These stories first appeared in Hunt's Book of Weapons, an in-game collection of found documents curated by an unknown researcher. They are replicated here in their original format. This means that many of the stories are not presented chronologically, or in one grouping, and it is left to the reader to put together the puzzle pieces and determine to what extent they contain fact, fiction, or fable.

Prior to the launch of Hunt: Showdown 1896, this weapon was named the Caldwell 92 New Army. Our Variant terminology was also simplified. We have updated the names where relevant, but you may still see the more period accurate names within the lore texts.

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New Army

CALDWELL 92 NEW ARMY (See also, CALDWELL PAX, REVOLVERS) The Caldwell 92 New Army was developed by the Caldwell Arms Company as requested by the US Military. After 20 years of using the reliable Caldwell Pax, many soldiers were not satisfied with the weaker shot of the New Army's .38 bullets. But despite its lack of power, the highlight of this double-action revolver is its distinguished counter-clockwise rotating cylinder that swings out to allow for an effortless reload. Fast, light, and easy to handle, it was adopted not only by the US Army and Navy but also by police departments throughout the country.

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Letter found in the uniform of a guard from Pelican Island Prison
Author: "Theo" (Surname unknown)
Undated
Torn paper, handwritten, 8.5" x 5.7"

Dear Abbie,

I wish I had the strength to write you happy lies because Lord knows I already caused you and Mama enough suffering for a lifetime. But I beg you to spare me your kindness once more, for I fear this is my last chance to expel these demons before they're buried with me.

Something unholy happens between these walls. I have not seen it with my own eyes, but we all know it to be true. The guards come to collect us at night break when our bodies are weak and spent from a day's worth of steady toil. No one knows how they choose, but they come with their minds already made. They snatch a man from his bedsheets and haul his struggling body from his cell. If the poor fellow manages to break free, they'll have their Caldwells ready to aim for his knees.

They disappear down to the basement, where the Warden lives. He never comes to the cells, but I swear I can see him when I try to sleep. A long face with hollow cheeks and a darting tongue that grows fat from our misery and fear.

For hours straight, we can hear nothing but pain. We try to sleep through the first muffled whimpers. We awake before dawn with the enraged yells. We wash down our scraps of food with pleading sobs. We tend to work in the rhythm of agonizing howls. When we're back to bed, the silence comes. And we wish for the screams to return because our selfish souls fear we might be next.

One of the guards has taken pity on me, for whichever reason I could not tell you. He promised me he'll see that this letter reaches you, and I can only hope he's sincere. He shows me kindness and offers solace on the hardest of days. Has even made me laugh once. It's fleeting and useless, but it's the only thing keeping me sane in this wretched place.

But despite his good intentions, I'm afraid my friend has sealed my fate. I've noticed the other guards giving us odd looks, and I hear their whispers stop when I look their way.
I'm not afraid of dying, Abbie. But no sin is evil enough to deserve what happens in that basement.

Forever your little brother,
Theo

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Notes on the Investigation
Handwritten, author unknown

November, 1897

As curious and intellectually thrilling as it may have been, the incident has been regarded as an unsolvable mystery even by the most famous investigators of New York, among whom my former mentor and colleague cut his teeth and learned the trade of mystery solving.

Although he was devilishly talented in the art of investigation, he lacked the mental diligence our profession required. I sometimes even wondered as to whether it was the very reason why he kept me by his side. It's not important anymore though; may he rest in peace.

While going through his belongings the previous night, I came across his notes and sketches he relied upon during the investigation at Pelican Island Prison, Louisiana. I must admit, some of the writings he stumbled upon on the walls of certain prison cells rekindled my curiosity as they all point at the infamous basement of the Prison. Is it possible that they are linked to the rumors locals have reported since 1894?

To study them further in the future, should the opportunity arise of course, I've included the most cryptic writings in this dossier:

Cell 33
HELL MUST BE HERE MUST BE
WHER DEMONS LURK AND SINNERS SCREEEM
LORD YOU THERE BELOW TOO I KNOW YES I KNOW

Cell 27
SMELLS BLOOD ROT DECAY MOLDY FLESH
NIGHT CAME HOUNDS HUNGRY HOWL
CRUNCH AND MUNCH AND BITE AND SCRATCH
NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE

Cell 57
GHOSTS SCREAM
I HATE THEYR SCREAM
THEYL LOVE WHEN I SCREAM

Cell 47
I HEAR THEM AGAIN SHAMING ME
I NEED HER TO KNOW AND SHE WILL SOON
DOES SHE REMEMBER ME?
PLEASE GOD LET IT REACH HER

New Army Dumdum Ammo

RN: Nearly everything we know about what happened on Pelican Island comes from sources that were not stored in the archive, which in the fire and flood destroyed the island's secrets. But for letters in the possession of others, and one box unlicked and unmarked by the flames.

New Army FMJ Ammo

RN: Who were the inmates subjected to such torture? The prison served DeSalle, the parish, the crimes of its people were somewhat unremarkable. Tax fraud, unpaid fines, petty theft, all were enough to earn a sentence. What kind of justice is that?

New Army Swift

CALDWELL 92 NEW ARMY SWIFT (See also, CALDWELL PAX, REVOLVERS) The Caldwell 92 New Army Swift is a peripheral attachment to the reliable pistol. The innovative, counterclockwise rotating cylinder has been further enhanced by using a speed loader to insert all six bullets at once. Though not an official modification adopted by the US military or police forces, it is an invaluable tool in fast-paced combat.

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Journal of Candice Rouille
Handwritten, leather-bound, 4" x 6"

April 8, 1895

I'm at a bit of a loss. New York has finally requested my return, and I'm to report back within the week. Jack says to ignore the message, that they won't waste manpower tracking either of us down, but we left very different lives in New York, lives that I can't help but miss, even if just a little. What could be so important that they'd call for me?

After the last six months, a proper homecoming could grant me the retribution I so crave. I have exceeded every estimation, disproven every mockery. I still carry the cross of my spite. Yet now I also carry an oath of secrecy in the name of the Hunt. It was sworn with a mind towards betrayal, though, and they are a pack who would most definitely betray me for a pittance. In my heart, I doubt the crusade here remains a righteous one, nor do I see an end in sight.

April 9, 1895

Today's Hunt was lucrative, yielding more than enough to feast on the road to New York. But I am struck, once again, with doubt. Am I making the wrong choice? Perhaps it was seeing Hardin's smug face that made me second guess. I can only imagine it'd look even more smug once he hears I'm leaving. I had half a mind to load my Caldwell pistol to see if six quick bullets might wipe the grin away.

April 12, 1895

I have decided. Distance may have bred fondness for New York, but all that awaits me there are bastards I wish to humble. Here, I have a forever partner in battle and plenty more bastards to humble. Regardless, I have only one true reason to remain, and it is not gold or glory or companionship. In truth, I simply wish to stain my hands even darker with blood. A Good Friday indeed.

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