Path of the Vampire forum

The city of New York is a crazy place. There are about 8.5 million people scurrying around like tiny ants on the ground, while monstrous skyscrapers tower above them, like the arms of angels reaching for the heavens. People from different cultures and ethnic backgrounds are thrown together in one huge melting point, stirred by the energy given off by such a vibrant city. Diversity is everywhere in the sprawling metropolis. The scent of expensive colognes and perfumes, worn by the rich businessmen and women in the financial districts or elite shopping boutiques, is quickly replaced by the hypnotic fragrance of Asian food being cooked in the numerous backstreet restaurants, as a different corner is turned on the city grid. Luxurious office blocks and city centre penthouse apartments seem to transform, almost seamlessly, into rundown ghettos where syringes of heroin and crack pipes are substitutes for glasses of fine wine and Champagne. Contrasts and contradictions are the order of the day in the city that never sleeps.

Perhaps there is no more bizarre a juxtaposition than Central Park. Sitting slap bang in one of the busiest cities in the world is the peaceful oasis that is Central Park. Bringing happiness to the stressed workers and inhabitants of the Big Apple, it acts like someone laughing and telling jokes at a funeral, easing away the tension of everyday city life.

Aaron Hunter was definitely a city boy at heart. Having spent his childhood growing up in Jackson Heights, a neighbourhood in the New York City borough of Queens, before moving across the country to Los Angeles, the punk rock drummer was at home in an urban jungle. However, there were times – many times – when Aaron needed to escape and find space, space to think, space to breathe.

As a small boy, the 12 mile journey to midtown Manhattan give Aaron an opportunity to run freely around Central Park, and let off steam. At first, he obviously had to be accompanied by his parents, Raymond and Bethany, the irony being that it was usually his parents that he was trying to evade. Being subjected to yet another beating from his father, or a hysterical crying fit from his mother were reason enough to want to run and hide.

As the years drifted by and Aaron reached his teens, the wannabe runaway could hop on the local train and be transported to the tranquillity of New York’s central sanctuary in a matter of minutes. Such a short distance offered such a great reward.

There were local parks where Aaron could seek refuge and silence, but they didn’t have the same iconic appeal as Central Park. One Room Schoolhouse Park, near LaGuardia Airport, wasn’t in the same league, and even the main local playground of Travers Park, a 2-acre community park, fell well short of the magnetism of Central Park. Despite being surrounded by trees, Travers Park was severely lacking in any significant greenery, with half the space covered in asphalt to allow for tennis and basketball courts. It was hardly an unexplored wilderness where Aaron could lose himself and clear his thoughts.

To an outsider, it would be easy to think that Harper Rock bore little resemblance to New York, mainly due to the significant size and population differences, but there was one monumental similarity: the craziness of the place. Aaron had endured many ups and downs in his eventful life, numerous twists and turns like a Disneyland rollercoaster, but the one that he’d been subjected to following his arrival in the Canadian city was right up there, like having a corkscrew driven through his soul.

To say that being turned into a vampire was life changing would be the greatest understatement ever made. How was someone supposed to cope with this magical metamorphosis? How was the lumbering caterpillar expected to come to terms with being transformed into a magnificent butterfly? Aaron was still struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation, well over a year after the fateful event had occurred. Occasionally, he needed to escape the confines of his apartment, and continue trying to get his head around what had happened, around what he had become. The leafy suburbs of Cherrydale and Elmworth afforded some space, and Thornside Park was pleasant enough for a stroll on a fresh, crisp day, but Aaron needed more. Sometimes, he just needed solitude.

There were strange rumours about the wilderness that surrounded Harper Rock, stories about fanciful creatures that roamed the land, tales that had surely been passed down from generation to generation to stop children wandering too far from civilization. Urban legends like the bogeyman were there to protect kids, to scare them into behaving and not drifting from the path. Goblins and faeries didn’t really exist, but then again, vampires didn’t exist either, did they?

Aaron didn’t give a flying **** about things like myths and folklore; he simply needed to get away to a quiet spot every now and then to cleanse his jumbled brain. The wilderness seemed like the ideal place to go, as a venture into the unknown was a fantastic summation of Aaron’s new existence.

For a while, the Algonquin Caverns, to the east of the city, had been a place of mystery and intrigue that had attracted Aaron to pay regular visits. Strange creatures, demi-fae, inhabited the network of caves, and Aaron felt like an intrepid explorer, hunting through the tunnels, far from the maddening crowd. But something new, something more dangerous and potentially devastating, had slowly begun to immerge from the shadows, and claw its way from the obscurity of the wilderness: the “Wendigos”.

