Chimes of the Damned

Brady rode into Silver City under a sky as dark as a gambler’s conscience. The sun had dipped behind the jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevadas, painting the world in shades of shadow and regret. Blacky, his black-coated gelding with a temperament as stubborn as Brady’s own, snorted and tossed its head as they approached the town limits.

There was something about the air—too still, too quiet. The kind of silence that clings to a place after the last scream has faded.

A rickety sign creaked in the evening breeze: SILVER CITY — POP. 472. Someone had scratched out the last two digits, leaving it at a foreboding “4.”

Brady chuckled. He’d been alive long enough to know when trouble was brewing. This town was soaked in it, like whiskey on a drunkard’s breath.

He tipped his hat lower and guided Blacky toward the saloon, the one building still lit up against the encroaching darkness. The amber glow from the cracked windows gave the place the illusion of life, but Brady knew better. Evil had a way of hiding in plain sight.

As he dismounted, boots hitting the dust with a soft thud, he took stock of his surroundings. The saloon doors swung on rusted hinges, beckoning him inside like a set of jaws. He tied Blacky to the post and patted the horse’s neck.

“Don’t you worry, boy,” he murmured. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

The saloon smelled of stale beer and desperation. A handful of patrons sat slumped over tables, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats and shadows cast by a flickering chandelier.

Brady’s sharp eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail—the nervous bartender polishing an already spotless glass, the hulking brute playing solitaire in the corner, and the lone figure sitting at the bar, nursing a drink as though it held all the answers.

Brady sidled up to the bar and tapped the counter with two fingers. The bartender, a wiry man with a patchy beard, hesitated before pouring a shot of whiskey and sliding it over.

“You’re new,” the man said, voice tight with unease. “Ain’t many folks passing through these days.”

Brady threw back the shot and savored the burn. “Well, now, that’s a shame. Seems like a nice enough place.” He set the glass down and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Except for the smell of fear hanging in the air. What’s got this town’s hackles up?”

The bartender’s eyes darted to the lone figure at the bar, a man cloaked in black with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face–a priest.

Brady followed the gaze and tipped his hat. “Friend of yours?”

The bartender paled. “You’d best talk to him. He’s the one that called you here, ain’t he?”

Brady stiffened, hand brushing the grip of his Colt beneath his duster. He turned and approached the priest, boots striking the floorboards with deliberate slowness.

“Father,” Brady said, his voice flat but carrying a weight that made the other patrons flinch. “You rang?”

The priest looked up, revealing a face etched with years of grief and secrets too dark to share. His eyes burned with the kind of fire Brady had seen before—the kind that kept a man alive when he had long since stopped caring about his survival.

“Brady,” the priest said, his voice a low rasp. “I’ve been waiting for you. The town needs your help. The Devil himself has come to Hell’s Gate, and he’s brought his children with him.”

Brady’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Well, now, ain’t that a coincidence? I was just in the mood for some company.”

The priest didn’t smile back. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather journal, setting it on the bar. “Read this. You’ll understand.”

Brady’s hand hovered over the journal, hesitation flickering across his face. He’d seen too many cursed books in his time, pages inked in blood and bound with screams.

But curiosity—or maybe something darker—got the better of him. He flipped it open and began to read.

The first page hit him like a blow to the gut: The town is dying. The vampires are only the beginning.

Brady’s jaw tightened. He’d come here expecting trouble. What he hadn’t expected was Hell waiting just beyond the gates.

The journal’s pages held frantic scrawls and illustrations—shaky diagrams of twisted creatures, crude maps of underground tunnels, and cryptic warnings inked in scarlet. Brady’s eyes narrowed as he pieced together the story.

The priest’s order had been battling this darkness for centuries, their numbers dwindling with every fight. Silver City, nestled near the aptly named Hell’s Gate, had become ground zero for a coming war.

“They call it the Rift,” the priest said, breaking the silence. “A tear in the veil between this world and the next. Something’s trying to break through, and it’s using the vampires as its vanguard.”

Brady snapped the journal shut and slid it back across the bar. “Why me? You’ve got your order, don’t you? Seems like you’re more than capable of handling this.”

The priest’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “We’re not enough. And we’re dying off faster than we can train replacements. But you, Brady… you’re different.”

Brady let out a low chuckle with no humor in it. “Different. That’s one way to put it.”

