Tome 10 - SAW

	Hello. I want to play a game. Stories and.. memories are like.. pieces of a puzzle. Your obsession with other lives.. has undermined your own existence. Your life descends into madness.. as you desperately search for the missing piece.. the piece that will reveal a way out. Here is my gift: a clue. What you have been been.. right in front of you.. all along. You just have to.. look beyond your obsession. Will you continue to.. lose yourself in.. other lives? Or will you take a moment to see.. to really see? Your mind can be your sanctuary.. or your prison. The choice is, and.. always has been.. yours to make.
	~ The Entity (in the form of Billy, the Jigsaw Puppet) to The Observer, Tome 10 - SAW Reveal Trailer

Tome 10 - SAW is the Tome that accompanied the Tenth Rift in Dead by Daylight and released on 26 January 2022.

Overview

The Characters chosen for this Tome are David Tapp and Amanda Young (The Pig).

Memories & Logs

Amanda Young: Vain Ambition

Memory 9107

Amanda feels her heart racing as the test subject screams on the television screen. She observes him as he looks down at the see-through cylinder pressed against his bare abdomen. Several rats are trapped inside the cylinder, screeching against the subject's skin. The thermometer inside displays 97 degrees Fahrenheit. The rats are agitated, stuck between the glass and his stomach. They cannot escape the heat. Amanda is pleased to see the subject cry as rats claw at his skin. Then he succumbs to his flaw, activating the trap's last mechanism. Amanda feels a jolt of adrenaline as a board rises inside the cylinder glued to the subject's abdomen, opposite to the ravenous rats, letting through a hissing cobra. The snake uncoils and the rats go wild. They claw and gnaw madly at the subject's stomach to escape the snake. One rat ventures inside the subject's gut. Amanda smiles as she watches him scream in agony.

Game over.

Amanda feels exhilarated as she rushes to the next room to find John Kramer. But her heart sinks when she is welcomed by John's exhausted frown.

He wipes the sweat off his brow and praises her efforts but criticises her plan. Suffering seemed to be the trap's sole design. Pain can be used as punishment, but first it must be offered as redemption.

Amanda frowns. After all her hard work, how could he doubt her? His teachings are law. This new chance in life is too precious for her to squander away. She looks up as John leans over the table to catch his breath. His inhale turns into a coughing fit and she hands him a bottle of water. Amanda can see that their time together is limited. There can be no room for mistakes. She will be his successor and continue what he started.

Memory 9108

John staggers inside the meat plant. Dark circles are under his eyes as if he has not slept in weeks. Amanda usually sleeps no more than four hours per night. Less so before a test. The excitement keeps her wide awake.

Amanda's eyes fall on the large folder in John's hands. "Another test?"

John nods. He is compiling information on Grace Wright, an amiable politician campaigning for the upcoming election.

Amanda watches him as he massages his temples. He looks worse than last week. How long did she have to learn everything about his craft? A few years? A couple of months?

To protect their legacy, she needs to be ready when the time comes. She must continue John's work as Jigsaw, the successor. Amanda reaches for the folder in his hands. "Let me show you what I can do."

John's tired eyes stare at Amanda, who holds his gaze firmly. She is ready and they are running out of time.

He nods reluctantly.

Memory 9109

Amanda turns on the television and sees Grace Wright's beaming face on the screen. The elections are tonight.

Several sheets slide over the printer's tray, falling at Amanda's feet. She snatches them from the ground. Earlier today, she broke into Grace's inbox to find her flaw. The test must be perfect. Perhaps John will be able to rest once he is convinced that his life's work is in capable hands.

Amanda pores over a series of documents and emails exchanged between Grace and a lawyer from ten years ago. A certain Ben Fairfax threatened to expose a scandal relating to when Grace joined the city council. The lawsuit was settled swiftly.

But the emails continued between Grace and her lawyer. Amanda found a report showing that Zanix Industries, a copper exporter in the area, poured waste directly into the Hillford river, contaminating the ground water. The city's decayed, century-old water lines were unable to filter the filth. Grace covered up the lawsuit to avoid adding to the city's increasing taxes. For ten years, filth has been poured into the water of Grace's oblivious voters.

Amanda looks down at the glass of water sitting on her desk.

She dumps it into the sink and grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Icy bitterness rolls off her tongue, hitting her palate with an herbal kick. Not an ideal way to hydrate, but safer than Hillford tap water.

On the television, confetti are falling on Grace's smooth brown hair. The polls are in, and Grace Wright has been elected as mayor.

