In the tree line.
Lurking.
Its dual faces twitching and gibbering in discord. One side grins, skeletal. The other, melts like wax. But it’s not attacking. It’s staggering.
Backing away.
Like it’s…hurt?
Kursk steps forward, spear glowing faintly. “Again,” he commands. “Play it again.”
“What?”
“The riff,” I say. “The thing that just almost broke the garage door off its hinges. Play it.”
Burnout shrugs. “If we die, I’m blaming you.”
He strums.
The same dirty, grimy progression. That soupy riff that sounds like doom had a baby with delta blues and fed it nothing but beer and bad decisions.
The Vorfaluka screams.
High-pitched and furious.
Then itruns.
Just disappears into the woods, its limbs flailing like broken kites.
Dead silence follows.
Booger is the first to speak.
“Okay. What the actualhelljust happened?”
Kursk is staring at the amp, brow furrowed, lips moving in quiet reverence. “The rhythm,” he mutters. “It mimics the battle chants. Discordant enough to break the tether. The cadence—it echoes the chant of the Black Crags.”
I blink at him. “Wait… are you saying we just discovered the monster’s weakness?”
“Yes,” he says, slowly, reverently. “Your cursed lightning-box… sings the music of war.”
Burnout throws his hands in the air. “Itoldyou it was jazz!”
Booger’s already scrambling for his phone. “Dude. If we livestream this?—”
“No livestreams,” I bark. “This stays in the group.”
Burnout frowns. “Scooby Gang from Hell rules?”
“Exactly,” I say.
Kursk turns to me, eyes gleaming. “This… this could change the tide. We must learn to harness this sound. Weaponize it.”
Booger grins like he’s just been told he gets to fight crime with power chords. “Time to shred the undead.”
“Guys,” I say, heart pounding with adrenaline and the weight of what we just saw, “we might’ve just turned the tide.”
I glance at Kursk.
