the part of an aristocrat millionaire, and I will be right at home,” he said.

Demon’s eyebrows arched. “A mansion? Fancy boy. We plebs will stick to the woods then.”

“We’ll brainstorm your backstory tomorrow,” I said. “You know, the night is still young. How about we go to Wizard Island and enjoy the rest of the night, eh?”

They all cheered when they realized I was serious about throwing them a celebratory party, and we slowly made our way to the island. Wizard Island was the small lump of rock in the middle of North Cedar Lake. Back in the sixties, during the summer of love, some old hermit used to live out here, and everyone just called him the wizard because of his white hair and beard. On the north side was a dilapidated shack that had been vandalized for years since the hermit either moved or passed away.

The island was barely a thousand feet long and relatively narrow, with surprisingly dense trees and a rocky shore, but this massive cliff at the west side (facing the cabin) dropped thirty feet. It was a popular hangout for teenagers and other visitors of the lake, who swam or rowed to the island to be able to jump off this cliff. I did once upon a time, and it was a lot of fun. It was one of Point Hope’s summertime pastimes. There was even a rickety dock that desperately needed repairs. Fortunately, the island was barely inside my borders.

With a few cheap crystals, I conjured a table with several platters of food for the archetypes that needed to eat. However, there were more meats on the table than vegetables or fruits. The Sawyers transformed back to their human selves, and after searching for new clothes and evading the sirens’ soft giggles, they dressed up and started grilling hotdogs, burgers, and buns. “Good ol’ American food,” Alan said jokingly. The sirens also maintained their humanoid forms and started nibbling on what, to them, was strange food. But they enjoyed it in the end, especially the burgers with the caramelized charred meats. An hour before anyone was on the island, Goliath killed a deer in the woods, dragged it to the island, skinned it, cut the meat up, and cooked the venison himself. The Sawyers were more than impressed, and I was glad that was a bonding moment between them.

At least they’re getting along.

At the corner of the table was a punch bowl filled with blood for Demon or Duke Henry to consume. Henry politely sipped on a wine glass filled with O-negative blood. Demon grabbed one of the deer’s legs, used her mutated flesh abilities, and made a sock puppet show for Duke Henry and the Sawyers about how she became the Possessing Demon and how the dungeon lord dispatched the cult.

Eventually, the conversations devolved into what happened in the previous three delves. Demon was curious about which ones were their favorites. Since Goliath was front-and-center during Leo’s delve, that was his favorite hunt. Old Growth couldn’t pick a favorite since, as Demon translated, he was more interested in the chase than the kills. It made him happy when the delvers ran away from him instead of standing up to fight. I realized confrontations were never Oldie’s jam. He was a runner’s junkie.

But he was very good at them. A natural at killing, I thought.

We also watched Penelope and the other sirens perform several songs for us, and I caught Demon smiling at that, even though she claimed to hate music or musicals. Calypso had a lovely, vibrant voice, and Penelope encouraged her to sing a solo.

By midnight, Nanite Oracle, Goliath, and Luke Sawyer had devolved into a knife-throwing contest with Old Growth as the judge. Duke Henry, the sirens, and the rest of the Sawyers were the audience. Oracle and Goliath were neck and neck.

There was a time when these monsters only existed in the movies and TV shows I grew up watching. Stories that I had read over and over. Now, I walked among them, drawn into existence by my own imagination. I still couldn’t believe they were real.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Demon asked. I hadn’t noticed her break off from the crew and stood alone with me.

I stared at her for a long moment and realized that the mind reading didn’t work on my archetypes. Only for mortals, then

“I am not much of a people person,” Demon said.

“For a fiend, that’s surprising.”

“Mortals are easier to talk to. Would you believe me if I said that the other demons think I am anti-social? That they sometimes make fun of me?”

“You were bullied in Hell?”

“It’s Hell, my lord. Bullies exist there.”

“Fuck them, then. You’re here now enjoying fresh air, and they’re…um, I don’t know what they do down there.”

“Licking bum?” Demon cackled. “Do not worry, my lord. I also bite back. Every demon bullies. It’s just a fact of life. You have your sports with kicking balls, and this is ours.”

“Those are entirely different comparisons.”

“Yes, you are correct. Perhaps I should have compared it to our gladiatorial arenas. Anyway, those assholes are busy clamoring for their quotas. Souls, I mean. But I just made up for it in a day. I’m swimming like a king in your realm.”

“Glad to hear that.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but Demon seemed pleased. “Do demons have a family?”

Demon arched an eyebrow. “Not in a human sense. We have clans, although that is not the right word. Bloodlines, yes, that’s the word. That is where our loyalty lies. However, I am no longer bound to such archaic things. You have freed me from my boring obligations.”

“Oh? What is your bloodline? I apologize if that is rude to ask.”

“Not at all. Every demon can recognize a bloodline by smell. You can’t really hide it. I guess dungeon lords are not accustomed to differentiating such smells. My bloodline comes from the Great Baal himself. Commander of the sixty-six legions of Hell.”

“If you wish to permit it, I may be able to hear whispers about Astaroth’s movements. I do have several favors owed to me down there.”

“You’d do that for me?”

Demon nodded and shrugged. “All it requires is a secured portal to Hell, and we’ll be able to travel there. You, as a Death Core, could provide that.”