Some crazy guy who called himself “The Administrator” occasionally posted rather cryptic messages onto the forum of a secure website, regularly used by Aaron and his ilk. The secretive character was currently banging on about the threat of these so-called wendigo demi-fae. In Aaron’s mind, they were probably just another bunch of beasties that needed checking out. It sounded like the perfect opportunity to head out into the forests that surrounded the city.

As the sun vanished and the darkness of night began to envelope the city like a comforting black blanket, Aaron grabbed his leather jacket and weapons, and left his apartment, slamming the door behind him. The wilderness that bordered Harper Rock’s southern edge was the eager rocker’s destination as he rushed out into the cool evening air. He held no apprehension about what he may or may not encounter, after all, what was really out there? Wendigo-go dancers?

Aaron Hunter was by no means an intellectual powerhouse. It was unlikely that he'd be discussing quantum mechanics or complex mathematics with his friends down at the sports bar, and the likes Stephen Hawking or Albert Einstein were never going to be role models for the free spirited boy from New York. The drummer was interested in music and art, and his idols were more likely to include rock 'n' roll rebels such as Johnny Rotten and Phil "Philthy Animal" Taylor. However, Aaron had always been incredibly perceptive. He could hear the rhythm of a factory generator or pulsations of a water-pump, and mentally convert them into a tune. The amateur photographer may not have partaken in his youthful hobby half as much as he used to do, but he still had a keen eye for a picture, and acute vision for that perfect shot. Even his doodles, which often appeared to be no more than random scribbles, were frequently condensed snapshots of his surrounding environment.

Aaron was always on the lookout for something new, a different perspective on life. Sounds and sights were inspiration for his creative nature. Tonight was no exception. He wanted to investigate what was lurking beyond the city walls, see for himself what all the commotion was about before jumping to conclusions.

Aaron rushed through the dimly lit streets of Harper Rock, his head down, starring at the grey pavements and roads rather than the ornate buildings and trees that had shed their leaves over the cold winter months. Normally, an inquisitive Aaron would gaze through the wire fence that enclosed the Quarantine Zone, trying to spy any new, bizarre incidents, but not tonight. The man on a mission simply walked briskly past Harper Rock's weirdest neighbourhood because he had inputted a different destination into his internal mapping system. He was aiming towards the wilderness; he was aiming for the forests south of Swansdale. Aaron was aiming to gather some answers to the riddle posed by The Administrator.

First, though, he’d need to make a slight detour to one of the metro stations that were dotted around the city. It appeared that someone else was also keen to find out what the hell was going on, his friend, Kaspar. To be fair, Aaron’s musical buddy was actually interested in cranking out a few tunes, and generally catching up for a good old gossip, but Aaron’s enthusiasm about this potential new adventure had seemingly hooked Kaspar like a giant fish. Who didn’t want to explore pastures new, like an over-eager boy scout?

Aaron had lived in Harper Rock for nearly two years, but still hadn't fully explored his new city. There were plenty of nooks and crannies to investigate, numerous stones still left unturned. The furthest that he'd previously ventured from civilization was the system of caves to the east of the Moss End district known as the Algonquin Caverns. It was a strange place, perhaps some kind of old mine judging by the occasional sparkling gem that seemed to surface if one rummaged around the dusty floor. However, there were no miners in the old cave network any more; they had long since gone. Their tools had been laid to rest, and their hard working souls had been replaced by a group of twisted scaly humans, maybe some kind of cult. Spooky stories of giant spiders wandering around the Algonquin Caverns could occasionally be overheard, whispered after a glass or two of bourbon.

Initially, Aaron had thought that it was best to give the Caverns a wide birth, as confrontation with whatever lurked in the damp tunnels was the one thing that he was determined to avoid. Needless to say, a combination of curiosity about the rumours, and a desire to explore new areas of potential solitude, had lead Aaron to investigate the damp labyrinth of tunnels. He wasn’t disappointed with his discoveries. The fairy tales of sinister creatures were true; the place was riddled with demi-fae.

The wendigos were apparently another group, albeit rarely found, of these spiritual creatures. If The Administrator was to be believed, the wendigos posed a serious threat to both vampires and humans alike, and their increasing population needed to be put in check immediately before the situation got out of control. A solution to exactly how this “problem” was going to be resolved still hadn’t been formulated in Aaron’s mind. The Administrator seemed to suggest a cull, but the wendigos weren’t simply badgers or beavers that could be rounded up and slaughtered. Life around Harper Rock seldom offered such simple solutions to its many puzzles.

“Of course I’m serious, bro,” said Aaron. “This is gonna be fun, it’s a trip into the wild and unknown world of the wendigos.”

