I'm a Hunter. I can't bring myself to say, "I used to be a Hunter." I've been a hunter for so long it's a part of who I am; I was the first Hunter for the love of Pete! It's in my blood, literally, and that's the problem. That's the whole reason why I'm warming this barstool trying my damnedest to give myself a crapulous stomach. Strong drink and the sick feeling of overindulgence seems to be the only thing I can do to suppress these accursed urges.

I don't know when it started; I have lost my concept of time. That hasn't been all I have lost, though I struggle to remember those things I have lost, and even this I am losing, having only a vague memory that I was once something much more than I am today, a mere shell of a man. I can assure you, whoever you are, that the one thing I have not yet lost is my sanity, and I beg and plead that you do not dismiss me. Despite what you are about to read I have not lost my mind, not that, not yet.

The words ‘vampire bats’ quickly leads one to images of blood sucking nocturnal flying mammals with furry bodies and membranous wings capturing their prey by echolocation. The exact picture I wanted to conjure in my friends minds. Thus began my elaborate party plans six weeks before Halloween night. Living in the country and socializing infrequently made it all the easier to prepare my setting.

I was a fool to set foot on that vile ship of doom. The legend of Captain Cavendish was so compelling as to drive all thought of caution from my mind. When word found me that some of his crew would come to port I readied my things. It was my stupid hope that they would be in need of crewmen, for such were the tales, and failing that I would stow aboard one of their longboats and plead my case to that great pirate known only by reputation.

“It's true! I saw it. You've got to believe me; please, listen to me. I'm not crazy; I'm not. He really is a vampire, or a werewolf, or a goblin, even an ogre maybe. I saw him . . . I saw him change. He's not what you think!” Eugene struggled against his bonds, his eyes wild with pleading. Constance had no choice but to bring him down to the psych ward; he had shown no sign of mental breakdown. His last routine evaluation came back normal, and in all the years they had been together Constance had known him to be faithful, reliable, and quite sane. Eugene had planned a surprise candlelight dinner for the two of them; she could tell something was bothering him as he poured the wine, and the uncharacteristic shake in his hand as he gave the toast caught her attention, but she was not prepared for the violent outburst when he cut into the duck.

I remember. I remember, but it's spotty. Little things here and there come to me; little things evade my scouring searches. I remember scenes from my childhood. There were swings, lots of swings, and sandboxes. There was a large golden dog who always licked my face, doubly so when I had ice cream. I remember college. I skipped classes quite often to catch up on some sleep, or catch up to some leggy blonde. I had a thing for blondes, I remember that too. I have a vague recollection of a tall, slender, tanned blonde beauty in a white veil, but try as I might nothing else comes to me.

The doctors have told me the amnesia will pass, that it is merely the result of nervous tension. Perfectly normal after the events that transpired in the woods that day, or so they tell me. But what I told them is not the truth, no far from it. Here is what actuallyhappened that day my I pursued my lifelong ambition and cursed my bloodline.

To reach across the damp and forboding Moor, and discover the secrets hidden within the Brackwater Woods, that has always been my dream. Wreathed in the miasma of sepulcharous tombs and rotting stone is an atelier where a man cna create life in whatever form he wills. This place is guarded by an army of trees, their unwholesome contours bursting forth from the earth like ancient gnarled hands. They remain transfixed, grasping and clawing at the night sky, as though to pull it towards the earth as a death shroud over a dessicated corpse. Or so the story goes.

I would not venture too close to our mountain; fight the urge to explore it, no good will come of your curiosity. Many others have gone to investigate Ysivnia but none have returned from our mountain alive. We find their bodies, usually days later, usually torn apart by some ravenous scavenger. There were two we have found whose faces were not mangled, and the mask of fear they wore have furthered to confirm our belief Mount Ysivnia is haunted.

There are simple minded plebeians who will tell you that necromancy is an evil abomination. A trade of grave robbers and triplet witches hovering over a cauldron of brackish soup. Furthermore, they will state in the whiney wheeze of the self righteous, that the necromantic arts are akin to devil worship, murder, cannibalism, and shadowy charlatans whose illusions appear to make large buildings disappear for the amusement of the self same self-righteous plebs. All of which is both shockingly true and astonishingly false.

“He's just a filthy arriviste,” muttered the agent. “It's not like he was born into the position, he earned it.” The agent, dressed in a black cloak, sporting a gentleman's cane, spats, a tweed suit, and a pipe. “I don't care if he is going as Watson, I refuse to wear that hat,” he spat.

“He cannot be Watson if you will not be Sherlock, and what kind of Sherlock would you be, without at a hat?” queried a second agent. “And for the record, a few honored men have earned their positions, so show some respect.”