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It was a precaution, born of knowledge from his world. If guns and knives failed to immobilize the creature, he would resort to folklore. With the crude but effective wooden stake tucked securely into his belt, he mounted Morgan and turned her toward the decaying, gas lit heart of Saint Denis's slums. The hunt for the vampire had begun.
As he orde there, he thought of Dutch's question, how far did Bronte reach? And of the brass key with F.F. on it. He thought of the Hackshaws and Chen Lei waiting like teeth in the city's side. He thought of the four men he'd shoved into the earth the night before and how quiet the cemetery had been afterward.
He knew he could do this. Even if this really was a vampire, it wouldn't be one of those superhuman monsters from the fantasy books or movies he'd read and watched in his previous life. No, this one, if real, would still be a man beneath all the legend.z If it truly had that kind of strength, agility, and hypnotic power, it would be ruling Saint Denis instead of Angelo Bronte.
A being like that could've bent the mayor to its will, turned half the city into thralls, and made the other half too afraid to step into the streets. No one would even know what ruled them, just another shadow among shadows. A creature like that would own the city outright, pulling strings from the shadows until every man, woman, and lawmaker bowed to his will.
But from what Caleb had gathered, this "vampire" wasn't that. The killings were sloppy, and the victims, always drained and pale, showed signs of a human hand. Strong perhaps, fast maybe, but not supernatural. No hypnotic charm. No armies of thralls. Just a man or something close enough, who hid behind darkness and rumor to hunt. That, Caleb could handle.
He thought of that as he rode into the slums, the stake he'd carved from a short log tucked securely into his belt beside his knife. It was crude, splintered near the tip, but it would do the job if things went wrong. A weapon of desperation, born of old tales and his own brand of pragmatism.
The slums greeted him with their usual blend of dampness and despair. The smell of rot and coal fires clung to everything, and the narrow streets felt tighter, pressed in by shacks and warehouses leaning precariously on each other. Somewhere nearby, the river carried the city's filth out to sea, its stench mingling with the tang of sweat and cheap whiskey.
He guided Morgan toward the heart of the slums, near the old cemetery, where rumor had it the killer liked to stalk. But Caleb wasn't going to charge in blindly. Information first, always. And there was one place where gossip ran thicker than blood in this part of area, Doyles Tavern.
The place was exactly as he remembered from the few times he'd passed it. A sagging building with warped planks and a flickering lantern swinging over the door. The sign above it read "DOYLE'S TAVERN" in chipped paint, one letter half gone. The kind of place where the working class and the desperate drank their wages dry.
When he reached the other saloon, the poor man's alternative to the Bastille, he hitched Morgan to the worn out post out front, patting her neck softly. "Won't be long, girl," he murmured. After making sure the reins were secure, he turned to look at the tavern.
A half broken lantern swayed beside the door, casting thin light through the grime streaked windows. Caleb brushed dust off his coat, adjusted the repeater's strap, and stepped through the double doors.
The inside hit him like a wall, the pungent mix of sweat, old beer, and tobacco. The piano at the corner clanked out a rowdy, off key tune, and the laughter was louder, harsher, than anything he'd heard at the Bastille. The women here wore worn out corsets, their faces painted too heavy to hide the exhaustion.
Heads turned when he walked in. Not many strangers came here, and certainly not someone dressed like him, clean coat, polished boots, and a calmness that didn't belong to this side of town.
He didn't need to look around to feel eyes on him. The saloon went a bit quieter as he stepped inside, boots tapping against the warped boards. He was recognized, of course he was.
The name McLaughlin had already begun to travel through Saint Denis like smoke. Two bounties brought in alive in as many days, both men known killers. He heard it whispered under the din, "That's McLaughlin," "The bounty man," "He's the one who brought in Doran and Weller." The whispers even already starting to call him the "Ghost Tracker."
He ignored the murmurs, walked straight to the counter, and set down fifty cents.
"Bottle of beer, please," he said simply.
The bartender, a lean middle aged man in a dirt streaked apron with arms like barrels, glanced up and grinned when recognition hit him. "Well now I didn't expect this. McLaughlin himself, huh? Ain't every day the famous bounty hunter graces this dump, the names Doyle. What brings ya down from the Bastille to my humble hole?"
Caleb gave a small chuckle. "Thirst, mostly. And maybe a bit of business."
Doyle popped the cap from a brown bottle and slid it across the counter. Caleb caught it, nodded, and took a long, grounding drink. The beer was bitter, not the refined taste of the Bastille's stock, but it was good and clean enough.
"You've been makin' the papers, mister," Doyle said as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. "Word's out you brought in Weller and Doran alive. That's somethin'. Folks say you're making this place safer. Hell, I heard even the officers can't stop talkin' about you."
Caleb smiled faintly, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. "I just do my job. And sometimes, the job involves cleaning up what the law can't handle. Safer city means less trouble for everyone."