Memory 9110

Amanda receives a cryptic message from John. When she meets him at the Gideon Meat Plant, her doubts are confirmed. John looks pale and frail. The side effects of his medication seem as draining as the disease itself. His gait is slow and meticulous, as if he is calculating the cost of each step.

Amanda grabs his arm to help him sit down. He can no longer conceal his pain, not from her. She examines him as he catches his breath. Beads of sweat are pearling above his brow.

Her leader, her mentor… her father is dying. Amanda clenches her fist. What will I do without him?

Panic twists her stomach in knots. And then, another sensation. Something akin to… trepidation? No, excitement. A thrilling rush of freedom. Complete control.

John asks about Grace's test and Amanda reassures him.

His legacy is in good hands. She will prove it to him.             

Memory 9111

Amanda's temples are throbbing. It has been weeks since she slept more than two hours per night. She pops a painkiller in her mouth and winces as the pill scrapes her dry throat. She ignores the bitter taste lingering in her mouth as it melts. No time for sleep or water. She is scouting the sinuous tunnel network under the Gideon Meat Plant for Grace's test.

The throbbing grows acute, and Amanda massages her temples while walking. Her head feels as if it is going to explode, but she cannot stop. John needs her. This migraine will cease soon enough. Her mentor has no such privilege. She has little time left by his side. Eventually, all tests will be her responsibility alone. When the time comes, she must be ready.

Amanda points her flashlight at the blueprint of Gideon's underground and retraces her steps. While examining the vast tunnel network, another thought crosses her mind. Soon, Gideon will be her domain. A thrilling sensation of alarm and excitement follows that thought.

Her flashlight illuminates a familiar fork in the tunnel: left leads to the underground bathroom, and right leads to the meat plant's wastewater.

To follow in John's footsteps, she must craft a test that aligns with Grace's flaw: a corrupt ambition to rise and become mayor, while sacrificing the health of thousands. It is time to give the mayor a dose of her own poison. Amanda crawls into the tunnel on her right.

Memory 9112

Amanda is hiding in Grace's bathroom, behind the drawn shower curtain. Her heart is racing as she waits for the perfect moment to strike. This is her favourite part. Adrenaline is flowing, heightening her senses. She feels like she can take on the entire world, without fatigue or pain. She feels awakened, despite not having slept for days. Waiting for her prey, she feels alive and powerful, every second stretching into a blissful, intense high. That is the real power of John's teachings. A second chance at living in a heightened state of mind.

Amanda hears the door creak open in the hall. She strains to hear if someone is with Grace. A pair of footfalls confirm what Amanda already knows from Grace's schedule: the mayor is alone tonight. The bathroom door screeches open. As soon as Grace steps inside, Amanda strikes.

A fight follows between the two women as water spills over the rim of the bathroom sink. Amanda slams Grace's face into the mirror. Grace shrieks and headbutts Amanda, and a jolt of pain courses through her masked nose. Amanda stumbles backward, but the adrenaline kicks in. She is ready for this. Grace pounces on her and grabs her pig mask. But Amanda elbows Grace in the gut and leaves her gasping. As Grace catches her breath, Amanda rolls over and slams Grace's head into the heated floor. Grace is knocked out.

Memory 9113

Amanda is toying with a water bottle made of glass. A pile of keys lies on the table in front of her. None of them matter, except for one. She should insert this key inside the bottle, but Amanda hesitates. If she does, Grace could use it to escape. A freshly elected mayor would make a useful ally… and a powerful successor for John.

Amanda's grip tightens on the bottle. She would do anything for her mentor. Even betray his teachings. Redemption should only be granted to a select few, after all.

She pockets the real key and drops a fake inside the bottle. Then she throws the bottle into a pool of meat wastewater.

This is Amanda's design as the rightful and only successor of John Kramer.

Game on.

Video

This video is unlocked after completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

David Tapp: Desecration of the Heart

Memory 4100

Weariness clings to Detective David Tapp as he exits the car. He straightens his shoulders and sucks in a deep breath, but he knows it's still there. In his eyes. They always betray him.

The stroll up the sidewalk to Mister and Misses Sarenko's home is brief. He wishes he could stretch it out, take each step slower than the last. But this was his choice. He volunteered to tell them their missing son, Shane, is dead.

Should have taken the vacation. Could be on the beach frying up slabs of meat. What the hell was I thinking?

He was so close to getting on that plane. At the airport, waiting to board, his wife's hand reaches out, locks her fingers around his, squeezes tight. He squeezes back without thinking. In his other hand is the coroner's report on the Jigsaw killer's latest victim. He promises he'll only glance over it, then stow it for the rest of the week.

