The Cabin Is Always Hungry (A Dungeon Core Horror Slasher)

DEAD PACIFICA
Part 2

Mother Gertrude's book club was attended by a few of the residents of the dungeon.

Including myself.

As much as I didn't want to admit, it was pleasant to talk to people about books and stories even if they were literal monsters. It was Circe's turn to pick a book, and being a hopeless romantic, she chose The Cruel Prince for the whole club to read. I just finished chapter twelve last night, and it already got to some exciting parts. I am not a big reader of romantic fantasy, especially the spicy ones people over on the internet loved to devour, but I liked all types of genres.

By ten o'clock in the morning, I was already nearing Mother Gertude's cottage. It sat at the edge of the Lower Glade, nestled into a lazy hill where moss crept up the stones. It was built in the style of a medieval Tudor home, as if it had time-traveled from a village where plague doctors still roamed. Half-timbered walls framed the cottage in dark, sturdy beams and white plaster. The roof sagged in places, heavy with mossy fur. Smoke puffed lazily from the crooked brick chimney, smelling faintly of wormwood, cinnamon, and something floral—none of which paired well but somehow smelled like home.

I walked past the front garden, which was filled with wildflowers tangled with carnivorous blossoms that snapped at fat bees and other insects. A wooden wheelbarrow overflowed with mushrooms in impossible colors like radioactive orange, bruised purple, and bone-white. A stone path wound through it all, uneven and strangely warm underfoot. Clusters of dried herbs dangled from the crooked porch beams of the cottage, rattling softly in the breeze. Lavender. Nightshade. A bouquet of something red and stringy. A battered wooden sign hung beside the door: NO CURSING, NO FIGHTING, NO MESS.

As I approached, a window creaked open next to the front door. Gertude's face appeared behind the glass, round and flushed, eyes twinkling like she knew every embarrassing secret I'd ever had. She was in her less monstrous form and instead assumed a portly, sharp-tongued, seventy-year-old woman with frizzy graying hair wound into a bun. No claws. No greenish tinge to her flesh. No teeth like oyster shells. Under this form she looked like someone's grandmother who would scold you for leaving the milk out on the counter for too long.

The door opened.

Mother Gertrude pursed her lips. "What did I say, my liege?" she asked, voice carrying that grandmotherly disappointment.

I was confused for a moment, then I realized what she implied. "Oops. Sorry."

Her eyes narrowed. "There will be no floating gods in my cottage. Bad for the upholstery and my plants."

"Sorry, Mother Gert."

"But I've already brewed your favorite tea, sire. I didn't forget."

I sighed and activated [ Shapechanger ].

My form coalesced into a new shape as my Power radiated into a thin, invisible filament that stretched outward into the waiting avatar behind the veil of this world. The air around me fizzed and crinkled like a TV screen losing signal, reality glitching for a second or two. Then, the world snapped into focus.

A man in his early thirties stood where my shadow had been. Nicely dressed in a dark, tailored suit with a red tie, and a pair of nicely-polished shoes. Dark hair combed back with faint waves that complemented my dark eyes. I slipped behind his gaze and blinked at Mother Gertrude.

As I upgraded my Core over the past year, a part of me still missed the old self. Shapechanger allowed me to enjoy a semblance of my old life, if only for a brief moment, by inhabiting different forms. I could turn into an eight-year-old girl with pigtails, a middle-aged housewife in the 60s, and even an old homeless man wearing his army jacket from Vietnam. But I could never shape my old body no matter how hard I've tried to find loopholes.

And believe me, I've tried.

I didn't know why I did even if the System's rules were clear, and it prevented me from doing so. No surprise there.

Instead, the fifth avatar I molded became a reflection of the old Mark Castle.

A pale, gaunt, and naked faceless man with long limbs and tall legs.

I reserved that form for special occasions only.

"Happy?" I asked as I smoothed the creases of my suit jacket. Mother Gertrude preferred beings she could see. It had something to do with her hag's eye, an innate ability of hers that could see the true reflection of another being, and, based on what she told me, mine was blinding that it hurt her sometimes to look at me. So, for her convenience, I mostly shape change when I was in her presence.