The priest’s gaze bore into him, unyielding. “You’ve faced them before. You know their strengths, their weaknesses. And you’ve got something none of us do—time.”

Brady’s hand brushed against the silver-edged cavalry sword at his side. He’d wielded it for over a century, cutting down things most men wouldn’t believe existed even if they saw them with their eyes. Still, he’d learned that fighting evil had a price.

“Fine,” he said, standing and adjusting his duster. “I’ll take a look around. But if this Rift’s as bad as you say, don’t expect me to stick around for the grand finale.”

The priest’s expression softened just a fraction. “That’s all I ask.”

Brady tipped his hat and turned toward the door. Outside, the cold night air hit him like a slap.

He untied Blacky and swung into the saddle. The town stretched before him, its darkened windows like empty eyes staring into the abyss.

“Let’s go, boy,” he murmured, nudging Blacky forward. “Looks like we’ve got work to do.”

The gelding snorted, and they rode into the heart of Silver City’s shadowy streets. Somewhere ahead, the Rift awaited, and with it, horrors that would test even an immortal like Brady.

But he’d faced worse before. Probably. For now, the hunt was on.

The first signs of trouble came not a mile from the saloon. As Brady rode past a row of crumbling storefronts, Blacky’s ears pinned back, and the horse gave a nervous whinny. Brady reined him in, scanning the shadows.

The moonlight painted everything in eerie shades of silver, but something darker moved between the buildings. A shape. Quick and low, like a wolf slinking through tall grass.

Brady’s hand drifted to the revolver at his hip. He didn’t draw, but the feel of it in his palm was reassuring. “Easy, Blacky,” he whispered. “Let’s not spook ourselves before the party starts.”

The sound of shuffling footsteps reached his ears. Slow and uneven, like someone dragging a lame leg. Brady narrowed his eyes, focusing on the alley where the noise had come from.

A figure stepped into view. At first glance, it might’ve been a man. But the way it moved wasn’t human.

Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, and its limbs hung too long and thin, like a marionette without strings. The dim light from the saloon caught its eyes—cold, empty, and glinting like shards of black glass.

Brady’s hand instinctively dropped to his Colt. Blacky stamped a hoof, uneasy, but Brady murmured a soothing word. He stayed in the saddle, watching as the thing inched closer. Then the smell hit, sharp and acrid, a mix of decay and sulfur.

“Evenin’, friend,” Brady called, voice steady. “You lost?”

The creature stopped, swaying slightly, its lips peeling back in a grotesque semblance of a smile. A low hiss escaped, too deep and guttural to belong to anything alive. It moved with sudden speed, lunging toward him.

Brady’s Colt was already out. The first shot echoed like thunder, the silver-tipped bullet striking the creature in the chest.

It staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, it shrieked, the sound high and piercing enough to rattle the windows of the nearby buildings.

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Brady muttered, leveling the gun again.

The second shot hit the creature between the eyes, dropping it like a sack of bricks. It convulsed once before going still, its body already beginning to dissolve into a foul-smelling sludge.

Brady holstered the Colt and glanced down at Blacky, who was pawing nervously at the ground. “Looks like we’re dealing with more than just your garden-variety bloodsuckers,” he said.

Before he could dwell on it, more shuffling sounds echoed down the street. Brady turned, scanning the shadows, his hand hovering near his second revolver.

From every dark corner and alley, shapes began to emerge. Dozens of them. Too many.

“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath.

He drew his other Colt and urged Blacky into motion. The gelding reared, letting out a defiant whinny before surging forward.

Brady fired as they charged through the growing horde, each shot precise and deadly. Creatures fell left and right, their bodies breaking apart in sprays of black fluid. But for each he put down, two more seemed to take its place.

“Looks like they didn’t appreciate us crashing their party,” Brady growled, wheeling Blacky toward the open plains beyond the town. He needed space to regroup and think.

As they broke free of the mob, the creatures let go of a collective wail that sent shivers down Brady’s spine. They didn’t pursue, simply standing at the edge of the town like sentinels, their glowing eyes tracking his retreat.

Brady pulled Blacky to a halt a safe distance away and turned to look back. Silver City lay shrouded in darkness, the faint glow of the saloon the only sign of life. The priest’s warning echoed in his mind.

“The Rift’s open,” Brady said softly, gripping the reins tighter. “And it’s hungry.”