Female. Thirty-seven years old. Fragment of a drill bit found in the wound on her hip. Unconventional design, custom made for a company that went belly up in the eighties.

Tapp remembers the company's logo. Grew up a few blocks from their factory. Could the place still be abandoned? It's too important to leave to someone else. He can cancel the plane tickets, take the loss and try again in a few days.

He turns to tell his wife. A tear streams down her face before he even opens his mouth.

Memory 4101

It sounds like someone else's voice when he says it. "Your son Shane is dead."

There's an outpouring of emotion on the parents' faces. Shock. Devastation. Agony. Too much for a single word. It's as if they're cycling through trauma with each second, pouring it from their bodies in howls and cries.

Tapp stands and waits, tries to ignore the discomfort, reminds himself that what they're going through is far worse. He's a spectator, torn between offering condolences and leaving them to their grief. Either choice lacks sincerity. All these years and he still doesn't know what to do. No one ever does.

The father screams and it reminds him of Shane. It brings him back to where it started, as memories from hours past take over. He remembers it clearly…

He arrives at the factory. It's abandoned. He snoops around, checking for signs of forced entry. Twenty minutes pass. No footprints, broken windows, or snapped fences. A nagging doubt starts from the back of his mind and pushes forward.

Left your wife behind to trounce around an empty lot and some old as shit building? This is one hell of a vacation.

There's an apology forming somewhere, but it sounds no different than the past few. Still, better put something together before he heads home. She's had hours to talk to her mom, and that woman will fan the flames just to watch him choke on the smoke.

Get some flowers or… too cliché? Yeah. Well past the point of floral arrangements counting as a get out of jail free card. Anyway, there's no—

A sudden noise.

A scream? It was barely audible, in a range that makes him question if his mind is playing tricks on him.

Hold up, don't rush this one. Take a close… ah, screw it.

He needs to be right about this. Close the case so he can go home, tell her it's over, he's sorry, he messed up, he's a bastard, that's behind him, he'll make it right, just stick around, he'll make it right.

Shoulder up. He takes a running start and slams into a rickety door.

Memory 4102

Mrs. Sarenko asks him to come in and talk over tea. He'd rather find a barstool and a place to hang his head. Somewhere where only a waitress will interrupt. He wants nothing more than to decline the invitation.

"Of course, anything I can do. I'm happy to stay and talk."

He settles onto a dusty couch, letting his tea go cold on the side table. Chai spice. Wife used to make it for him when they started dating. Didn't like it then either, but he'd drink it anyway. It made her happy. Maybe it made him happy too. Hearing the kettle whistle, sipping at a teacup… seemed like the kind of thing married people do. Can't remember when she stopped serving it.

Shane's parents smile between tears, as they recount stories of their son. Every now and then, reality hits and one of them chokes up, excusing him or herself for a minute.

Tapp moves his hand alongside his radio, hoping that a voice on the other end requests his help. Mrs. Sarenko dabs her eyes as she recalls the last year of Shane's life.

"Such a gentle boy, that one. He was broken-hearted over his fiancé leaving. Wanted to make things right with her but… never really did. She just kind of got away. And he fell apart. Dropped out of college, drifted day to day without a path to stand on. Never really recovered… stopped living, I guess. Lost that sparkle."

Tapp reacts with a consoling look, but inside he's mentally recording the information for his report. Testing those who have given up on life — it fits Jigsaw's M.O. Shane lost his will and abandoned his future, that's some kind of sin in this madman's book. The sick asshole strapped the poor kid into a trap to teach him a lesson. Discomfort being necessary to mend a broken heart? Could be. At this point, he knows Jigsaw better than he knows anyone. Ah… shit. Anyone? He tries to rattle the thought from his head, find some other memory to torture himself on. Ms. Sarenko's voice in the background decides for him.

Shane. He had the chance to save him and he blew it.

Memory 4103

The scene plays over again in his head, beating against his skull like a bad hangover.

His eyes adjust to the darkness of the abandoned factory. Slivers of light pierce the gaps in the boarded-up windows. Stale air fills his lungs. He paces forward. Moves between a row of shelves. Looks to the floor, sees footprints in the thick dust. With a calm, steady movement, he un-holsters his gun. Stops, listens, waits to see if the intruder will give themself away. Nothing but silence. Takes another step forward and—

Metal screeches on the concrete floor. The shelf beside Tapp leans towards him, looming tall, heavy. Adrenaline takes over. Time appears to slow. For a millisecond he intercepts a thought intended for his subconscious.

Will she cry when they tell her I'm de—

Neurons fire for one singular purpose: jump. Shift weight, push off, extend arms, brace for impact. He hits the ground hard. A deafening crash echoes around him.