She smiled. "Ah. That's more likely. Come in. The others are already here."

"Always lovely to walk normally for once instead of flying all the time."

"Oh, hush now, my sweet lordling. I wish I can fly just to lighten my bones. It ain't funny to be an old woman everyday."

"I've seen you conjure a younger version of you."

"Bah!" Mother Gertrude spat on the ground. "Wearing such skin makes my skin crawl."

"Hags aren't a fan of beautiful women?"

"As I've told you, we only wear them for our prey, not for a casual stroll."

"Eh, I don't know. You might get used to it like I did."

"Oh, hush, you. Please, my lord. Get in. I'll pour you a cup of tea."

I stepped over the threshold and was instantly hit by the aroma of something warm and herbaceous. The floor creaked in greeting under my newly formed leather shoes. The cottage interior was exactly what you'd expect from a hag pretending to be a sweet old lady: Tudor beams, low ceilings, cozy little corners stuffed with books and beaded throw pillows on the couches. And the occasional jar containing something…well, I had no fucking clue.

Mother Gertrude ushered me deeper inside, her bun bobbing with every step. She led me to the back of the cottage where a small, intimate solarium of hers protruding out of the building. Sunlight slanted through green-tinged windows, painting the room in shades of moss and glowing glass. Potted plants crowded every available surface. A small crowd had gathered there, already parked on a couch patched with quilt squares and single wooden chairs arranged in a semi-circle.

I clutched the book tighter under my arm, suddenly very aware that I was attending a book club in the body of a conjured suit-wearing thirty-something executive version of myself. I felt ridiculous for being self-conscious. I am the Dungeon Lord, for crying out loud. But every time I was wearing any of my avatars, I felt naked. I took a deep breath and sat next to Garth Sawyer, who gave me a curt nod and tip of his baseball cap.

"My lord," Garth muttered under his breath He didn't really talk much. Actually, ever since joining the book club and suggested we read The Great Gatsby three months ago, he only spoke three things about it: He liked it. It made him want to be part of the roaring twenties. He thought Gatsby was an asshole. And that was it. He didn't say much during our meetings, except grumble and nod.

Across the semi-circle, Circe and Oracle were already mid-conversation, their voices lilting like twin wind chimes, animatedly picking apart the book. Demon, wearing the body of a college football player named Bolton, had already made it known to the club that he was not a fan of romance.

"I'm just saying," Demon complained loudly, "it's gross. Romance is gross. Why can't they just find some dark corner, do it, and get on with the plot? Saves pages. And nobody's dead yet. How is this entertaining?"

I leaned toward Mother Gertrude. "Is Zal coming?"

"He's always late," Mother Gertrude said until there was a knock on the door. She smiled. "Well, speaking of the devil…"

Mother Gertrude swept back toward the entrance and opened the door.

And Lord Zal-Kutt Urgoa filled the doorway.

Filled as in the doorway was suddenly too small and the cottage became too cramped. Zal had to stoop and duck under the crossbeam with a rattle of bone and fabric. His gaunt, rotting face scanned the room, hollow sockets where his dark purple eyes flickering with blue fire, then he stepped inside and nearly sent a vase tumbling.

"I have told you many times, woman," he intoned, catching the vase with preternatural speed before gently setting it back on the shelf. "You must refurbish your home to accommodate beings of grander stature such as I."

"You want me to knock down the supporting walls and my lovely ceiling for your convenience?" she asked, hand to her hip.

"Yes," he said immediately.

"Well, why don't you send a dozen of your skeletons over to help an old bat like me, and I'll be sure to accommodate your stature, Zal. Until then, they will stay."

"Thank you for understanding the plight of the tall-folk, hag."

He removed his fur cloak. Zal was always cold even at the tail end of summer. He hung the cloak on the coat rack with exaggerated flourish and proceeded deeper into the cottage, giving Garth a clap on the shoulder as he passed.

