sinnabird | The Terrifying Rarity of Truth (Equality Exchange Fic) (Reply)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Rating: M
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Summary: Excerpt from the Hunting Journal of Julia Montauk, regarding the acquisition of an unusual book.
The Hunting Journal of Julia Montauk

5 May, 2016

We’ve been tracking this one for six days now. I follow the scent of it in my sleep, and when I wake we go after it. It’s much better prey than the last one. Clever enough to try to play tricks on us. Three of those days we spent following a false trail. I knew by day two, but it really is so much more fun to let the prey think they’ve escaped. Makes the fear taste so much better when we do catch up to them.

So we followed the false trail to the end, and then had no trouble picking up the real one.

That’s the other thing about prey that thinks it’s clever. Once it decides it’s outsmarted you, it gets lazy. It gets sloppy.

We’re parked outside the motel now, waiting for it to come out. When it does, we find a discreet corner and kill it like the monster it is.

(Like the monster I have become. But something needs to stop these creatures, and if I have to become a monster myself to do so that doesn’t seem like such a bad trade. Other little girls will be safe because this one – already damaged - gave in to her crueler instincts.)

I can already smell the stench of death. I only hope our prey can smell it, too.

The monster is dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Trevor shot him from behind, and then it was my turn. I like to get in close to my victims.

Stab.

Slash.

Blood spattering on my face as my knife sinks into unwilling flesh.

There’s a high to it. An ecstasy.

I used to try to lie to myself.

I don’t anymore.

I love it.

I apologize for how illegible that last bit seems to be. It’s hard to write clearly with the blood on my fingers and in my head.

I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I don’t really think anyone will be reading this. Or at least, not anyone who won’t understand. Think I might be making my own cursed book here. I always wondered how they came to be, and now I think I can guess.

At least I can trust that fool won’t get his hands on it. No fancy little nameplate: “From the Library of-”

It’ll be my name and mine alone they talk about when this becomes an urban legend.

Well, almost alone. Let’s be honest here. My dad’s legacy will always come first. It’ll be the journal of the serial killer’s daughter. But I don’t mind that so much anymore.

My father was a hunter too. Maybe not like me, but he hunted all the same.

I remember that used to be something that caused me so much conflict. I never tried to pretend that he didn’t do it, but it seemed so confusing to me that the man who was so kind to me could be equally capable of so much cruelty to others.

Now, I don’t know why the two seemed so incompatible to me. Seems to me that anyone’s capable of both sides of things. It isn’t just us hunters that classify people as “pack” and “prey” when it comes down to it.

On the subject of Leitner’s books, that monster was carrying one. Fancy nameplate and everything. It’s a horrid little thing, made of human skin and filled with the stories of people’s deaths. We tried burning it, but it wouldn’t catch. No surprise there, really.

The real surprise came up when I was reading one of the stories out to Trevor. It was supposed to be a joke. He found them morbid and creepy. I found them hilarious. After reading tabloids and true crime websites about my childhood, I’ve grown immune to any combination of words you can put on a page.

I started with the last one, because I’d been teasing Trevor a few hours earlier about his fear of dying in a hospital.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when a ghost showed up - a sad goth with a fading dye job and a lot of tattoos. Not what I had been expecting when I read out his death. Then again, I suppose I’m not one to judge anyone else’s fashion choices.

He was so… oddly desperate, too. Told us he could help. I think he was just so happy to have someone to talk to. The way he tells us, he’s been aware and in pain every second since he died. That’s… more time than I care to think.

I don’t know what to think about his claim to helpfulness. He seems to know a lot about the supernatural world. He definitely knows more about it than me or Trevor. Or thinks he does.

I… might want to ask him some questions.

Notes on the Nature of Fear

Our new friend started off by telling us that Monsters are Real.
(I already knew that)
According to some asshole named Smirke, there are 14 categories of Monsters. Or 14 Fear deities and their servants, if you like.
Trevor has hunted monsters from most of these categories, at one time or another.
The one we’ve given ourselves to is called The Hunt.
Maxwell Rayner led a cult devoted to The Dark.
The names are pretty self-explanatory, for the most part. Apparently, stuffy old architects are allergic to creativity.
My father’s murders were most likely in service of Rayner’s cult. His death? Definitely so.
I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.
The ghost looked… sad… when he was telling about all that – the cult, and my father, and my father’s murder.
I suppose a woman named Julia asking about Maxwell Rayner and Robert Montauk isn’t a hard puzzle to solve.
I’d have punched him for pitying me if there wasn’t such an element of self-pity in it. I suspect he has his own parental sob story. Might explain the academic knowledge of monsters.
He wasn’t kidding about knowing things. He understands how these monsters work, and the best ways to defeat them.
Gerard Keay claims he’s never killed anything, despite the murder charges. Only rescued people from the clutches of the monsters. How very… noble… of him.

There’s been a series of murders in West Virginia, so we’re off again. Victims torn to pieces and rebuilt as elaborate sculptures. Sure to be horrifying. I can't wait.

I tossed the cursed book in the trunk. We haven’t figured out how to destroy it yet, and we definitely can’t leave it behind to ensnare some other poor sucker. I don’t want to come back to Pittsburgh anytime soon.

In the meantime, it can’t hurt to ask for some advice….