“The clock strikes 3:30. Doctor Travis wipes the sweat from his brow, as his assistants look on in awe. He is an hour into emergency open heart surgery. The patient is stable, but the doctor is running against the clock. With the point of incision burned into his mind like the floorplan of his own home, he requests another tool.

"Scalpel,” he mumbled, not wanting to waste another second. Then, the doors crash open, causing the room to turn all of their potential anxiety into kinetic, as the medieval fool had arrived. Clad in bright reds and yellows, the bells on his attire jingling as he leapt about the room, he begged Travis to save his patient.

“Please! I beg of you! It is of the utmost that this man recuperates! He is my muse!” the clown cried, tears now rushing down his face. “Your scalpel, o bringer of health!” he said, juggling all of the scalpels in the tray. Travis waited until the scalpel he needed was at the apex of the entertainer’s juggle, snatched it out of the air, and resumed operating.” Robert closed his notebook and looked upon a bewildered writer’s circle. “And that’s all I’ve got so far, but I’ll probably develop it more next week.” His teacher looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“I like what you’ve got going here, but, I gotta ask, what’s the reason for such a stark tone shift?”

“Oh,” Robert replied happily, “last week you told me that this scene was going well, but it could use a dramatic gesture, so I added one in.”

Elizabeth walked through the kitchen, her size nineteen shoes slapping into the wooden floor. Before she could reach the refrigerator, she collapsed to the sound of a descending slide whistle.

“Good one, Mom, keep that in tonight,” James called from the bathroom. James was running a comb through his rainbow-colored hair, dead set on maintaining a perfect sphere. His attention was diverted, however, when his mother didn’t answer him. He walked into the kitchen and found Elizabeth plastered motionlessly on the kitchen floor. He confirmed that she wasn’t breathing, and panic started to wash over him as he called throughout the house, “Dad? Dad, I think Mom needs help. I think it’s her heart.” John opened their bedroom door, caked in a pale foundation and tying up a purple and green bow tie when he found his wife face-down in the kitchen.

“Son, you know where your phone is?” John asked.

“Yeah. In the bathroom.”

“Go get it and call 9-11.” John commanded. His son fled the kitchen, swooped into the bathroom, and started dialing for an ambulance. Meanwhile, he flipped his wife over and opened her mouth to find her airway clear, yet breathless. “Damn it, it is her heart,” John thought to himself as he removed the sock puppet from his left hand. He positioned himself over Elizabeth, balled up his hands, and placed them over her chest. He started the compressions, but unfortunately the only response was the sound of a bicycle horn. Not giving up hope, he persisted past the recommended thirty before giving a resuscitative breath, but once he felt how cold his wife’s mouth was, the dread climbed into his body. Tears started running down John’s face, clouding his vision and ruining his makeup. Even if she came back, he wouldn’t have been able to see it. James returned to the kitchen to see his father crying, the only time he would ever see him cry.

“They’re coming. It’s bad, isn’t it?” James stuttered.

“I think Mom’s going to be okay, but yeah, it looks bad right now,” John stuttered. He kept pressing, the horn kept honking. He gave his wife yet another breath, but to no avail. He glanced at her body and huffed in the most bitter anger he could summon, as if some external force could see his suffering, they would save her. Nevertheless, the universe remained indifferent.

James sat down on the floor next to his parents. He backed his head into the wall of the kitchen, messing up his perfect hair, but he didn’t care about that anymore. The more he looked at his mom, the more he knew she was dead. He started weeping along with his father. He reached into his pockets to grab a handkerchief and pulled out fourteen of them in various patterns and colors. He balled all of them up and stuffed his face into the array of handkerchiefs while his Father continued to drive his hands into Elizabeth’s chest.

There was a doctor.

Seth Johns was his name, and he was a man of extraordinary talent. He cured disease and mishap in all of it’s forms. He could make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the mute speak. But, of course. There was a catch. When Doctor Seth Johns healed his patients, their problems would be transferred elsewhere.