He looks back to see the shelf collapsed where he was a split-second ago, his gun pinned beneath it. Footsteps barrel along the floor. A cloaked figure flees into the shadows. Tapp jumps to his feet and gives chase.

Memory 4104

He sprints after the fleeing figure, trying to catch a glimpse beyond their cloak. He shouts to stop, knowing it's futile but—

"Mr. Tapp? Officer?"

He's abruptly pulled from his thoughts. Mrs. Sarenko patiently holds a photo out to him. He doesn't want to see it. He'd rather turn his attention to his tea, take a cold sip and stare at residue swimming along the bottom. He knows he can't. As much as the guilt rises in his throat like bile, he knows he has to play his role in this ritual.

He takes the photo. A young Shane, dressed for prom smiles at him. A bright, eager grin. But what Tapp sees quickly fades until all that's there is a murdered boy, pain and fear etched onto his face. Then he remembers, there was something else in Shane's eyes when he first saw him: hope. The belief that maybe he would be saved.

That one hurts most.

Memory 4105

Tapp chases the cloaked figure into a dimly lit room, electronic beeps ringing out as he enters. He stumbles, nearly freezing in shock at what's before him.

A terrified young man stands fifteen feet away, metal hooks piercing his back and arms, keeping him from moving. A jackhammer is propped in front of him, chained and locked to his neck and torso, its tip pointing into the left side of his chest. On the wall behind him is the picture of a heart, broken in two.

A timer counts down. Forty-five seconds. Shane screams, stretching for a ring of keys dangling in front of him, hooks ripping at his back and arms. Blood trickles down his body. Tapp runs to him.

"Hold on, kid, breathe, breathe. Don't move."

Tapp grabs the keyring, picks a key at random, shoves it into the lock around Shane's neck. Forces it. Nothing. Grabs another. Useless. Hands shake. Looks at the timer. Another one. No luck.

Footsteps patter along the concrete. The cloaked figure emerges from the shadows and makes a run for it. There's still time to catch them. Shane screams, his hurried breath making his words incoherent. Tapp looks back to him.

"Damn. Hold still, almost got you."

Another key that won't work. Or was that the one he tried before? That can't be right. Which…?

The cloaked figure races towards an emergency exit. There's no time for Tapp to think.

Memory 4106

Tapp stands at the front door as Mrs. Sarenko puts a hand on his shoulder, offering him a sad smile. She thanks him for being with Shane in his final moments, for providing what comfort and support he could.

"I know that made a difference for him. Shane never did well with being alone."

Tapp's mouth dries out, heart drops into his stomach. He tries to form a word, but only clears his throat. He nods and hopes that's enough. Pulling his jacket on, he turns, tries to find his footing as he paces away from the house, the walk longer than he remembers.

He wants to shout. Or collapse silently. Maybe both. He reaches for his phone, scrolls to his wife's number. This was the routine. Call her, tell her it was a rough night, he'd bring home ramen, maybe some beer. Stay up, talk, watch reruns on TV, wake up on the couch wondering who fell asleep first.

His thumb hovers over the send button, but he can't bring himself to press it. Too late for that. No matter where she is, she's gone, long gone. Just him and Jigsaw now.

The realisation shakes him. The burden pushes down, unconfessed, un-consoled. Without her, the memory of what really happened to Shane burrows in and festers…         

Video

This video is unlocked after completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

The Observer: Things in the Fog

Arcus 27

Most of the fiction featuring Haddie and Jordan end with one of the siblings disappearing, which accounts for some of the contradicting memories I've discovered in The Fog. I believe there are several actual Haddies and Jordans stuck here with all the others. The memories I've studied so far conflict with one another so that they rarely line up with each other or the fictional stories I found in the Chamber of Blood. However, I must always remember that the collected stories and artwork in the chamber are interpretative, they are not exact, and they were more or less inspired by several versions of the siblings that exist or will exist or have existed within the endless tapestry that is the omniverse.

The truth is… The Unknowns have collected so many stories that I don’t know where to begin my research. Currently, I am focusing on The Redcrane and Twelve to Midnight to better understand how The Black Fog works and how the characters in these stories may have been able to interact with it to their advantage. There are also many versions of Dejavuism that relate a story of how one man found a way into the darkest recesses of this dimension to save the one he loved. But the story doesn't go into the details of how he managed to find a way in, and I will have to go through other versions of the story to see if there is any information that can help me. Better yet, I am hoping to find his actual memories within The Fog to give me a sense of how he found a way into this realm.

Chamber of Blood. Day of Night. Mahan Singh. 1.