Underneath, he looked like he'd walked straight out of a Regency ball…and then stumbled into the Battle of Waterloo. Ornate waistcoat torn at the side, shirt stained with something dark (probably old blood), trousers frayed at the hem, and boots caked in dried muck. Elegant. Horrific. And so, so, Zal.

He gave me a nod that managed to be both regal and slightly judgmental.

"Dungeon Lord," he said. "You look…spruce."

"Thanks," I said. "You look like you lost a fight with a hedge maze."

"This is the fashion of once where I come from. I cannot help it that these lands wear bi-ky-nees and short trousers up to your bum, or no tunics at all. Disgraceful."

Unlike the Sawyers, Goliath, and Duke Henry and his vampire spawns, Mother Gertrude and Lord Urgoa came from the lands far, far from Earth. Mother Gertrude herself was a wise woman for the fey-folk of the Winter Court. And based on what Lord Urgoa told me about where he came from, his world was perpetually stuck in the early 19th century though it did not share the same history as ours. The fashion, the technology, and his manners. Unlike our version of 19th century, magic existed in congruent to the same technological advances as us in Zal's old world. He was defeated by a bunch of revolutionaries, his soul sent to wander both space and time, and found me calling to him.

And of course, he accepted.

The rest was history.

"You mean bikinis?" Demon asked, humoring him.

"I said what I said, Bolton," Zal sat next to Demon. "Wait, did you already start without me?"

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"You were late, big guy," Demon said.

"Ah. I was busy brewing a potion for my complexion."

"Have anything to share?" Mother Gertrude asked.

"No, that would be unwise."

Mother Gertrude rolled her eyes. "Anyway, why don't we all start over, eh?"

We all settled again to discussing the book and Zal pulled out the book from his pocket, turning the page to chapter twelve. But before we could start, Oracle got up from his seat and looked at me.

"My lord," he said. "I think you need to see this."

Everyone paused what they were doing and looked at him as if he just grew two heads.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Something…very interesting."

We watched their video seven times now.

Watched the entire series twice over.

Our little book club forgotten and we watched the video all day instead.

Ever since Oracle had brought up Dylan Griffin and Retto Kearns's popular true-crime podcast to me a few months ago, I've watched all sixty-four episodes in less than a week. They talked about the murders and the rising missing persons reports around North Cedar Lake. They didn't exclusively talked about me, but also the other murders and cold cases throughout the region as well, ranging from the northern borders of Washington to the southern coast of California. They called their program, Dead Pacifica. A slick name. Edgy. Marketable. They'd built a whole empire on corpses, turning these murders into a dinner-table, office, or classroom gossip for several months.

Now, I was one of their greatest hits.

But they couldn't deny that their—as of now—thirty-part series about Hell Rock (aka the North Cedar Lake dungeon), which made up less than half of their content, was one of their most popular series to date, each garnering between four to five million views consistently, and what propelled them into true-crime super stardom. They were part of the top ten earners in several platforms, nabbed a book deal from a prominent publishing house, and were even approached by Amazon, Paramount, and Netflix, causing a bidding war on the rights of their show to turn their show into a proper TV series.

I could practically hear the dollar signs clicking behind their eyes as these opportunities pour through their door. When they found Brian Greeley's body a year ago, which should have cancelled them into obscurity, they turned that around into a well-oiled money-making machine. Even though a good chunk of the country still hated Dylan Griffin and his juvenile antics in the past, he had become a multi-millionaire within the span of a year (he was already a millionaire before from his past content).

I supposed having a shit-ton of money made it easier to ride the hate train all the way to the bank and ignore the naysayers.

Engagement is still engagement, I thought.

Maybe I should thank them for the free publicity, sparing me the cost of crystals and activations of [ Rumor ] to slowly spread my reputation. Twenty of their fans made the pilgrimage north this year, lured by their podcast, their outlandish theories, the shenanigans they come up with in each episode with their celebrity and influencer guests, and their cheap conclusions about the cases they were discussing, most of which didn't have anything new to say about those said cases. Those twenty fans died before the sun came up. Most of them didn't even made it past midnight.