Aaron paused, smiling at his friend.

“Man, I knew that you weren’t paying attention when I told you the story. Probably too busy thinking about some piece of tight *** from a nightclub, right?”

Aaron’s cheeky smile was both angelic and utterly wicked at the same time, a trick that the affable drummer was steadily perfecting.

“Ok,” continued Aaron, “here it is one more time. Belinda Carlisle used to be in a band called The Germs. They played at a club called Whisky a Go Go in LA where my old band, Red Light Zone, also played, and where go-go dancers came from.”

Aaron focused on Kaspar to see if he was paying attention.

“Belinda had another band called the Go-Gos, who were cool, and this weirdo called The Administrator says that some demi-fae creatures called wendigos are bad news for everyone. So we need to become wendigo-go dancers for the evening, and check out these bad guys.”

The drummer stopped dead in his tracks, grinning.

“Belinda may be old enough to be my mother, but she knew how to rock the red hair back in the day, you get me?”

Aaron chuckled, not totally convinced that he had his companion fully on board, but he gestured towards Kaspar, urging the his fellow musician to continue following him.

“Come on, man, we’re almost there.”

Passing cars and the occasional pedestrian hadn’t even registered in Aaron's peripheral vision as the pair reached the city limits. The stone and brickwork of the suburban streets had been replaced, seamlessly, with open fields and wasteland. Aaron looked outwards into the wilderness, almost aimlessly, his sparkling hazel eyes scanning the tree-lined horizon that was barely illuminated by the rising moon. Another pair of shining eyes peered back at Aaron from the distance, sheltered by the foliage, presumably a fox or a rabbit. Of course there would be wildlife, creatures roaming freely, after all, it was the wilderness.

Aaron was a serial doodler. He found it to be a form of escapism, a way of freeing his mind and letting that caged imagination loose onto the sketchpad like a mighty river of creativity that had broken through a dam of conformity. Aaron loved to pick up a pencil and scribble away, never quite sure what, exactly, would emerge onto the paper. It was strange that on the one hand Aaron loved to create a monumental racket, bashing away on his drum kit like he was trying to smash a hole in the solid, reinforced concrete of the Hoover Dam, but on the other hand he loved to be alone, in peace, drawing weird and wonderful pictures.

Let’s be clear, Aaron was no Michelangelo, and his Sistine Chapel would more than likely be the bathroom wall of a local bar or rock club, but he did possess some degree of talent. The amateur artist wasn’t classically trained, and would never concoct a perfectly crafted masterpiece; Aaron preferred abstract art, the kind of freaky stuff that Picasso or especially Dali might produce, or perhaps bizarre conceptual works by Escher. Aaron needed to let his thoughts roam freely so that the curious concepts in his mind could be released. It was easy for folk who were unaware of the unconventional mechanics of the drummer’s brain to simply mistake his thoughts for the ramblings of a fool. The jury was still out as to whether Kaspar fell into this category.

Constraints didn’t suit Aaron’s style; being told to paint something traditional like a bowl of fruit would drive the rocker insane. He was the type of guy who would take a walk to a local park, produce a blank canvass, draw a solitary black dot at a random point on the white background, and call it “Solitude”. However, solitude was not the thing that Aaron was searching for tonight. He was interested in discovering something a little more… fantastical.

If truth be told, Aaron was far more at home conjuring up unbelievable cartoon characters than he would be painting a portrait. There was probably only one person who could hold the doodler’s attention long enough for him to produce a proper impression, and the chances of her hanging around long enough for Aaron to complete his work were mightily slim. Instead, the budding cartoonist was far more likely to sketch a sexy superhero or a creepy creature with tentacles and claws - some kind of Marvel or Manga mash-up. Although Aaron was a fan of dumbed-down animation series like Beavis and Butt-Head, and Southpark, he loved those crazy Japanese comic books and anime series. There was just something a little bit… twisted about them. Perhaps it was blindingly obvious to understand why Aaron was so fascinated by creatures such as the wendigos?

As Aaron and his companion wandered further away from the distant bright lights of Harper Rock, and deeper into the surrounding wilderness, entering the tree-line that made up the beginning of an area of thick, dark forest, he couldn’t help but think of a peculiar place in Japan that he’d heard of: Aokigahara. Known as the Sea of Trees, or more sinisterly as “Suicide Forest”, Aokigahara is a forest that lies at the northwest base of Mount Fuji. The area has a historic association with demons in Japanese mythology, and contains a dense network of trees and shrubs, foliage that shuts out all but the naturally occurring sounds of the forest itself.