Mahan Singh spent seventeen years amassing a fortune for his estranged niece by leading mercenary missions all over the world for Leviathon Securities. A decorated soldier in the Indian army, Mahan was discharged after thirteen years of service for disobeying orders while on assignment for the United Nations. Shortly afterward, he joined Leviathon and found himself on a series of strange assignments that involved securing haunted locations and procuring strange artefacts of an occult nature. Locations and artefacts that seemed worthless but were of grave importance to governments and organizations for some reason or another. Mahan didn't know what to make of it. To him, it all felt like a kind of invisible war between secret societies that were somehow able to use governments and corporations like pieces on a chessboard for a bunch of old, mouldy books and geometric trinkets from forgotten civilizations.  

Now Mahan was pinned behind a crumbling wall in a village in the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya with his fallen unit scattered in pieces all over the surrounding dirt roads. He had been fighting all day against different units and was fresh out of luck and ammunition.  

There’s no way out of here, he told himself. I’ve got no support, no ammunition, no luck. Why do you need luck when you have a weapon and your wits? You’ve been in worse situations and survived. Think you are beaten and you are beaten. I am beaten. You are almost beaten, and that’s not the same thing.  

Suddenly, Mahan heard the surrounding mercenaries yelling at one another in Russian. They were planning an attack and coordinating with one another. He peeked around the corner, then ducked fast as several rounds punched holes into the wall sending clouds of dust and stone into the air. He cursed in Punjabi, grabbed his automatic rifle, then craned his head ever so slightly to see fast-moving silhouettes against the full moon closing in on his position. Quickly, he crawled into a nearby home and hid the asset—the ancient scroll—underneath several corpses of British agents he had killed just before the Russians had decided to join their party. Then he hid in the shadows, holding his rifle by the barrel, refusing to die without a fight.  

They probably all work for The Collector, he told himself. Crazy rich man with too much time and money on his hands. Shah just wants to make sure he gets the scroll before another eccentric billionaire beats him to it. And from where does this prize come? It supposedly comes from a lost, elder civilisation with advanced and forbidden knowledge. Nonsense, all of it. A bunch of ancient stories about pagan priests and barbaric rituals and cosmic deities told around a campfire. Ancient sci-fi, at best.  

Taking a deep breath, Mahan heard their almost inaudible footfalls before he saw them. His eyes narrowed and his face hardened as two mercs entered the moonlit doorway. With a groan, he launched himself into the air, smashing the butt of his rifle against one head and then the other.  

Both mercs collapsed to the ground unconscious. A split-second later, Mahan yanked a loaded rifle from the hands of one of the fallen mercs and rushed through the doorway taking cover behind a well spilling over with thick buzzing flies like living black soup. Inside the well were the rotting bodies of those who had sought the scroll but had found death instead.    

Mahan buried his nose in his arm and suppressed an instinct to retch. Then, seeing a merc, he lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger. Bullets tore holes through the neck and face as the mercenary staggered back and forth, then fell against a wagon with the pulpy head hanging by a shred of flesh.  

As he searched the shadows for other mercs, Mahan suddenly heard the crunch of stone behind him. He whirled to fire—

A second too late.  

Several rounds pounded into his Kevlar vest like a jackhammer, sending him stumbling backward into the black soup of death. A moment later the surviving mercs loomed over the mouth of the well as a thick black fog coiled around them like a snake.  

Taking a deep breath, Mahan closed his eyes and waited for a death that never came. Instead of a report ripping though the darkness like a clap of thunder, he heard a scream followed by a cry and then shrieks of agony. When he opened his eyes, the mercs were gone as though they had been erased by the fog.  

Mahan struggled through the putrid blood and fluids to climb up and out of the well. As he pulled himself over the gore-covered mouth he noticed the world had been plunged into an abyss of fog. Before he could make any sense of what was happening, something snatched his ankle—hard—and tried to pull him back down.  

Desperately, Mahan gripped the edge of the well and held on tightly. He looked to his feet where he saw multiple hands yanking and clutching at his legs. He held on for dear life but his hands slipped in the blood and gore and soon gave way.  With a terrible cry, he fell back into the gore as boney hands clawed at his legs, his arms, his throat, his beard, his nose, his turban and pulled him deeper and deeper into the darkness.  

Needless of pain burst inside his head as he drowned in thick, fermenting blood. He knew with a strange resignation that he was dying, or that he was already dead, and that he would never know his niece or what had become of her. After his wife and parents had died in a plane crash and his brother had disappeared, she was the only one left. She was his only family, and he swore he would always take care of her.

