Researcher's Insight into the Brute
Undated

Aside from having one head instead of two, the body of the thing known amongst Hunters as a Brute appeared strikingly similar to that of Ursa Mortis—at first. Both had the physiology to move exceptionally quickly, follow the scent of blood, and damage the eardrums of anyone within range of its deafening roar. Both creatures exhibited extensive scarring inconsistent with anything naturally occurring, but there was one stark difference between the two: the "scars" of the Brute appeared to have been inflicted once the bear was already dead.

It is a rare thing for me to regret coming across evidence that could contribute to my research. But this so-called "manifesto" authored by a Hunter who refers to himself only as Grahm has plagued my thoughts on the darkest and quietest of nights, when I'm left with nothing but my own knowledge of the Louisiana Incident. If the account that accompanies the manifesto is real, how would it affect our assumptions about the admittedly varied group of people who called themselves Hunters?

Chillingly, Grahm mentions multiple points of reference corroborated by other reports and may detail the very first appearance of a Brute. Reason barely allows us to consider the account as literal. If Grahm's writings are truthful, and not just his own twisted fantasy, what was his motivation? Fear? Control? No. His story points to something much darker—a desire to rival the Corruption's horrors with his own monstrous creations. It points to cruelty. It points to joy.

I am not here to assert solid knowledge of the truth. I wish only to gather enough evidence to allow you, reader, to draw your own conclusions.

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Hunter's Journal
Author: "Grahm"
Severely deteriorated unlined paper, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 inches
Undated
1/5

I've seen a lot of things in these godforsaken swamps: Headless blasphemies that void their bowels of slime-drenched, sluggish leeches. A shrieking shadow that sends torrents of roaches down your nose and throat as it tries to kill you. A gator whose eyes and mouth radiate with an unnatural light that glows deep from within, blue as a bloated, waterlogged corpse.

But those ain't even the worst things. They're just the more obvious ones.

Hunters far and wide will swap stories about the monsters of the Corruption, and I can't help but notice that hardly anyone talks about the horrors of their own people. The ones who use the visceral chaos of these circumstances as camouflage to carry out their sickest visions, all tucked away from the judgmental glares of society, and the law.

Examples, you ask? There's the man who clubbed his hunting partners to death while they slept because he wanted to dry their organs and feed them to hungry patrons at Lewis' Saloon. The woman who set up all those dolls in Stillwater as an audience for murders she committed with a mannequin arm. Or the woman who flayed a man alive, tearing his flesh into long, bloody strips, only to braid them into a rope to perform some sick ritual. Those are the real monsters. Far worse than what we hunt in the bayou.

It's important for us to understand, especially now, the difference between fact and fiction. And who better to record such happenings—these infected cysts burrowed beneath the flesh of history—than me?

I'm one of those lost ones, after all. The ones that other Hunters should fear more than any Meathead. I've learned to embrace it.

And boy, do I have stories to tell. This is just one of them.

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Hunter's Journal
Author: "Grahm"
Severely deteriorated unlined paper, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 inches
Undated
2/5

I first met him when I was laying bear traps 'round a supply wagon. I used my lucky set for the job, and I was wearing the coat I made from the first grizzly I ever caught. As I creaked the last trap open like a glorious, unhinged jaw, I heard it: someone clearing their throat from behind a nearby bush.

"Show yourself," I demanded as I raised my rifle toward the sound. "Or I'll work the lever on this thing hard enough to turn you into ground beef."

What I did not expect was a young Hunter, baby-faced and somewhere in his early twenties, to stumble from the bush with two shaking hands raised in the air.

"Apologies, sir," the young man mumbled without looking me in the eye. "I've been following you since Pitching. Admire your style. Admire your coat."

"Yeah, and?" I noticed him eyeing the bear traps like they were bars of gold. "Your fingers itching for something that isn't yours?"

His cheeks reddened. "No," he said. "Just maybe was wonderin' where you got that coat. My uncle wrastled a bear once, but it had a muzzle on, mittens. Chained up, in a saloon somewhere. You could pay to fight it."

"Did your uncle win?" I asked.

"Nah." The young man shrugged. "The bear knocked him out cold. He could only remember that it smelled terrible."

I studied his sallow face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hungry indent of his cheeks. He had underestimated this world of Hunters, I recognized, and would pay for it now. "You want to partner up, then?"

He lowered his hands with relief. "Please," he said. "I can't seem to cash in big no matter how hard I try."

