The Cabin Is Always Hungry

DEAD PACIFICA

Part 18

They’re the Institute.

From the moment I saw them, I knew.

Oracle helped me with tracking them, of course, along with my [ Fractal Omniscience ] identifying who they were. I expected these guys to appear at some point since their little spy soldier got splattered on the highway. Although way later than I had hoped. To be fair, it gave me a panic attack knowing that the government might start busting down my doors the days after the Institute spy was killed, but they didn’t arrive into Point Hope until earlier of last week. They took their time. Assessing the situation. Learning about the threat. Interviewing witnesses. And when they smelled the Brotherhood were also in town, they stalked them, watching their every move and waiting for the perfect moment to make contact. They did that with Professor Kincaid in Salem today.

And now they’re here, helping the Brotherhood bury a dead body, no questions asked.

Neither the Institute nor the Brotherhood held any love for the Astarothians—or any other devil cults, for that matter. Decades of bad blood and run-ins with them had forged an unspoken truce between the two factions when it came with dealing with cults. Seeing a shadowy government faction play nice with rogue monster hunters warmed my heart in a twisted sort of way. Demon advised me to stay cautious, but I wasn't losing sleep over a few suits riding in dark sedans. It struck me as odd why the Institute would only send three guys, but they were probably here as reconnaissance. If they became a nuisance, I’d dispose of them the same way I handled every other obstacle in my path.

Besides, the feds weren’t my top priority but building the second dungeon in New York. None of the delvers knew that was my goal. Not even the Astarothians. They probably thought it was impossible for me to build a second dungeon. With Diaz and Pascoe’s deaths, I gained three essences for tonight’s scenario, so close to my goal! It saddened me that I was not going to collect Harrison’s.

Oh, well. Eighty-six essences to go, I thought.

While the brotherhood and the feds were busy burying the body, I turned my attention back to town.

From the shadow of the treeline, three distinct shapes emerged into the moonlight, their gazes locking onto the warm, golden glow of the Hyacinth Hotel where the crew of Dead Pacifica were staying. It was a quiet night. All of the guests were asleep and only a handful of staff were roaming about. In two hours, there would be a shift change, but the clowns only needed barely ten minutes to complete what I had sent them to do. They’d be gone without no one noticing.

The largest of the three clowns stepped forward first, a massive, muscled brute named Moody. He looked less like a circus performer and more like a heavyweight wrestler. His bare chest, corded shoulders, and bulging biceps exposed to the moonlight. Over his massive frame, he wore nothing but a pair of brightly colored and garish-looking overalls that strained against his thick muscles. His head was entirely bald, the pale skin painted over with a chaotic menagerie of circus animals. Across his lower face was an exaggerated frown, giving his brutish physique an air of brooding malice. He reminded me of Bane, one of Batman’s villains. He dragged an oversized High-Striker carnival mallet to his side.

To his left stood Casper, tall and lean, dressed in a vintage 1960s polka-dot white suit topped with an oversized, stiffly frilled collar that hugged his neck. A shock of bright red, curly wig made out of synthetic hair perched beneath a drooping wizard’s hat. The outfit wouldn’t be complete without a classic bulbous red nose. Painted stars framed his eyes, highlighting a face that wore a surprisingly subdued smile. He carried no weapons with him compared to his other companions.

Swaying on the other side of Moody was Jingles, the smallest of the three, standing only four feet tall. Dressed in the traditional diamond-patterned outfit of a Renaissance harlequin, his fitted tights and jester’s tunic hummed with restless energy. The two small brass bells on his pointed cap chimed softly with every erratic twitch he made. His face was a canvas of unadulterated joy; an impossibly wide, painted crimson smile stretched virtually ear to ear, showing off gleaming teeth frozen in glee. A sharp-looking sickle rests on his belt, the handle made out of a human’s spine.

“I apologize for our tardiness, my lord,” Casper said in a raspy, hyperactive, and playful tone that reminded me of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. And yes, he even included the spittle. He might sound dumb, but you’d be surprised what his voice sounded like against a delver, filling it with such playful menace that even I was slightly creeped out. Jingles giggled while Moody just huffed behind him. These clowns were considered as one entity, but the archetype used Casper as the speaker more than the other two.

“You’re actually on time,” I said. “And I’m not in a hurry. Dawn is still far away.”

“I take it Demon was successful?” Casper asked.

“Yeah, he freaked them out good,” I said. “Unfortunately, Harrison is dead.”

The three clowns perked up, giddy at the thought. “Oh my. They triggered another scenario?”

I shook my head and told them all that had happened. Their excitement waned when they found out I didn’t collect anything from the kill. They asked if they were sent here to also eliminate one of the crew members, but I shut that notion down. It was too early to kill anyone from Dead Pacifica. While the brotherhood and the Institute were fully aware of the threat I posed, I wanted Dead Pacifica to ease into the delve and let them find me for themselves. They wanted to pretend to be investigative journalists, so I was going to give them a few morsels of truth. Well, not the real truth. Just the truth I crafted. They still thought this supernatural angle they were going for the livestream was a publicity stunt and to entertain their massive audience where a vocal minority were already chastising them for making fun of the people who died here.

I had no idea which hunter they would ultimately choose, but my archetypes and I had already made contingency plans in case of an inevitable selection. I still have a few days to plan ahead, but since Dylan and Retto were leaning towards the satanic cult storyline, it seemed likely that they would gravitate towards Demon’s Door. Oracle gave a forty-eight percent chance of opening the door and a meager survival rate of three percent. Demon was one of my top-performing archetypes for a reason, and if Dead Pacifica ended up on their path, I doubted many would survive the night.

“How many should we target?” Casper asked.

“All of them,” I replied. “Give them the standard package.”

A standard package, as we called it, was what we used to season the delvers before the feeding. It came with mild to moderate nightmares, fleeting apparitions while they were awake, and other minor strange occurrences that the delvers would notice but sometimes overlook the days leading into the delve. It also included a harbinger, but the Dead Pacifica crew had already encountered those individuals organically, sparing us from a forced encounter. The next stage would be the nightmares, which the clowns would perform tonight. I meticulously crafted them to be the ideal dream-walkers; they didn’t require my guidance on manipulating the delvers’ dreams, fully trusting them to shape the dreamscape to their desires.

The three avatars stood side by side at the perimeter of the lawn, staring up at the darkened windows where the delvers were asleep. A psychic frequency pulsed between them as their shared consciousness reached across the distance. Without taking a single step closer to the building, they began to weave their invisible tendrils into the sleeping minds inside.