Karel took off his jacket. He removed his pistol, his badge, his phone. He took the rowan pouch from his pocket and placed it on the ground—a small act of respect to Paní Bílková, whose warning he had ignored.
That night, Karel examined the statue in his room. It was unremarkable—carved with crude skill, perhaps eighteenth century, the stone stained with old wax and what looked like dried blood. He scraped a sample for DNA analysis, though he knew the village had no lab. He’d have to drive to Brno tomorrow. czech hunter 10
Then he took the creature’s hand.
That night, Karel went back to the quarry. He brought a thermal camera, a voice recorder, and a pistol loaded with standard 9mm rounds—useless against folklore, but comforting. He descended into the chamber again. The children’s belongings were gone. In their place, written on the floor in what looked like charcoal but smelled like ozone, was a single word in archaic Czech: VYMĚNA —Exchange. Karel took off his jacket
“Case closed. Five survivors. Location—Devil’s Jaw quarry, secondary chamber. No further search required. Tell my mother I love her. And tell Paní Bílková… the rowan works. Just not for me.” That night, Karel examined the statue in his room
He dreamed of the forest—but not as it was. The trees were burning. The sky was the color of a bruise. And in the clearing stood a figure, tall and thin, with antlers branching from its skull like a crown of thorns. Its face was smooth, featureless, save for three vertical slits where a mouth should be. It did not speak. But Karel understood: You took what was mine. Bring it back before the next new moon, or I will take what is yours.