I didn't feed on all their fans that came to visit me though. That would only bring more suspicion and a heap of trouble that I did not need to deal with right now. I let most of them just wander around my domain and come out totally disappointed when they turned up with nothing paranormal or spooky going on. Dylan and Retto had covered the paranormal side of these investigations, which their fans were obsessed with. But they ended up going home and posting on their various socials that Hell Rock wasn't even that haunted or scary.

But the views and scenery are nice, said plenty of them, which I was flattered with.

Not many people get to admire my body, and for that, all I had to say was, Thank You.

When I first heard about their show, my first instinct was to put a stop to it before it spread any further. I even considered sending Goliath and Demon to Los Angeles where they filmed and recorded their podcast. And then I thought about it some more when the first fan of theirs entered my domain, and I changed my mind. They were useful and I couldn't deny the opportunity presented to me.

Free snacks are free snacks.

But with my growing notoriety, it wasn't just the fans who made their pilgrimage to my dungeon. I simply called them the Hunters, the few men and women who had seen other monstrosities preying at the periphery of human society, and instead of burying their heads in the sand and forgetting about what they saw, they sought out these supernatural entities across the world to eradicate them for good. Only three small groups of hunters had ventured into my domain so far.

They thought they were saving the world.

And I must say, they put up quite a good and entertaining fight that the Immaran Guild and the Administrators loved, but they didn't last any longer than the influencers with GoPros, and sadly, I left no survivors.

There were other hunters too, more organized than the disparate groups that entered my domain. Unlike them, they had the common sense to stay out of the way. Instead, they observed, learned, and waited (just like me!) for the perfect time to strike.

And I am eager for the day when that comes, I thought.

But at this point, they might as well just give it another twenty years.

It made me fully aware that there were other threats outside my borders besides the Cult of Astaroth, and that Earth might be inhabited by a small population of other entities. I've instructed Oracle and the other archetypes to keep a vigilant eye on them, especially the various military bases and secret facilities by the US government like Area 51 or NORAD in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. Unfortunately, Area 51was a complete disappointment when I learned that they didn't have secret aliens in a deep freezer underground, but they did have several highly-classified and advanced experimental weapons and aircrafts, and a handful of laboratories they were building and testing bioweapons with. I kept tabs on the people in them, nonetheless.

The boring stuff, I thought.

But Oracle did gain plenty of access to the scattered nuclear missile silos west of the Mississippi River, and the codes to launch them. I didn't know what to do with them, so I left them alone. For now.

Yes, it had been an uneventful first year as a Death Core. Ever since I lost contact with Kevin Yates, the cult hadn't made their next move. Yet. But it came as a blessing in disguise. I fed more. I grew more. I expanded my borders in solitude. I prepared for the inevitable. Met several delvers before I ate them. That was nice.

A very quiet and peaceful year to get used to my new existence.

And I also made new friends!

Which was also very nice.

But Dead Pacifica's new video piqued my interest.

It simply read: A Special Announcement.

"Oh, these bozos again," Garth said. He wasn't a fan of these podcasters.

The others tried to shush him as we watched the video.

The live video, with twenty thousand people already tuning in, began with their overproduced suspenseful opening credits heavily inspired by True Detective and then the title card. Dylan Griffin sat center frame, clean-shaven and sun-kissed with that well-fed California charisma. His co-host, Retto Kearns, lounged beside him on a gray studio couch, wearing a branded hoodie too expensive for someone pretending to be "relatable." The studio's done up in tasteful noir but cozy aesthetics—muted colors, framed photos of old crime scenes behind them, soundproof foam like dark honeycomb across the walls. They're smiling, hyped, giddy.