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Hunter's Journal
Author: "Grahm"
Severely deteriorated unlined paper, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 inches
Undated
3/5

"If you want a coat of your own," I told him after we were off, "you'll have to trap one yourself. This area's got black bears. I got my grizzly in Colorado."

It took such effort to refrain from smiling like my face craved to do. Not to let my eyes shimmer with my own wickedness. I didn't want to spook the deer.

"A black bear, alright." The young man nodded eagerly. "Okay. I can do that."

"Sure you can." I led him through a thicket into a small clearing. "And I'll be there to help."

He rambled as we made our way deeper into the trees. About how as soon as he saw my coat, complete with the head of the beast, he knew he'd found the missing element to his success for future hunts. It was intimidating, he insisted. It gave me an edge.

"There's one," I finally said, pointing to a large black bear with three cubs. The animals tore bits of flesh from a dead horse with their teeth. "Get her."

"But…it's a mama." Already his voice was laced with doubt. "Surely there'll be another—"

I reached over to grab the meaty place where his neck met his shoulder. "This is the one," I said as I handed him my machete, leaving no room for other options in my tone. "Get it. Just one wound, in the heart. Don't miss or you'll ruin the coat."

I'll give credit where it's due: he took her down the first try, and clean. Maybe he'd learned a few things out here after all. "Now," I told him as he sat trembling over the carcass, watching the cubs trip over their own feet as they fled in a panic. "Time to make your coat."

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Hunter's Journal
Author: "Grahm"
Severely deteriorated unlined paper, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 inches
Undated
4/5

"You know," I said just before we began, "I've been a Hunter since the beginning of all this."

The lantern perched on the worktable cast a meager yellow glow into the surrounding night. It'd taken longer than planned to get everything ready.

"Really?" His unblinking gaze fixed to the animal corpse on its back. I wondered if he was remembering the cubs and had to stop myself from chuckling.

"Yes." I rubbed my hands together. "I've borne witness. I met Salter and the white-haired witch. I even hunted with Hannah Kinney once. A lot has happened. It changes you."

I laughed then. Just once. At the sound, the young man visibly stiffened.

"What, you getting nervous now?" I let out another laugh. "Get started on this, then. Black bears have thick fur, but their skin is thin. You've got to be careful. Cut from the anus to the throat."

It went on like that, me telling him exactly what to do. I wondered when he'd realize that we weren't preparing a coat. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. Was probably too busy trying not to vomit from the smell of blood when he should have been second guessing his decision to listen to the man in the grizzly skin coat.

"Typically, these take a week to cure," I said after the hide was prepared. "But we don't have that kind of time."

"We don't?" I could hear doubt in his voice now. I'd let little bits of my true self escape as I taught him how to skin the bear, and every time it happened, he got a little quieter, a little more wild-eyed.

"No," I said. "You're going to try it on right now."

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Hunter's Journal
Author: "Grahm"
Severely deteriorated unlined paper, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 inches
Undated
5/5

"Please," the young man cried, his voice muffled. "Please stop."

I didn't answer. Just finished sewing him inside. The needle caught on a bit of thickened skin, just above his neck. I think, in the end, I sewed it right onto his flesh. His scream at the pain made me smile. These were the moments worth remembering.

"Done," I said after the last stitch. He hadn't even struggled. He never would have made it out here anyway. "Now it's time for you to dance, baby bear."

"Please!" His voice was weak through the animal's closed skin. "I can't breathe. It sounds like there's something in here with me!"

"That's just your mind playing tricks," I assured him, patting the bear's back. "Now I want to see you dance."

I sang a song I'd heard on the gramophone. Clapped along to the beat. Watched him dance. Listened to the sweet sound of his cries, and then the screams, as he stepped into my lucky bear traps, one after the other. Screams of agony. Music to my ears.

Suddenly, the air crackled like a broken electric line. Then came the crunching sounds, the cracking, bones popping, impossible noises from inside the suit. The thing lurched backward into the worktable, shattering it, impaling itself with a piece of broken wood. When it stood up again, all the empty space inside had been filled by…something. Corruption. New parts had protruded from within as well—exposed intestines, deformed limbs, curved rib bones which sprouted from its back like wings. The eyes of the dead bear were impossibly alive. Its roar deafened me.

I ran, screaming and laughing before I realized I was crying. Later, I burned my coat in hopes that it'd free me. It didn't.

It's still out there. Wandering. Hunting. I wonder if the young man is still alive in some way. I wonder if he knows that through his creation, I saw something.

I saw the face of God.

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