To some, he was a messiah.

To others, he was pestilence incarnate.

A man walked up to the building and read the sign on the door aloud.

“Dr. Seth Johns: Have a problem? Get it fixed today…” he whispered, emphasizing the italics. He knocked on the door, and a tall man in his thirties answered within seconds.

“Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Johns.” He said, in a polite voice. Doctor Johns profiled the man, up and down. Nothing on the outside appeared to be problematic. “Do you have any symptoms?”

“Yes,” the man said in a hoarse voice, “My throat has been bothering me for a few days, but, today, I woke up, and coughed some blood.”

“I see. Well, please, come into my office.” Doctor Johns replied. The man followed him in, and to his surprise, it was just that. An office. No medical supplies, no scales, not even an uncomfortable table to lie down on. Just two chairs, and a desk with a computer on top. The two men sat across from each other. Johns pulled out a popsicle stick from his desk, along with an unlabeled can with a nozzle on top. He took the can and sprayed the popsicle stick. “Would you kindly open your mouth?” He asked. The man obliged, “Thank you.” Doctor Johns said, swabbing the inside of the man’s mouth with the popsicle stick. Within seconds, he stopped swabbing, and threw the stick into the trash. “Any better?” The man cleared his throat, and, as if by miracle, was back to normal.

“Yes!” Said the man, clearly. “My God, you’re one hell of a doctor! It’s, it’s gone! You’ve made my ailments disappear!”

“Well, they didn’t disappear, but, you won’t have them anymore.” Doctor Johns said, smiling. The two shook hands, and the man left the Doctor's office with a spring in his step.

A little boy in an impoverished region of Egypt opens the door to his home. His mother is riddled with tumors. His father has lost all of the weight on his body, and is nothing more than an empty husk, waiting for death. He goes to his room, where his sister is laying in the bed across from his. Her skin peels off in chunks, every day. The children think of their friends. One died last week due to dysentery. One’s heart stopped. The little boy reminisces on what life used to be like. But then, he feels something. Something that fills him with dread.

He coughs. Then he coughs again, this time, with more intensity. His coughing fit persists. He rushes to the bathroom, where he throws up. He looks down in despair.

Blood.

He cries, for the God of Disease had finally found him.

Being a method actor isn’t nearly as exciting as you’d think it is. The media likes to portray us as if we’re all locked in some Heath Ledger dungeon, laughing maniacally to ourselves whilst we’re high on every drug that’s worth getting high on. That couldn’t be further from the truth. See, most of us want to kill ourselves after we get an Oscar, not beforehand. That way, next year, we can rake in even more awards, posthumously, of course.

All jokes aside, though, the life of a method actor is usually dull, even when you’re in-character. The only recent bright spots have been ordering Chinese food in a cowboy voice and getting pulled over for speeding as a vampire. The officer didn’t understand that I would have disintegrated if I were following the speed limit home, as the sun was just about to rise. That might have been the highlight of my career, if it wasn’t for what happened about a month ago.

The role I was chosen to play was a Chaplain of the Knights Templar during the crusades. I wore medieval clothes around the house, had the armor on a stand next to my bed, listened to a bunch of choir music, prayed every morning, y’know, the usual Templar stuff. Nothing really happened until about two weeks into the process, when I heard footsteps shuffling downstairs. Rolling out of my bed, I realized the situation: savages from the bottom of the earth were trying to encroach on this holy state, to pillage my lands.

I would have none of it.

Strolling over to the armor stands, I realized what had to be done. I put on my armor, unsheathed my sword, and, finally, connected my phone to the house’s speakers.

Now, it’s hard to sneak around with ironclad armor, and by the time I got to the top of the stairs, the two men trying to steal my television were staring at me, shocked and confused. I pulled my phone out, and pressed play. Ava Maria blasted from every speaker in the house. The pair of intruders placed my television down onto the floor and made a bolt for the window. “Deus Vult”, I whispered, under my helmet.