"Welcome back to Dead Pacifica, deadmuckers," Dylan said, flashing that trademark grin. The voice was radio butter, just the right mix of confidence and seriousness in tone that him quite pleasant to listen to. No wonder he was popular. "We've got a very special announcement for our livestream and it has something to do with our upcoming seventieth episode, but first we just want to thank our fans for getting us here and for continuing to support us!"

Then, Dylan and Retto went off into a ten-minute spiel by patting themselves on the back on their channel's success and how amazing they were all thanks to their fans and the help of several sponsors and their close friends and family. They touched upon the brief history of their channel, some of their viral moments, and why they started doing this in the first place. Although they completely didn't mention the Brian Greeley stuff that got them cancelled, which was very disingenuous of them.

But there was also another reason why they started it: Money.

Cue the dramatic pause to a segment for their sponsors which lasted two whole minutes that bored me.

Then, Retto leaned forward, palms steepled like he's delivering a TED Talk, and seemed like he couldn't hold in his excitement for their latest project. "That's right, Pacifica fans. Dylan and I, and the rest of the Dead Pacifica crew, are going to Hell Rock!"

The applauding crowd track wasn't real, but the enthusiasm was. Their crew behind the camera clapped and hooted. The hosts beamed at each other like they've just solved world hunger. A graphic burst on-screen showing a digital map of Washington and Oregon, the words HELL ROCK LIVE! splattered across it in dripping red letters.

"No, we are not joking, deadmuckers. You heard that right!" Dylan said. "This podcast has produced over, as of filming this livestream, sixty-four episodes of several cold cases across the west coast, but as we all know, Hell Rock is the most notorious of the bunch. On the 70th episode of Dead Pacifica me, Retto, and several of our friends are going to Oregon and explore North Cedar Lake and McLaren Forest ourselves. We'll even have a psychic on our team! We are going to do an uninterrupted livestream on location during the anniversary of the Point Hope Massacre. But we are not going alone! Come on in, folks. Sit on the couch with us!"

Retto's girlfriend, Emily Jurek appeared first and joined the couch—twenty-something, blonde, big blue eyes. I recognized her for her makeup and beauty tutorials on YouTube and TikTok. Then Megan Adler tumbled into the frame, a TikTok skit comedian and actress, who had been in several guest starring roles on comedy shows on TV. Anton Lozano, best friends with Retto, an avid-gamer and YouTube royalty with thirty million subscribers across four platforms, made his entrance next, flexing his easy, cool charm. And finally, Collette Quezada, an OnlyFans darling and Instagram model who made quite a lot of noise in the internet. She blew a kiss to the camera and the chat section exploded with hearts and shocked-face emojis. They packed onto the couch like overexcited children at a sleepover.

"Ahh! I'm so glad to be here!" Emily exclaimed. "I'm super ready to be scared out of my pants again!" She and the others went to a haunted house last Halloween, which they filmed a whole video about, and she was declared by her fans as a bonafide scream queen because of her powerful shrieks during that video, which reminded me of Jamie Lee Curtis and Samara Weaving's. She was proud to receive such adoration from her fans, and the chat was blowing up with excitement now that she's joining the cast.

"Me too! I love camping and this is just taking this into a whole new level, you know?" Megan laughed and sat next to Emily. "Be ready for some of my hot takes about these cases!"

"Holy crap! There's like forty thousand people watching us right now," Anton said excitedly.

"I'm also glad to be here, too," Collette said. She put her arm around Dylan. "I'm not a very outdoorsy person, I'm a proud city princess. But I'm excited to tackle something totally different!"

"So here's the plan, guys," Dylan started. "We are dividing episode seventy into a four-part series. The Dead Pacifica crew and our dear friends are heading up north—straight to North Cedar Lake. The creepy forest, the legends, the disappearances…we're going to see it all and experience it all for the next four days. Live. We will interview the locals that we've managed to get approval with, meet the mayor, the police, and investigate the cases from the very place it happened. Cameras will be rolling nonstop. No scripts. Just us, the woods, and whatever's out there. And on our last night, me and my friends are going to stay at Hell Rock for the whole night until dawn!"

Cue the spooky ghost music.