"Don't be modest now," Doyle said with a grin. "Ain't many could bring them in alive."
Caleb smirked faintly. "Alive pays better. And I like seeing their faces when the bars close on 'em."
"Ha! Spoken like a true Saint Denis hero." Doyle laughed, then motioned for one of the girls to refill glasses for the nearby patrons before lowering his voice again. "So, what kinda business you got down here in the slums, Mr. Hero?"
Caleb leaned an elbow on the counter. "I'm lookin' for information. There's been talk of a man or thing, stalking the streets at night. People call him the Saint Denis Phantom."
At the mention of the name, Doyle's grin faltered. The laughter around them seemed to fade just slightly, as if the air itself stiffened. "Ah… that one."
"Yeah," Caleb said quietly, watching his reaction. "i thought you might know or heard a thing or two. Word travels through bartenders faster than through cops."
Doyle rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "You're not wrong there. Folks talk after a few drinks, even the ones who shouldn't. You really want to know 'bout that bastard?"
"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't."
Doyle looked around, checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then leaned closer. "Alright. Some say he's been lurkin' near the alleys behind the market. Others swear they saw him around the old printing press, place been shut down for years now. Always at night, never before midnight. Victims found pale as ghosts, two neat holes in the neck, just like the papers say. Folks say it's a vampire like in the books, sure… but I've been around long enough to smell men when they hide behind legends. This one's no monster, he's just a man who likes to make others think he is."
Caleb's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And have you seen him?"
"Once. Thought it was a drunk at first, skinny, white as chalk, eyes like a spooked rat. Wore a coat too fine for these streets. But when I looked again, he was gone. Vanished. Some say he lives under the city, in the old drainage tunnels." Doyle crossed his arms. "That's all I know. You want more, talk to old Greg two streets over. Sleeps by the butcher's back door. Claims he saw the Phantom draggin' a body near the river a week ago."
Caleb nodded, finishing the bottle in one long pull. "You've been helpful, Doyle. If this turns out to be another madman playing dress up, I'll make sure his body's the last thing to vanish in this city."
Doyle chuckled grimly. "Just don't let him bite you, McLaughlin. A bit of an advice, go after him before full dark. No sense lettin' him have the shadows on his side."
Caleb smirked "Appreciate it. You keep safe, Doyle."
The barkeep gave a half smile. "You too, Mr. Hero. I'd hate to lose the only decent man Saint Denis has left."
Caleb finished his beer, set the bottle down, and turned toward the door. The room's noise picked up again as he walked out, the whispers trailing him like the smoke that clung to the rafters.
Outside, the city's filth pressed close. He could smell the river not far off, thick with rot. The slums were quieter by daylight, too many people either working or sleeping off the night before. He followed the narrow, twisting alleys toward the butcher's shop Doyle mentioned.
He found Greg exactly where Doyle said he'd be, an old drunk hunched beside a stack of crates, wrapped in a blanket that might've once been blue. A bottle dangled from his hand, and his eyes flicked open lazily when Caleb approached.
"You Greg?" Caleb asked.
"Who's askin'?"
"McLaughlin. Bounty hunter. I'm lookin' for the Phantom."
That name woke him up faster than a slap. George pushed himself upright, squinting. "You mean the pale bastard with the dead eyes? Yeah, I seen 'im. Down by the canal, three nights back. Draggin' somethin' big behind him, looked like a body. Didn't stick around to find out. You crazy goin' after him, mister."
"I've been called worse," Caleb replied, crouching. "Where exactly?"
"North end of the drainage tunnels. There's a ladder leadin' down behind the old printer's building. That's where he goes when the sun comes up. I seen 'im do it."
Caleb tossed him a silver dollar. "Appreciate it. Buy yourself breakfast."
The drunk blinked at the coin like it was made of gold. "You sure you wanna go down there, mister? Ain't nobody comes out the same if they do."
Caleb straightened. "Then I'll just have to be the exception."
He moved quickly through the twisting alleys, his mind already mapping a path. The old printing press wasn't far, an abandoned structure near the river where rats and the city's forgotten gathered. When he found it, the place looked exactly as he expected, crumbling bricks, windows boarded up, a rusted sign barely hanging on by one chain.
Behind it, half hidden by weeds, was a narrow metal ladder descending into darkness.
He drew his Litchfield, cocked it quietly, then took a deep breath and began to climb down.
The air below was thick and wet, smelling of mold and stagnant water. His boots splashed lightly as he hit the bottom. The tunnels stretched out before him, lined with brick arches and crawling shadows. Somewhere ahead, a faint drip echoed.
He turned on his lantern, the warm light cutting a thin path through the dark. Minutes passed, quiet except for his footsteps. Then, a sound. Soft. Like cloth scraping stone. Caleb raised the repeater, eyes narrowing toward a corner where the tunnel curved.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 6/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 3)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 2)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 1)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,858 dollars and 20 cents
Inventory: 104,369 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, & 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key
Bank: -