He dismounted, giving Blacky a pat on the neck before pulling a small flask from his coat. The holy water inside sloshed as he opened it and dipped his finger. He flicked a drop toward the ichor clinging to his boots. The liquid hissed on contact, burning the residue away.

“Figures,” he muttered. “Can’t ever just be vampires.”

The night stretched out cold and quiet, but Brady didn’t relax. He felt this was just the beginning, and whatever waited at Hell’s Gate was far worse than anything he’d faced before.

“Come on, boy,” he said to Blacky, climbing back into the saddle. “We’ve got a priest to interrogate and a town to save. Might even get some answers this time.”

Blacky snorted as if doubting that last part, and together they rode back toward Silver City, where the shadows were deep, and the hunt was far from over.

The ride back into Silver City felt heavier, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on Brady. He scanned the empty streets, his Colt still drawn, Blacky’s hooves clopping softly against the dirt road. The creatures hadn’t pursued him past the town’s edge, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for another chance.

Brady reined Blacky to a stop outside the saloon. The light inside flickered weakly, and the nervous murmur of voices carried through the walls. He tied Blacky to the post again, pausing to rub the horse’s neck.

“Stay sharp,” he murmured. “We might need to leave in a hurry.”

Pushing through the saloon doors, he found the same grim crowd, their expressions darker now. The bartender’s hand froze mid-wipe when he saw Brady, his eyes darting to the twin Colts still smoking faintly in their holsters.

“Had some company outside,” Brady announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Looks like the graveyard shift’s gotten a little crowded.”

The priest stood from his stool at the bar, his face set in a grim line. He motioned Brady over, ignoring the wary glances from the other patrons. Brady crossed the room, leaning one elbow on the bar as the priest turned to him.

“You’ve seen them,” the priest said, his voice low but urgent.

“Seen ’em? Hell, I danced with ’em,” Brady replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. He pulled the flask of holy water from his coat and set it on the bar. “Left me a nice keepsake, too. They’re not just vamps, Father. Whatever’s crawling out of that Rift, it’s got variety.”

The priest’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. “Then the Rift’s influence is spreading faster than we feared.”

Brady tilted his head, his smirk fading. “We? You keep saying ‘we.’ Last I checked, it was just you and a room full of folks praying their livers hold out.”

The priest sighed, pulling the journal closer. “The Order. There are others, but they’re scattered. Most are already fighting their own battles—or dead. What’s left of us is spread too thin.”

Brady leaned back against the bar, crossing his arms. “Convenient. So it’s just me, you, and your book of bedtime horrors against whatever’s tearing its way through your Rift. Tell me, Father, how’s that plan been working out for you?”

The priest’s jaw tightened as the saloon doors banged open. A woman burst in, her face pale and streaked with tears. She clutched at the doorframe, gasping for breath.

“Betty!” the priest said.

“They—they took him!” she cried, her voice trembling. “My boy—he’s gone!”

The room erupted in whispers, the patrons shifting uneasily in their seats. Brady pushed off the bar, his gaze locking onto the woman.

“Easy, ma’am,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Who took your boy? What did you see?”

The woman shook her head, her hands trembling. “I—I didn’t see. I just heard the screams, and when I went to check…he was gone. The window was shattered, and there was blood—so much blood.”

Brady glanced at the priest, who met his gaze with a grim nod.

“It’s starting,” the priest said softly. “The creatures are taking them now.”

Brady’s lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the woman, stepping closer. “Where’s your place?”

She hesitated, wringing her hands. “Just a few streets over, near the church.”

Brady looked over his shoulder at the priest. “You’re coming with me. If we’re going to figure this out, we need to move fast.”

The priest grabbed his journal, stuffing it into his coat, and followed Brady toward the door. The other patrons stayed frozen in place, their faces pale and drawn.

As Brady stepped outside, he glanced back at the priest. “You sure this Rift is your problem to solve?”

“It’s not just my problem,” the priest replied, his voice steady. “It’s everyone’s.”

Brady snorted, pulling himself into Blacky’s saddle. “Well, here’s hoping the rest of ‘everyone’ shows up soon. Otherwise, this town’s got a one-way ticket to Hell.”

They rode toward the woman’s house, the night closing around them like a shroud. Whatever waited in Silver City’s shadows, Brady knew the battle was long from finished. But then, neither was he.

The woman’s house was a small clapboard on the edge of town, leaning as though it might topple with a strong wind. Brady pulled Blacky to a stop, his gaze scanning the property.