There is an age old philosophical argument which poses the question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Dozens of suicides take place each year in Aokigahara, posing the question: does anyone hear the victims scream? The place was literally deadly silent. Were the deaths really suicides, or were the legendary evil demons to blame?

But hey, this was all far too deep and meaningful for someone like Aaron to mull over.

“IQ, bro?” said Aaron. “I’m not even sure that I can spell IQ!”

The affable musician cast an enormous grin towards Kaspar, like a giant fishing net of teeth and stubble-covered chin.

“I guess I am mumbling on like a madman,” continued Aaron, “which basically means that you are out in the middle of nowhere with a complete nutcase!”

A giggle, childish and innocent, escaped through Aaron’s smiling lips. He waved his arms, sluggishly, imitating the movements of a zombie, as if he were about to attack his friend.

“Regarding redheads,” he added, “this does look like the kind of place where Poison Ivy might hang out. You’d better stay alert in case she grabs ya!”

Peering into the darkness of the forest with glistening eyes, illuminated by the dim moonlight, Aaron marched steadily forward, following Kaspar, who had decided to take the lead. Aaron wasn’t afraid of any demons or monsters that may be lurking behind the next huge tree stump, even ones with poisonous lips who could control the vines. Were there wendigos in the wilderness, beasts of nightmares, hell-bent on stealing your soul? If there were, the dynamic duo would flush them out.

A heavy cloud crept in front of the moon, obscuring its soft beams of light, plunging the forest into total blackness. It was as if Aaron and his comrade had been submerged in a lake of thick, viscous tar. Aaron angled back his spine, and gazed upwards into the black abyss that was the night sky. The almost impenetrable canopy of compact branches and leaves ensured that Aaron and Kaspar remained firmly trapped in a prison of infinite shadow.

“Hello darkness, my old friend,” Aaron muttered under his breath, “I’ve come to talk with you again.”

The pair had reached their goal, they were in the depths of the wilderness, having walked for far longer than they had realized. Aaron and Kaspar were alone, isolated in the thick of the forest. The drummer could barely see anything, and all that he could hear was the sound of silence. But were they really alone? Buried deeper within the undergrowth, a concealed pair of eyes tracked their every move.

Some people believe that silence is golden. If that is the case, then the depth of the wilderness in which the pair of have-a-go-explorers now found themselves was surely the place where Olympic winners’ medals were produced. It was a veritable goldmine of silence, ready to make millionaires of the intrepid prospectors. Aaron and Kaspar had been wrapped in a blanket of eerie peacefulness, a quiet quilt of tranquillity that was almost smothering them with its muffled hands.

The regular bursts of total darkness added to the intense feeling of unease. All of the vampires’ senses were put to the test as the twosome delved deeper into the overgrown wasteland. Each snapping twig sounded like a giant log that had been split by a mighty axe, while the softest of breezes rustled through the foliage like the roaring surge of a jet engine firing up. Even the sudden return of a beam of moonlight as the shining alabaster globe popped out from behind its cloud cloak was freakishly unnerving. It was as if a searchlight were being focused on the dynamic duo by a giant spy plane in the cool night sky, illuminating them, often only very briefly, in order to flush them out of their woodland cover. The wilderness, especially at night, was probably not a place for the faint-hearted.

The conversation between the two normally chatty chaps became somewhat disjointed and staccato in nature as they prioritized their footsteps rather than their words. The floor was littered with vines and shoots that could easily ensnare a careless ankle like a hunter’s trap if one’s eyes weren’t paying attention to the pathway, or lack of it. The absence of any kind of consistent dialogue exacerbated the spooky experience, creating an air of tension, of anticipation that something… bad could happen at any moment.

The curtains of quietness were rudely dragged apart by the commotion just up ahead; a menacing rumbling noise that sounded like trouble, big trouble. Kaspar spoke, preparing himself for whatever beast was about to burst through the thick bushes. Aaron instantly reached a state of high alert, his hands almost instinctively darting towards the weapons that were concealed within his black leather jacket. If something was going to charge at them like a crazed rhinoceros during mating season, then the skilled killer wanted to meet it head on.

“Looks like it’s time for the rumble in the jungle,” said Aaron, his right palm grabbing the handle of his trusted blade, “but what the hell is coming for us?”

The answer was not delayed, arriving with the punctuality of a German train. Slashing through the undergrowth, its powerful arms tipped with monstrous claws whirring like the rotor blades of an Apache gunship, the creature emerged from the darkness. A roar erupted from the ferocious mouth of the beast, undoubtedly a warning signal conveying a message of impending doom.

Aaron gazed in disbelief, his jaw dropping several inches as he eyed up the rapidly approaching animal.

