The blackened blood dripped from the ends of the red cloth as he cleaned the blade in his hand. He had driven the blade deep down into the heart of three bodies, killing them all. They would call him a murderer for what he had done, but in truth he had saved them.
These people, now lifeless on the blood stained snow were Witches. James Hill is a Hunter...



November 14th 1777

James Hill walked steadily from the brush where he had been hiding. He felt uneasy when his left eye twitched under the blackened bandages covering it. He knelt down and pulled his musket around from his back, aiming it into the wilderness. The scarf around his neck and mouth hid the hot air that escaped from his lips, hiding his presence. Inhaling softly he could smell a fragrance that he knew all too well and despised those that carried it. It was the smell of burnt ashes.
He had been following the rumors for weeks now. There had been several different accounts of dissappearances lately in the area. No one had seen the Miller family in a few months. The cattle farm they ran was desolate and ruined. He walked near the edge of the cattle fields and placed his hand over his nose at the stench. The cows in the pasture had been burned down to the bone. The grass was scorched black.
The front door of the house was lying on the floor, singed with fire around the edges. Knocking on the door's burnt frame, he waited for someone to answer. When there was no answer, he placed his musket over his shoulder and pulled a pistol out from under his thick coat. Carefully he walked around the door and into the dark corridor of the house, pistol at eye level. Inside, the smell of blood permeated his nostrils forcing him to gag on the fowl stench.
Laying at his boots were three dead bodies that had been ravaged by fire. He leaned down to get a breif look at their eyes. They were pale and lifeless, just the way he wanted them.
“Caught like a rat in a trap,” wheezed a graspy voice from the front door. He tried to turn around to face the voice, but his body wouldn't move.
A laugh erupted from him that chilled his spine. “Beauty, that. You see, I heard rumors about you. Townsies say'n your a murderer'n folks who done no harm to you. They don't do you no justice, those rumors. See, we know all about you, Hunter.”
James watched out of the corner of his eyes as a large, bald irish man strode into the house. The smell of whiskey seaped through his teeth as he laughed. “Your hunt'n ways need to be stopped, i'm afraid. It's not all bad though. Got a gift for you.”
With a smile the man leaned down over the dead bodies and whispered silently into their ears. A boney arm reached out from the pile of corpses and grasped James' ankle tightly.
“Ghouls,” James whispered softly.
“Aye,” said the irish man. “Truth be told, i'd rather be burnin' ya.”
James grinned beneath his scarf, “Tell me your name so that I may remember it.”
“Oh I don't think you'll be doin' much remember'n,” replied the irish man, lighting a cigar between his pursed lips with a snap of his fingers. Inhaling the smoke deeply, he released the flames that danced across his fingertips with a flick of his wrist.
James reached down to the small of his back as the Ghouls grasp at his legs, pulling him down as they did. Their creamy eyes remained blank while their bodies twitched in pain at every move they made. He knew they were dead but their souls, imprisoned by the Irish man's curse, remained.
“Name your Master,” James demanded calmly.