The window she’d mentioned yawned open, its shattered glass glinting faintly in the moonlight. A chill seeped into the air, carrying the unmistakable coppery tang of blood.

Brady dismounted, his boots crunching softly against the dry earth. The priest followed, gripping a simple wooden cross that hung around his neck. They approached silently, the woman trailing behind them, wringing her hands like a nervous ghost.

Brady paused at the door, motioning for the priest to stay back. He stepped inside, his Colt drawn, every sense tuned to the unnatural. The room smelled of fear and death.

Blood smeared the walls in dark, grotesque streaks, and broken furniture lay scattered across the floor. Whatever had taken the boy hadn’t been subtle.

The woman’s sobs broke the silence as she stepped into the doorway.

“That’s… that’s his room,” she said, pointing to a doorway down the narrow hall.

Brady glanced at the priest. “Stay with her. I’ll check it out.”

The priest nodded, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder to steady her as Brady moved forward. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, shadows pooling in the corners like living things. Brady’s grip on his Colt tightened.

The boy’s room was a disaster. The small bed overturned, the mattress slashed, and feathers from a ruined pillow wafting to the floor.

A child’s wooden toy lay discarded near the open window, its surface smeared with something dark. Brady crouched to examine it.

Blood, and something else—something thick and black, like tar. He sniffed it cautiously, wrinkling his nose. It carried the stench of decay.

“Smells like something crawled out of a grave,” he muttered.

A faint noise made him freeze. A whisper, so soft it might’ve been his imagination, but it came once more faint and pleading.

“Help… me…”

Brady’s head snapped toward the sound. It came from outside, beyond the shattered window.

He pushed himself to his feet and climbed through, landing in the overgrown sagebrush behind the house. The yard stretched into the scrubland beyond, the faint outline of the church steeple visible in the distance.

The whisper came again, more distinct this time. It was the boy’s voice.

“Help me… please…”

Brady’s jaw tightened. He scanned the darkness, his keen eyes catching the faintest flicker of movement. A hunched figure scurried across the ground, dragging something limp behind it.

“Stop!” Brady barked, raising his Colt.

The figure froze, twisting its head unnaturally to look back at him. Its face wasn’t human.

The eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and its mouth filled with jagged teeth that gnashed and clicked. Brady fired, the silver round catching the creature in the shoulder. It shrieked, dropping its burden—the boy—and bolted into the night.

Brady ran to the child, crouching to check his pulse. The boy was pale, his breathing shallow, but he was alive. Brady hoisted him into his arms and turned back toward the house.

The priest met him at the back door, face pale but resolute. “Is he—?”

“Alive,” Brady said, handing the boy over. “But barely. Whatever’s out there didn’t finish the job.”

The priest carried the boy inside, laying him on the bloodied kitchen table as the woman sobbed over him. Brady stood by the window, staring out into the darkness.

“Father,” he said without turning. “That thing wasn’t a vampire. It was something else. Something worse.”

The priest nodded grimly. “The Rift’s corruption is spreading. It’s creating new horrors.”

Brady slid his Colt back into its holster, his face like stone. “Then it’s time to shut that Rift down for good.”

The priest hesitated. “You’ll need more than bullets and silver to face what’s coming. You’ll need allies.”

Brady snorted. “Allies don’t stick around long in my line of work. But if you’ve got some miracle up your sleeve, now’s the time to pull it out.”

The priest’s gaze hardened. “There is one thing. The Order–it keeps relics—artifacts with the power to combat the darkness. There’s one nearby, hidden in the catacombs beneath the old church.”

Brady turned, his eyes narrowing. “Let me guess. The church by Hell’s Gate.”

The priest nodded. “It’s the only place the relic could be safe.”

Brady grabbed his hat and adjusted it. “Figures. You stay here and keep the kid alive. I’ll head to the church.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” the priest said. “Let me—”

“No.” Brady’s voice was firm. “Your fight’s here, Father. Mine’s out there.”

He strode to the door, pausing to glance back at the boy. The kid was still breathing, but for how long? Brady didn’t plan to stick around and find out.

Outside, Blacky waited, snorting impatiently. Brady mounted up, turning the horse toward the looming silhouette of the church. The night pressed in around them, filled with the whispers of things unseen.

Brady gritted his teeth. The hunt wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

As Brady urged Blacky into a steady canter, the silhouette of the church loomed larger against the horizon, its steeple piercing the night sky like a jagged knife. The air grew colder as they approached, thick with an unnatural stillness that made even the crickets fall silent.