“Oh, for ****’s sake!” he announced. “That’s not a wendigo, it’s a freakin’ bear! I thought that we were hunting down some nasty flesh-eating demi-fae, not going on the teddy bears’ picnic!”

Angling his neck to briefly glance at Kaspar, Aaron asked a quick question, acutely aware that the giant grizzly was almost upon them.

“Dude, do you have any honey, otherwise I’ll have to give Pooh some Aaron jam?”

Despite his ever-improving prowess as a skilled killer, Aaron wasn’t exactly a menacing figure. He stood roughly six feet in height, and would probably be described as being of average build, if not slightly athletic, by a casual onlooker. He was hardly a pumped-up, muscle-bound gym bunny, about to rip his way out of a tight-fighting shirt like Harper Rock’s version of The Incredible Hulk. Anyway, red was more his colour, rather than green. Yet, for just a split second, a small wave of satisfaction gently lapped across Aaron’s body, as he momentarily believed that the fearsome wild bear had been intimidated by the drummer’s manly frame.

The situation reminded Aaron of the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the mighty Lion tried to terrify and overawe Dorothy and her friends. After only a little resistance to his faux ferocity, it turned out that the beast was nothing but a loud-mouthed coward. There was a distinct similarity in the scenario that was currently unfolding: the two wilderness explorers standing tall to face the creature causing the animal to cower and back off. That was until it became evidently clear that the bear wasn’t afraid of Aaron and Kaspar, and that a far greater danger was lurking in the trees.

“How disappointing,” said Aaron, a huge sarcastic tone smothering his words. “It looks like there’ll be no bedtime snuggles with Paddington.”

Aaron glanced across to Kaspar, who had taken up a defensive stance next to him.

“Sweet enough? Really?”

Now was not the time to critique his friend’s one-liners - there was something far more urgent on the agenda. The grizzly, which only seconds early was threatening to rip the pair apart, limb by bloody limb, darted back into the thick undergrowth, vanishing from sight with the clumsy crash of twigs and leaves sounding its exit. Time appeared to freeze as the woodland warriors waited for the true enemy to emerge. Mere seconds seemed like minutes, the monstrosity eventually revealing itself as it ploughed through the branches like a bulldozer.

“Ok,” said Aaron, staring at the beast as it finally came into full view. “It looks like the bear must have stolen Goldilocks’ porridge, and now Goldilocks is kinda pissed off!”

Resembling a deformed human that had been spliced with some form of deer, the creature gazed back at the duo, roaring through a powerful jaw lined with savage-looking fangs.

“It looks like this dude went out at Christmas wearing Rudolf antlers,” said Aaron, “and got lost in the forest. He looks like a whole heap of rotten reindeer!”

It was difficult to determine whether or not the abomination charging towards them was a degenerating human or an animal morphing into a man. The nightmarish monster was neither one thing nor another, trapped in an ungodly limbo between man and beast. The only thing that was certain was the fact that it was rushing straight towards the pair with a crazed look in its shimmering eyes. The battle was about to commence.

“Maybe some happy camper was walking in the woods,” added Aaron, his steady hand bringing the shining blade of his sword high into the air, ready to strike, “and a giant stag buttfucked him so hard that its antlers came out of the dude’s head!”

Perhaps Aaron couldn’t help the wisecracks, or perhaps they were an in-built, automatic defence mechanism that helped to calm his nerves in times of extreme pressure, it mattered not. What really counted was the accuracy of Aaron’s lightning-fast sword attack as it slashed across the chest of the onrushing mutant. A beam of radiant moonlight caught the cold Japanese steel of his blade, causing it to illuminate like a light-sabre when it gouged the flesh of the demonic beast. A spray of glistening blood erupted from the mutant’s ribcage, accompanied by a pained cry from the monster’s mouth.

With electrifying dexterity, Aaron followed up his initial assault with a second flurry, even more punishing than before. An upward thrust sliced clean through the bone of the creature’s forearm, depositing a bloody hand onto the forest floor. It would surely come in handy as a snack for the carrion crawlers that dwelt among the undergrowth. A third blow - a sharp slash across the beast’s throat, severing several major blood vessels and rupturing its windpipe - proved to be the fatal strike.

With the undignified grace of a bumbling Bambi, legs wobbling like sticks of rhubarb, the transhuman wendigo crumbled to the ground, the ferns and tufts of grass cushioning the creature’s fall. Aaron exhaled deeply, viewing the lifeless body that lay in front of him.

“Is that it?” he asked, turning to face Kaspar. “I thought these things were supposed to be badass beasties. Wendigo? More like wendigone!”