“Are you so eager to return?”

“No. I love it here! On this planet, I am free to do as I please. With your supervision, of course. Life is good.”

“Wait a sec.” I again opened the menu and looked for the portal Demon mentioned. Finding it only took about three minutes, and I almost leaped out of my form. “A hundred thousand crystals?”

Demon was not surprised. “It’s a planar portal, my lord. Of course, it will be expensive. Wizards, celestials, and liches had to use more power to open a crack and peer through the other dimensions. Most die in the process, and the end results are not pretty. We don’t have to worry about finding those kinds of people here, so Earth is safe.”

“But technically, I’m a shortcut when you think about it,” I said. “If people don’t have the power to achieve what they desire, they delve instead. They delve me.”

“And that is why I tolerate having new blood around here. Makes it feel like a community, I guess. Look at them. All smiling and laughing. A community of killers. Disgusting.” Demon cackled. “Siren–I mean, Penelope–seems to be enjoying herself. I like seeing her…happy. Gosh, I sound insane.”

For a fiend, it must be a strange concept. “You’re right. I’ve never seen her smile like that before.”

“Thank you for watching out for us.”

“Why? Don’t other dungeons care for their monsters?”

“I heard rumors,” Demon said. “Not many of them consider us as an extension of themselves. More expendable. Discarded if proven useless.”

“Oh, that’s…sad.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know if it was true. Elvis hinted that there were dungeons on Earth, but they hadn’t contacted me yet. It’s only been a week. In a year or two? Who knows? What kinds of things did they build in their domain? Did they have monsters like me?

“Dark skies above us,” Demon pointed out. “I think it’s going to rain soon.”

I looked around and everyone was still having fun. The night was still young, and they still had enough energy left in the tank. “On a night like this? No, I think not.”

I looked at the rolling rain clouds, and in a second, they parted open as if a massive rock hurtled through the air, revealing the stars. Fear struck in the winds, pushing the clouds away from my domain as if it were retreating.

Demon smiled. “That’s more like it.”

I lost nineteen essences upgrading my archetypes and welcoming two new ones. I only had twelve left and twenty-four thousand crystals.

A very productive night.

On Sunday, October 8th, 2023, Danny and Tessa woke up.

Tessa had no memories of her delves at Green Hill and North Cedar Lake. The police talked to her, of course. She shed some tears for her late boyfriend and widened an already grievous wound. She was of no help to the detectives. She shut down after that, refusing to talk to her parents, friends, or anyone else. The silence between her and those who visited her stretched like a living void. It was at the tip of her tongue, and it ate her inside why she couldn’t remember anything.

She thought that perhaps this was a good thing, that maybe not remembering was a mercy.

Danny’s aunt, uncle, and grandparents stayed by his side for two weeks. They were overjoyed to see him awake again, although the poor boy didn’t understand why his parents were gone. Though his memories were muddled and scattered, he claimed that the Pirate Man was there when his parents went into the woods.

—into the cabin by the lake.

From what little clues Danny gave the detectives, they were easy enough to lead them toward North Cedar Lake. They scoured the area for hours and hours.

Minutes after dusk on October 9th, two police officers found my cabin…

And the horror that awaited them inside.

Eventually, they made it to my dungeon. I counted at least ninety police officers, firefighters, paramedics, and journalists swarming the forest. First responders were called from at least three counties over to one of the largest massacres in state history. I had to stop myself from triggering a delve due to all of these mortals on my backs, and my notification feed was popping up with potential delvers like a rattling machine gun. It was like holding a squat for hours on end; it was torture. I unnerved and horrified several of them by witnessing the fake crime scenes I had manipulated. By design, it should drop their Resolve by several degrees lower. At least a dozen people puked their guts out from witnessing such carnage.

They found half of the bodies that night, including mine. The next day, they found the rest scattered in the woods.

My mother was never a crier. I might’ve seen her cry maybe three times. My father was, though. She liked to jokingly believe that my father carried the emotional winds of the family, but she loved him dearly.

When they heard the news that their son, who had been missing for the past couple of months, was dead, well, my mother didn’t just cry.

She wailed.

Wailed like something inside her snapped and let out the floodgates of unabashed pain, anger, and despair. My father could barely speak, and later that night, he barely slept and cried far away from his wife’s ears. Their side of the bed had flipped, and he needed to be strong now that she was falling apart. I broke their hearts, and I couldn’t tell them I was still alive. I was still here, listening to them whisper under their breaths that this was not real. This was not happening. This was a dream. A horrible dream. One day, I would walk through the front door, fine and healthy. The cops got it wrong. Totally wrong.

Come home, Mark. Come home. Please, come home…

And then they went down to the morgue, and reality pulled the dark veil off their eyes. I was sorry they had to see my old body that way. But they needed to see what Justin Hodge and his ilk had done to me. They needed to know what they had done to their poor boy. Anger. I needed them to be angry with me and raise hell.

By the next day, it was all over the news: an occult massacre in the middle of rural Americana. The media ate it up like a full-fledged chocolate cake and left no crumbs. They blamed Justin Hodge. They blamed all the murders on him and his sect. Several pillars of the community were branded and tarnished by such a heinous crime. No one could resist such a succulent and monstrous story.

Point Hope was never the same after that.