The trail to the church twisted through a grove of dead cottonwoods, their skeletal branches clawing at the heavens as though in silent warning.

Blacky whinnied and balked as they drew closer, his ears flicking nervously.

Brady leaned forward, patting the gelding’s neck. “Easy, boy. I know it ain’t a warm welcome, but we ain’t turning back now.”

The horse reluctantly moved forward, hooves crunching on brittle leaves and dry earth. As they cleared the grove, the church came fully into view.

It was a decrepit structure, its once-pristine white facade now gray with rot and grime. The doors hung ajar, creaking faintly in the breeze, and the stained-glass windows shattered, jagged remnants glinting like fangs in the moonlight.

Brady dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Blacky snorted and pawed the earth, clearly uneasy.

Brady tied the reins to a weathered hitching post and drew one of his Colts, its silver barrel gleaming faintly in the dim light. He stood there listening, his other hand resting on the hilt of his cavalry sword.

The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound—a low, guttural growl that made the hairs on his neck stand up. Brady narrowed his eyes, scanning the shadows. Whatever was inside the church wouldn’t roll out the welcome mat.

He stepped onto the sagging porch, the boards creaking under his weight. The growl came again, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against wood. Brady pushed the doors open with the barrel of his Colt, revealing the darkened interior of the church.

The pews overturned, their wood splintered and stained with old blood, and the altar at the far end–a once-sacred space–now a desecrated ruin. Carved into the walls were symbols, their jagged lines glowing faintly with an eerie green light. They pulsed like a heartbeat, filling the air with a malevolence that set Brady’s teeth on edge.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room. The growling grew louder, echoing from the shadows. Brady’s hand tightened on his Colt.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice low. “Let’s see what fresh hell you’ve got waiting for me.”

The shadows near the altar shifted, coalescing into a hulking form. The creature that emerged was a nightmare of flesh—half-wolf, half-demon, its massive body covered in matted fur and its eyes burning with an unnatural light. Its jaws parted to reveal rows of jagged teeth, and its claws clicked against the stone floor as it moved.

Brady aimed his Colt and fired. The silver bullet struck the creature in the shoulder, tearing through muscle and bone. It howled—a guttural, unearthly sound that rattled the broken windows—and lunged at him.

Brady dove to the side, rolling as the beast’s claws swiped through the air where he’d just been. He came up on one knee, his Colt already aimed.

Another shot rang out, this one catching the creature in the chest. It stumbled but didn’t fall, its glowing eyes fixed with a hatred that burned like fire.

“Persistent little bastard, ain’t you?” Brady growled, holstering the Colt and drawing his sword. The silver edge gleamed as he advanced, the blade catching the flickering light of the cursed symbols on the walls.

The creature charged again, its massive bulk barreling toward him. Brady sidestepped at the last moment, bringing the sword down in a sweeping arc.

The blade bit deep into the beast’s side, eliciting another bone-rattling howl. It spun, blood spraying across the floor, and swiped at him with a clawed hand.

Brady ducked, the claws whistling past his head, and drove the sword upward. The blade pierced the creature’s chest, its silver edge sinking into the corrupted flesh. The beast let out a final, shuddering roar before collapsing, its body convulsing as dark ichor oozed from the wound.

Brady yanked the sword free and stepped back, breathing hard. The creature’s body began to dissolve, the corrupted flesh disintegrating into ash that swirled in the air before vanishing. Only the faint scent of sulfur remained.

He wiped the blade on his coat and sheathed it as his eyes scanned the ruined church. The green-glowing symbols on the walls had dimmed, their pulsating light fading to nothingness. But Brady knew better than to think the fight was over.

The catacombs. Whatever the priest had hidden down there would either save the town—or damn it.

Brady approached the altar, his footsteps echoing in the now-silent church. Behind it, a trapdoor lay embedded in the floor, its edges marked with faintly glowing runes.

He crouched, brushing away the dust and grime, and placed a hand on the worn wood. The runes flared briefly, then went dark as though recognizing his touch.

“Here we go,” he muttered, gripping the iron ring to the trapdoor.

A cold, damp breeze wafted out from the darkness below, carrying the faint sound of whispers. Brady stared down into the black abyss, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“Time to see what’s hiding in the dark.”