I made a charge after them, and, between their fear and my adrenaline, I caught up to one of them, pinning him to the wall of my living room, fully impaled on my sword. The second man realized the mistake that he had made, entering the holy land, and seeing his fellow knight’s death made him retreat even faster. I cut my speakers, the battle was won, and I had been triumphant once again, in the name of our Lord and Savior. Eventually, I withdrew the sword from the man’s chest, and stared at the bloody hole in the wall, knowing I’d have to put up another painting of Jesus to cover up the blemish the demon had left.

Within minutes, a police car arrived at my door. I removed my helmet, impending conversation with my fellow statesmen. “Good evening, sir, your neighbors are worried about you. Heard some loud noises. Everything okay?” The officer asked, lowering his sunglasses to gaze at my glorious, bloodstained armor of God.

“Of course, Bishop. Another invasion by those bigots from the east. It has been taken care of, worry not. The Pope’s land is safe from any impending danger.”

“Deus Vult, may you walk along his holy light!”

“Yeah…” The officer said, heading back to his car. I went back into the fortress, then retired to my bedroom, putting the armor back on the stand, and returning the bloody sword back to its decorative mount on the wall. The worst part? Next week, the movie was shelved. I could only chuckle at the fact that someone literally died for this movie’s sins. Oh, well. Actors get paid regardless.

To the Prospective Hunter,

Greetings and salutations. Like most things in life, this letter is a double-edged sword. If it has been delivered, there is something off about you. Maybe you’re antisocial. Maybe you like Halloween just a bit too much. Either way, enough people have noticed to recommend you to my line of work, and I come bearing opportunity. If you found this letter on your own, I would recommend putting it back where you found it. Give it a read, sure, if you’re truly curious, but do not act on anything you see here. After all, curiosity killed the cat, but a fate worse than death awaits those emotionally unequipped to enter the rabbit hole you’re about to go down. I know I sound like a camp counselor telling a ghost story, but I assure you this stuff is real, and it works.

This is a detailed guide on how to harvest souls.

You’d be surprised at how many people are willing to condemn their adversaries to eternal suffering. Normal people, celebrities, and even politicians will pay big bucks for assurance that their competition is roasting in the third circle.

What, you really think Amelia Earhart just went missing?

Nevertheless, the demand for this service is pretty high, but, for some reason, the supply of people willing to invoke wickedness and evil, damning their souls for eternity is low. Forget about that, though. You’ve got to live in the moment, not the future! Carpe Demon, as I always say. Besides, you didn’t think you were going to Heaven anyways, did you? If you want to do this right, you’re going to need a windowless room, your phone, a mirror, a chair, and some zip-ties.

So, you’ve decided to read onward. Excellent.

First things first, you need a target. Now, my services are pretty well known in the invocation community, traded through whispers and letters like these, but you are unknown. This is fine. Browse the classifieds. Scroll through internet forums. If worse comes to worst, go through your social media, look for recent breakups in relationship statuses, and offer your services to your newly single friend at a discounted price.

Secondly, some technological work. Use your phone to find and download a portion of the Necronomicon. Start a voice recording, hold your phone up to the mirror, and read what you see in the reflection. It is vital that you do not look outside of your phone’s screen, lest you become a target yourself. Read until you’re almost hypnotized. You’ll hear an out-of-tune cello, taste charred meat, and feel something wet in your hands if you’re doing it right. Turn away from the mirror once you have finished a full page under these conditions, save the voice recording, and keep it handy for later.

Third, is the acquisition of the target. This can either be the easiest or the most difficult step, depending on your resume. My coercion techniques usually end up in saying some pretty compromising things, like, “This would be an awful night to get abducted, why don’t we stick together for safety?” Or, “I think these zip-ties would look really fashionable on you, what do you think?” Perhaps you don’t bear the same curse of social ineptitude as I, in which case, you can skip to the next step. However, if you are in my camp, I would suggest doing what any successful businessman would do and outsource your work to another hunter for a cut of the bill. You’ll make less money, but I can’t tell you how many headaches have been avoided thanks to Ludwig dropping my bounties off at the door.