But then life happened, and in the end, he had only taken care of himself. He had lived a lonely, selfish life counter to his upbringing and his beliefs. He was a walking contradiction who had somehow convinced himself that he was cursed, that everyone he had ever loved died or disappeared, and that he was doing his niece a favor by staying out of her life. He had somehow convinced himself that he was keeping his bad luck away from her while he amassed a fortune that he would one day leave her.  

But Mahan knew it was all a lie. He didn’t know the first thing about nurturing and raising a human being. Raising his brother’s daughter terrified him and that’s why he had clung to any reason he could to abandon her. All he knew was killing and destroying in the name of governments and corporations. And as the darkness swallowed him whole, Mahan realized in horror that killing and destroying was all he would ever know.  

Mahan had failed his ancestors. He had failed his family. He had failed his brother and his niece. He would never know her hopes, her dreams, her likes, or dislikes… He would know nothing except the inky blackness that swept over his eyes and the unnamable terrors that awaited him in the great unknown.  

MAHAN OPENED HIS EYES WITH A START.
He was still in the well, submerged in the putrid, death stew, staring up at thick black fog drifting over him as he heard a whirring sound—the sound of a motor accelerating and decelerating somewhere in the distance. He took a moment to gather his senses. He didn’t remember much. He remembered being shot, stumbling back and falling into the well. Everything after that moment felt like a nightmare that had been inspired by one of his father’s stories—the one where unarmed, peaceful protestors were shot dead and stuffed into a well and left to rot in the blistering Punjab heat.  

With a painful groan, Mahan reached out with trembling hands to a jutting rock and, with difficulty, pulled himself free from the gore. Rock by rock, he climbed his way up the festering throat of the well and finally pulled himself over the mouth and into the thick black fog.  

A cry sounded over the incessant whir of the machine and Mahan quickly realized he wasn’t in Kenya anymore. He stood and took in his surroundings. There were strange structures like factories submerged in the fog. Scattered around the structures were piles of clothes and bodies set ablaze. Above in the pale red sky crows circled and cawed adding to the oppressive cacophony.  

“Help… please…”

Mahan heard a woman crying for help coming from a bank of fog. Snapping out of his daze, he extended his hands and waved a tunnel through the fog, searching for the source of the sound.  

“Help… someone… please… ”  

The disembodied voice reached him again, and she somehow seemed close and far at the same time. He froze to listen carefully, but all he could hear was the incessant whirring of the motor accelerating and decelerating.  

“Help…”

There it was again. He moved left, then right, and finally he reached a woman in pilot fatigues stuck in a trap of twisted barbed wire. Without a word, he pulled the metal thorns out of her legs as she winced and squirmed in pain with every movement. “I don’t know what happened or how I ended up here…” Her voice trailed away, and she seemed bewildered.  

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Mahan asked as he struggled with the barbed wire.  

The pilot stumbled back and answered with intermittent groans as she nursed her wounds. “I was on patrol… soaring through clear blue skies… when this black cloud suddenly appeared… and then the plane began to shake and break apart and… I don’t know… I was here…”

A sudden click and they both turned wide-eyed to face the barrel of a rifle. Behind the rifle a man in black fatigues appraised them. “Who the fuck are you two?”

Mahan raised a hand. “Wait! Careful… we’re not a threat. We’re just as confused as you.”  

“Who are you and what are you doing in Texas? Are you CIA? Is this some kind of a test?”

Mahan gritted his teeth. “This ain’t a test. And I’m pretty sure this ain’t Texas.”

“Who are you?!”  

The agent shoved his rifle in Mahan’s face. But before Mahan could answer a Japanese woman in a black and red kimono emerged from the fog, unsheathing a katana with a high-pitched ring. She yelled at them in Japanese, and Mahan extended a calming hand to her.  “Please… put the sword down…” He then turned to the agent. “Please… put the gun down… let’s figure this out. “

“Who are you!” the agent yelled, pushing the muzzle in Mahan’s face. “I won’t ask again!”

“I can tell you who I am, but that’s not the question, is it?”

“Yeah! What’s the question, then?”

“Where?” Mahan said flatly, motioning to the destroyed factories, the craters and the smouldering piles of trash and bodies. “I should think the question is: Where? Where are we?”

Another voice came from behind. “He’s right, you know. “

Mahan turned to watch a man with a police jacket emerge from the fog. “We’re still trying to figure that one out… but right now we should all be asking: How?”

“How?” Mahan repeated.  

“Yes,” the detective said. “How much time do we have before The Horror finds—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a shriek followed by and high-pitched whine startled them. A moment later a mass of melded humanity and machine came at them.  