Brady descended into the abyss, the air growing colder with each step. The whispers intensified, a chorus of hushed voices slithering around him, their words indistinct but heavy with malice. The lantern he’d grabbed from the church flickered weakly, its light barely piercing the oppressive gloom.

The stone walls of the catacombs were slick with moisture and carved with symbols similar to those in the church above. But these weren’t glowing but scorched into the rock, their jagged lines radiating an ancient malevolence. The further down Brady went, the more the air seemed to press against him, thick and suffocating like smoke from an unseen fire.

His boots struck the uneven floor with muffled thuds, each step testing his resolve. Blacky’s nervous whinny echoed faintly from above, a reminder of the world he was leaving behind. Down here, in the depths of Hell’s Gate, there was only the fight.

As he rounded a corner, the catacombs opened into a vast chamber, its size and scope barely contained by the flickering lantern light. The walls were lined with alcoves, each holding a mummified corpse. Their faces, twisted in eternal agony, stared out from the shadows, their hollow eye sockets seeming to follow Brady’s every move.

In the center of the room stood a stone altar, its surface stained dark with the dried remnants of countless sacrifices. Above it hung an iron cage suspended from chains that disappeared into the gloom above.

Inside the cage was a figure—gaunt, emaciated, and barely recognizable as a human. Its head lolled forward, but as Brady approached, it stirred.

“Help… me…” the figure rasped, its voice barely more than a whisper.

Brady stopped in his tracks, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. The figure’s eyes, sunken and clouded, flickered with a faint, unnatural light.

“You’re no innocent,” Brady said, his voice cold and steady. “Not down here.”

The figure let out a dry, rattling laugh that became a choking cough. “True enough… but I’m no friend of the thing that rules this place.”

Brady took another step forward, keeping his sword drawn. “What is it? What’s hiding in this hole?”

The figure’s laugh faded, replaced by a grimace of pain. “Something old. Older than the vampires… older than this town. The Rift isn’t just a door—it’s a prison. And the thing inside wants out.”

Before Brady could respond, the air in the chamber shifted. The whispers grew louder, rising to a cacophony that seemed to come from everywhere. The lantern flickered violently, its light guttering as an unnatural wind swept through the room.

Brady spun, his sword gleaming in the dim light. Shadows rippled across the walls, coalescing into twisted forms that crawled and slithered toward him. Their shapes were indistinct, constantly shifting—part human, part beast, part nightmare.

“Well, ain’t this a fine welcome,” Brady muttered, leveling his sword. He reached for one of his Colts, cocking the hammer with a practiced flick of his thumb.

The first shadow lunged, its amorphous body stretching as it hurtled toward him. Brady fired, the silver bullet slicing through the creature with a crack of light. It let out a screeching wail as it dissolved into nothingness, but more were already closing in.

Brady moved with the precision of a man who had spent centuries perfecting the art of survival. His sword flashed in wide arcs, cutting through the shadows as his Colt barked, each shot driving them back. But for every shadow he destroyed, two more seemed to take its place.

The figure in the cage let out a desperate cry. “You can’t fight them all! The Rift… you have to seal it!”

Brady gritted his teeth, parrying another attack and firing off a shot in the same motion. “And how do you suggest I do that, friend?”

“The altar!” the figure gasped. “Destroy the altar! It’s the key!”

Brady glanced at the stone altar, its surface pulsing faintly with a sickly green light. The chains holding the cage above it rattled as the figure struggled weakly, its skeletal hands gripping the bars.

“You better not be lying,” Brady growled, holstering his Colt and gripping his sword with both hands.

He charged toward the altar, cutting down the shadows that tried to block his path. The whispers rose to a deafening roar, the air seeming to fight against him.

He reached the altar and raised his sword, bringing it down with all the strength he could muster. The blade struck the stone with a deafening crack, a surge of energy rippling through the chamber. The shadows let out an ear-splitting shriek, their forms dissolving into nothingness as the light from the altar flared, then faded.

For a moment, there was silence. Brady stood over the shattered remains of the altar, his chest heaving as he scanned the room. The shadows were gone, and the oppressive weight in the air had lifted.

But the figure in the cage let out a low, chilling laugh.

“You fool,” it rasped, its voice filled with a terrible glee. “You’ve set it free.”

Before Brady could react, the ground beneath the altar began to crack and shift. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber, a sound from something vast and ancient. The Rift was opening, and whatever it imprisoned was coming through.