Fourth, is the setup. Bring your target to the windowless room and be sure to use those zip-ties, really affix their limbs to the arms and legs of the chair. Don’t be afraid to dig in, break the skin. It may seem impolite, but I assure you that this will seem like a spa day before long. If you find yourself worried about your prey’s mortality, don’t be. Once you start the recording, they can’t die anymore.

Place the mirror directly in front of your target, so that all they can see is their own reflection. Despite what you may have heard about this practice, lighting quality is irrelevant. However, I’ve found that a dark room makes for a more atmospheric experience, so do with that information what you will. Finally, all that’s left is to turn on your phone’s camera for evidential purposes and play the recording. Make sure it’s loud enough to drown out any screams: if outside noise overpowers your reading, the process may go awry. You should stay in the room and watch from behind the mirror in case you didn’t follow these instructions to the letter, but be warned. The emissaries that come to deliver your target to the King of the Wicked are seldom hygienic. If stereotypes were true, and some humanoid with horns and hooves came along, impaled them with a pitchfork, and scooped your target back into the mirror, this would be a crowded industry. The creatures sent through to newcomers are eyeless, fanged quadrupeds, more reptilian than canine and usually in packs of three, chomping through their prey’s ribcage as if their heart was protected by a sleeve of graham crackers, howling with delight before dragging their screaming victim back through the mirror after they’ve had their fun. In reality, those creatures were sent to put on a show. Sent to scare you, to send you off the trail.

The trouble is, there’s a lot of chaff and not a whole lot of wheat when it comes to harvesting souls. You know the types. The stupid kids who do this kind of stuff on Halloween. The skeptics that want to prove it’s all a hoax. Hey, you might even be one of those people yourself. In that case, if you actually did it, I hope you got the results you were looking for. Beads of sweat rolling through your eyebrows, your heart beating out of your ears, nausea swirling between your eyes as if the blood made you seasick, all that good stuff. I’m envious, honestly. I’d kill for your innocence. Not that the phrase means anything in my case. What I mean is that insight is a terrible thing.

You get used to the beasts. You recognize them. The blood of the last hunt crusts around their lipless mouths like makeup. Don’t worry, they’ll do new things to ensure that if you aren’t one of those meant for the position, you’ll cover that mirror and you’ll never hunt again. Even though these creatures don’t have eyes themselves, you’ll know they’re looking directly at you when they tear through the people you’ve presented them with. If you’re a consistent hunter, you might only see them twice. You may never see anything but them, either. I’ve heard accounts of both. Don’t get frustrated, it’s a good thing if you only see these creatures. It means you’re innocent. You hate seeing what they do to people, and they recognize that. If something else comes from the mirror, that’s not great news for you. If you’re like me, and you watch people being torn apart as if you were watching a vending machine dispensing your purchase, you will be recognized as such. They’ll stop trying to scare you, and give you access to more efficient methods.

You’ll get a shapeless mass of brown tendrils that shoot out of the mirror soundlessly. They’ll penetrate every orifice of your target’s body and possess them, breaking their own fingers and removing bones from their wrists to escape the zip-ties before standing up and walking through the mirror in a matter of seconds. Or, at least, that’s what I see nowadays. I’ve heard tales of all sorts of horrors emerging from the mirror. Perhaps you will discover something new in your endeavors.

You might meet my in-laws if you do this for long enough.

Once the body and the creature have departed for the underworld, your work is done. Save the video to your phone and send it along to your client. If you want to make extra pocket change, this footage will grab a significant price from fetishists with cryptocurrency. If you did a decent job, your name will be passed around, and before you know it, you’ll be drowning in more opportunities like these. Remember, this line of work may be morally impoverished, but the results are anything but.

Happy Hunting,

Sophie De Vries