Mahan could make out several heads all shrieking battle cries in different languages attached to a patchwork of charred scraps from missiles, tanks, fighter jets, and nuclear submarines all bearing flags and strange logos of brands from different periods he vaguely remembered. He stared at this monstrous chimera in shock and wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.  

The Horror, he called it. Looks more like the embodiment of war—sponsored war.  

Mahan swallowed a thickness growing in his throat as The Horror rushed the stunned agent and tore his head off, swallowing the terrified face and dripping neck like a ripe cherry. Then its ghastly mouth opened wide and a stream of fire torched the jerking, headless corpse as it collapsed into a heap of industrial garbage.  

Not waiting to be next, the samurai lunged at the monstrosity and, with incredible speed and precision, cut it to pieces. Then all of them watched in disbelief as the pieces of flesh and metal slowly disintegrated into the living fog.  

The detective sighed. “It will be back,” he said, appraising the samurai. “18th or 19th Century. Red Crown Clan. You’re not the first. We could definitely use your skills here.”

The samurai sheathed her katana and grasped at the fog as though trying to capture pieces of it to study—as though she recognised it.

Mahan approached the detective. “Where exactly is here?”

But the detective didn’t answer. He merely turned his back on them and walked away, saying, “Follow me… if you want to escape.”

Mahan took in a deep breath and gathered his senses. Then he took to his heels and followed the detective into the unknown with the samurai and the fighter pilot in tow.

MAHAN FOLLOWED THE DETECTIVE
through a labyrinth of bombed-out factories and mountains of garbage set ablaze. At the centre of this industrial hell was a giant machine with hooks and cameras and television screens of every possible brand and size broadcasting moments of Mahan’s life as though his brain was a Wi-Fi signal that could stream his memories—his darkest memories. And not just his memories, but the memories of the samurai, the pilot, and the detective. It was as though they had been selected by some un-namable and incompressible intelligence for mere entertainment.  

The detective stopped when he reached what seemed to be a submarine hatch surrounded by a pile of smouldering trash and mangled, charred bodies.  

“Get in!” he yelled, opening the hatch. “I'll explain what I know when we’re safe.”

“Where does it lead?” Mahan asked.  

“Away from here,” the detective said. “And that’s all you should care about right now. We don’t have time for explanations. But when we’re safe, Ben will answer all your questions as best he can. Right now, you need to—”

A clanking noise suddenly interrupted him.

“Go, go, go!” The detective yelled as The Horror came at them from the shadows. Instantly, he pulled out his flashlight, distracting The Horror as Mahan and the others escaped down the hatch.

Arcus 34

There are countless horror stories about mist or fog in the chamber, and not all of them are related to The Entity. The Unknowns have done an adequate job at separating the relevant from the irrelevant stories, making my research on what others have written about this place and experience easier to conduct. What is it about The Fog — and not just Black Fog — that has inspired so many stories throughout the omniverse?"

Chamber of Blood. Twelve to Midnight. Dark Age to Come.

The sound of a bottle clanging against the ground greeted Haddie as she entered the half-burned building that had gone up in flames nearly a week ago. Thick, smoky air stung her nose as she stepped over shards of glass and heaps of charred wood. Bright city lights spilled through the shattered windows and crumbling walls. Carefully, Haddie picked her way across the floor toward the elevator, where she found the door leading to the stairs. A sign on the door warned her that the entire structure would be demolished in the morning.

There’s still time, she thought, as she ascended the narrow stairs. I’ve got a few hours to convince Max that he’s not crazy, that he’s not losing his grip on reality and that something is happening to our world. Something only a few of us can see and feel.

Haddie reached the last door at the top of the stairs and pushed her way onto the roof. There she spotted a man sitting on the ledge with thick, tangled hair and a weathered army jacket, drinking himself to oblivion as he stared out at the bright lights of the city.

She approached him slowly, and he didn’t react or even turn to regard her when she sat down beside him. She merely sat in silence, listening to the police sirens wail in the distance over the horns and the muffled music coming from the clubs and bars below. At last, she said, “I thought I’d find you here.”

Max took a few swallows of rum. “I don’t know you.” “But I know you, Maxwell.”

“I don’t care where you’re from. I don’t want to talk.” “Yes, I can see that. You want to drink.”

“Perceptive,” he said sarcastically, then extended the bottle toward her. “You’re welcome to join.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Holt.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know much more about you, Max.”

“You CIA? FBI?”

“If I were, you’d already be dead,” Haddie said. “You were an Olympic Biathlon athlete. You were a soldier. Iraq. Syria. Afghanistan. You left the military after an incident and after that you kind of pulled yourself off the grid.”