“Damn it,” Brady muttered, gripping his sword as the first tendrils of darkness began to seep through the cracks. “Should’ve stayed in California.”

The ground beneath Brady’s boots shuddered as the fissure widened, spilling a living blackness. Tendrils of shadow snaked outward, curling and coiling like smoke but with weight and purpose. They slithered across the stone floor, leaving charred streaks in their wake, and the air filled with the acrid stench of burning rock.

Brady tightened his grip on his silver-edged sword, the blade catching what little light remained in the chamber. His breath steamed in the sudden chill, his pulse steady despite the abomination unfurling before him. He’d seen plenty of horrors in his long life, but this? It felt different. It felt final.

The figure in the cage cackled, the sound sharp and grating like rusted nails scraping glass. Its skeletal frame quaked with mirth as it watched the Rift spew its foul contents.

“You cannot stop it now!” it cried, its voice rising in pitch. “The prison is shattered! It will consume you, hunter!”

“Shut your damned mouth,” Brady growled, his voice low but laced with venom.

He leveled his Colt and fired, the bullet punching through the figure’s chest and silencing it mid-laugh. The body slumped, lifeless, but Brady had no time to savor the quiet. The Rift’s growl deepened, resonating in his bones.

From the darkness, a shape began to emerge.

It was massive, form rippling and indistinct, as though it couldn’t fully manifest in this world. Eyes, too many to count, glimmered like molten gold in the void. Limbs extended outward, their lengths dotted with jagged barbs and claws that glistened with a viscous black ichor.

Brady took a step back, his eyes narrowing. “Well, hell,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s uglier than a banker on foreclosure day.”

The creature roared, a sound that sucked the air from the chamber, leaving Brady gasping for breath. Its limbs lashed out, one striking the walls and sending chunks of stone crashing to the floor. Brady dove to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed as a claw gouged a trench where he’d been standing moments before.

Rolling to his feet, he holstered his Colt and swung the cavalry sword in a wide arc. His blade bit into one of the creature’s tendrils, silver sparking against its shadow. The monster let out a shriek that rattled Brady’s teeth, the severed limb recoiling like a snake and disintegrating into ash.

“Didn’t like that, did ya?” Brady said, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He advanced, sword at the ready, his movements fluid and deliberate.

The creature lunged again, its remaining limbs striking in rapid succession. Brady dodged and weaved, his boots skidding across the slick stone as he deflected blows with the flat of his blade. Each strike against the silver edge sent up a burst of sparks, the monster recoiling with each wound it sustained.

But it was adapting.

Brady could feel an intelligence behind the eyes that watched him, calculating and cruel. Its strikes grew faster and more precise, forcing him into a defensive stance. Sweat beaded on his brow as he fought to keep pace, his breath coming in short bursts. It wasn’t just a fight; it had become a war of attrition, and Brady was running out of time.

The ground beneath him heaved, nearly knocking him off his feet. The fissure widened further, and the darkness surged upward, coalescing into a towering spire of shadow. Within it, a creature’s form began to emerge—a hulking, winged monstrosity with a maw stretching impossibly wide, lined with rows of jagged teeth dripping ichor.

Brady cursed under his breath. “I really should’ve stayed in California.”

A sudden flash of light illuminated the chamber, blinding in its intensity. Brady shielded his eyes with his arm, the silver in his sword gleaming brighter than before.

When the light subsided, he turned to see the priest standing at the chamber’s entrance, holding a golden crucifix aloft. Its surface radiated a holy aura, the light pushing back the encroaching darkness.

“Brady!” the priest shouted, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands.

“Drive it back toward the Rift! I can seal it, but only if it’s fully inside!”

Brady grunted in acknowledgment, squaring his shoulders. “Sure, just let me wrangle this thing like a stray calf, why don’t I?”

The creature roared again, its wings unfurling with a sound like cracking whips. Brady surged forward, slashing at its legs and tendrils, each strike aimed to corral it toward the gaping maw of the Rift. The priest chanted, his voice rising in a cadence that echoed through the chamber, the crucifix glowing brighter with each word.

The monster thrashed, its movements growing more erratic the closer to the Rift it came. Brady’s sword sang as it cut through the air, each blow precise and unrelenting. He moved with the grace of a man who’d lived lifetimes, his determination unshakable despite the odds.