"If you've been watching our show for a long time, you already know the urban legends of the Selene Mountain," Dylan continued. "Face your fears in the forest, last until dawn, and gain the one thing you desire. This is not some Blair Witch Project knock-off. This is not a movie. This is reality, baby! And we will find out if these legends are true or not."

More spooky music thrummed through the screen.

The others whooped and clapped. Retto raised a can of beer. Collette leaned into Dylan's shoulder and grinned for the eventual thumbnail that drew attention to her cleavage. Emily did a little mock scream, playing the part of the scaredy-cat girlfriend, giving the viewers enough hints that she'd probably be the one who would scream and get frightened a lot during the livestream. Anton said something about streaming it for his followers too, by creating what he called "The Hell Rock Challenge, baby!" and Megan pretended to be a zombie by raising her hands up like a claw and moaning for brains at the camera. Since it would be closer to Halloween, Megan, Retto, and Anton pulled out an Ouija board, promising that they'd contact some of the spirits at some point during the livestream, and Dylan also promised one of the four episodes would be dedicated to the paranormal theories that everyone had about Hell Rock.

"But there's more!" Retto said. "This will not be the full crew going there. We are inviting three of our lucky deadmuckers to join us in Hell Rock! You'll get to meet us, the crew, be featured in our videos, and, face the mystery of this strange mountain ahead. Give this video a thumbs up and subscribe to our channel. You do have to be a subscriber before you can sign-up on the link down below and send us a video telling us all about yourselves. Yes, we will host an audition for our fans! We will pay for your flight and hotel to join us at Hell Rock next month!"

The video ended with the whole group smiling and waving into the lens, excited for this project.

"See you soon at Hell Rock," Dylan said, winking before the video ended and looped back to the beginning.

I paused the video. Let it die on the last frame of Dylan's frozen grin mid-wink; the others smiling as well.

Demon, Lord Zal, Oracle, Mother Gertrude, Garth, and Circe waited for my response. They saw the same video I did in a bunch of iPads that Oracle distributed around the cottage.

"My lord, is there anything we can—" Zal began.

I stopped him. "Hold on. I'm thinking."

The others remained quiet, waiting for my word.

I let the silence breathe around me and my archetypes for a long moment. My awareness of thousands of voices rippled through the Cascades, brushing against the black pine and stone, and the sound that came back was a low, vibrating hum deep in the roots of the forest, the lake, and the riverbeds. It might be just my anticipation or excitement. The kind that washed over me before a storm. I muted their voices until I could only hear my own.

It's been a year since I made any real, big moves. A year of restraint. I've been content to lurk in the dark, to let my hunger be satiated slow and steady, threading itself through this continent like veins of black mercury. Building a second dungeon in New York was still my goal. That's where the cult was the strongest. That's where I'll cut out the cancer, and bring the war right to their doorstep. I was already working at dismantling the pillars that kept the Astarothian sect in that city afloat. All to season the meat before my coming feast. Killed a couple of billionaires. Liquidated several assets. Tipped the authorities of their various "extra-curricular" activities.

Eighty-nine essences.

That's all I needed.

Eighty-nine essences to make that vision into a reality.

And now the threads were shifting.

The Dead Pacifica crew were not the only ones coming to delve in the coming weeks.

One long year of staying low and I'm surprised I managed to push it this far. A Death Core's hunger at the juvenile stage usually attracted nations in other worlds within weeks, maybe months, because of the high body count. My restraint was my saving grace for not being killed sooner. But with each mounting body count and scenario, it still created more opportunities for the humans to become aware of my existence. They were making many of their next moves, searching for an advantage, my weaknesses, and positioning themselves on the chess board against me. But I've been building my own army behind-the-scenes, and they had been itching for a bloodbath.

So, maybe it's time.

Time to bare my teeth.

I triggered [ Fractal Omniscience ].

I wanted to spy on my future delvers and see what I was dealing with.

"Oracle?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Tap into their feeds. Let us have eyes in the south," I said.