With a final, deafening roar, the creature’s bulk tipped forward, its body collapsing into the Rift. The darkness howled, the tendrils clawing at the edges of the fissure in a desperate attempt to remain. The priest’s voice reached a crescendo, the crucifix’s light erupting in a blinding flash that consumed the chamber.

When the light faded, the Rift was gone. The chamber was silent, and the air’s oppressive weight lifted. Brady stood in the center of the room, his sword lowered, his chest heaving with exertion.

The priest approached, his face pale but triumphant. “It’s done,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Rift is sealed.”

Brady sheathed his sword and adjusted his hat. “For now,” he said, his tone grim. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that evil’s got a way of clawing its way back.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll be ready.”

Brady tipped his hat and turned toward the exit. “You do that, Father. Me? I think I’ll find a saloon that serves a stiff drink.”

And with that, he climbed back toward the surface, leaving the darkness behind—for now.

The chill of the night greeted Brady as he emerged from the ruins, his boots crunching against loose gravel. The stars overhead were brighter now, glittering like shards of broken glass scattered across an ink-black sky. Blacky snorted at the sight of him, stamping a hoof impatiently. Brady smirked, running a hand down the horse’s neck.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m alive. You can stop frettin’,” Brady said, though weariness was evident in the rasp of his voice.

Behind him, the priest climbed out of the cavern’s mouth, his face pale and drawn. He clutched the crucifix to his chest like a lifeline, its once-brilliant glow now reduced to a faint shimmer. For a moment, neither man spoke, the silence of the Nevada wilderness stretching between them.

“You did well, Brady,” the priest said, his voice filled with exhaustion. “The town is safe—for now.”

Brady scoffed, fishing a cigarette from his pocket and striking a match against his boot. “Safe’s a relative term, Father. You’ve patched the dam, but the flood’s still coming. That Rift… it ain’t gone. It’s just buried.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll bury it deeper.”

Brady took a long drag, letting the smoke curl from his lips as he stared out at the distant lights of Silver City. “I wouldn’t hang your hat on that. Evil’s like a bad penny—it always turns up again. Best you can do is stay sharp and pray.”

The priest hesitated, then placed a hand on Brady’s shoulder. “And what about you? Where will you go?”

Brady flicked the cigarette stub into the dirt and swung himself into Blacky’s saddle. “Wherever the next fight is. That’s the thing about bein’ what I am, Father. There’s always another fight.”

The priest watched as Brady guided Blacky toward the trail leading back to town. “Brady,” he called out, his voice stopping the hunter in his tracks. “You may carry the burden of immortality, but that doesn’t mean you carry it alone. There’s always redemption—for those who seek it.”

Brady didn’t look back. “I ain’t lookin’ for redemption, Father. Just a place to rest, and it ain’t this side of hell.”

With a nudge of his heels, he set Blacky into motion. The priest’s figure grew smaller in the distance, swallowed by the shadows as Brady rode on. The town came into view soon enough, its flickering lanterns casting a warm glow that belied the horrors it had just survived.

Betty was waiting for him by the hitching post outside the boardinghouse. Her face lit up seeing him, though her smile seemed tinged with worry. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back,” she said.

Brady swung down from the saddle, tipping his hat with a weary grin. “Takes more than a nest of demons to keep me gone.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you stop it? Is it over?”

“For now,” he said, the weight of the words settling in the space between them.

Betty searched his face, trying to read the unspoken truths buried beneath the lines carved by centuries. She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t have to go, you know. There’s a place for you here, if you want it.”

Brady’s heart twisted, a pang of longing cutting worse than any blade. He wanted to stay. He wanted to let the warmth of her touch anchor him to something real, something human. But he knew better. The kind-hearted woman standing before him deserved a life free of the shadows that clung to him like a second skin.

He stepped back, breaking the connection. “Some folks are meant to settle down, Betty. Me? I’m just passin’ through.”

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded. “If you ever change your mind…”

Brady tipped his hat, his voice soft. “You’ll be the first to know.”

With that, he mounted Blacky and rode into the night, leaving Silver City behind. The desert stretched before him, vast and endless, the horizon blurring where earth met the sky. Somewhere out there, another darkness waited, another battle to fight.

Brady pressed on, the immortal hunter forever chasing the fleeting promise of peace. And though the road was long and lonesome, he rode it with the quiet resolve of a man who understood his purpose, even if it came at the cost of everything else.

As the first light of dawn crept over the Sierra Nevadas, Brady disappeared into the wilderness, his silhouette swallowed by the rising sun.