“You know how to use a search engine. You get a gold medal. Now leave me alone to my quiet time.” Max raised the bottle and took another swig.

Haddie narrowed her eyes and looked to the shadows on the roof beyond him. She couldn’t see anything but she could hear disembodied voices talking to him. She shut them out, then leaned closer to him. “I know you see and hear things others can’t. I know they follow you. I know you want them to stop. And I didn’t get all that from a search engine.”

Max lowered the bottle from his lips and fixed his gaze on a couple arguing on the sidewalk below. “You don’t know what I hear… what I see…”

“Things from another place. Another world. Another realm.”

Max swallowed a growing lump in his throat.

Haddie paused, then continued:

“Something otherworldly attacked your unit and you survived because of your abilities and now… no one believes a word of it. You were ridiculed, discharged and silenced with an endless supply of opioids to fog your memory and neutralize your questions.”

Haddie stopped as his eyes filled with tears.

“You’re not crazy, Max. You saw what you saw, and no drug or drink in the world will relieve the guilt or stop the nightmares. And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it… Waiting for morning to make it all stop.”

Max cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

“Your skills and abilities on my team.”

“And what team is that?”

“The one that is trying to stop the end of the world.”

Max laughed uproariously, then stopped at once. “You’re serious?”

Haddie grabbed the bottle out of his hands, took a swig, handed it back to him and nodded gravely.

Max shook his head. “What do you know about what happened to my unit?”

“Not much,” Haddie admitted. “What I do know is there are some very powerful people who have the answers or think they have the answers you’re looking for. What I do know is that since I was a teen I’ve been caught in the crossfire between two warring groups that need people like us to access this other realm and bring things back. I’ve been running from them for the last forty years, and I have helped others like us from suffering an unknown fate at their cruel hands.”

Max’s face hardened. “They laughed at me. They said something in me snapped and that I had imagined the fog and the creatures that came out of it.”

Haddie shook her head. “You didn’t imagine anything. I lost my brother in the same way.”

They exchanged a look.

“He’s not dead… I can still hear him… I do… but I can’t see him…”

“Where is he?”

Haddied shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is we’re not the only ones who lost friends and loved ones to this phenomenon. And if we work together we might one day see them again.”

Max laughed and pulled on his bottle. “So you’re recruiting me? Is that what you’re doing? Recruiting me in some kind of paranormal army.” He laughed, again in disbelief.

Haddie watched him laugh. “I’m giving you what you need.”

“And what is that?”

“A second chance,” Haddie answered flatly. “Purpose. Meaning. A chance to save others from being murdered or used by the same assholes who are coming for you right now as we speak.”

Max laughed. “What are you talking about? Who’s coming for me?”

“I have a list—”

Haddie broke off abruptly. She pulled out a gun from her jacket and shot two dim figures in the head as they emerged from the exit door. She then jerked to her feet and hurried to the bodies, searching their jackets for IDs without any success. “They’ll be more,” she said, looking up at Max as he stepped beside her with wide, confused eyes. “You’re at the top of their list and that’s why I’m here.”

“What list? What are you talking about?”

“Follow me,” Haddie said. “And I’ll explain everything.”

Max nodded, dropped his bottle with a loud clang, and followed Haddie down the stairs, through the charred building, and out into the ally where a cab was waiting for them.

MAX HOLT STOOD IN THE BASEMENT
of the Park & Sherwood bookstore examining a wall of pictures, notes and numbers covered by a web of red string highlighting connections. He narrowed his gaze on hundreds if not thousands of missing people from all over the world. Tacked between the pictures and notes were transcripts of horror stories from various podcasts decoded into numbers and coordinates. He then glanced around the room and noticed artifacts and artwork from ancient civilizations he did not recognize from any history book he had ever read, and he had read many. He turned back to the wall and noticed for the first time a picture of his unit in Afghanistan among countless other units that were missing in action. His face grew stern, his eyes narrowed, and he turned to Haddie and asked, “Is this the list?”

Haddie stepped beside him. “This is the list of those we failed.” Her eyes fixed on a picture of her brother at a World War Two zeppelin crash site in the French Alps where they had recovered several “Wunder Weapons” that a secret unit of German soldiers was transporting for the Thule Society. It was the last time she had seen him before he had disappeared. “The list is of those that are being targeted by some very powerful and disturbed elites. They will either be killed in ritual sacrifice, or they will be used as tools to search areas that overlap with another dimension.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in. But these groups… they through random podcasts and deliver encoded messages in stories and media. And we do our best to decode them.”

Max scoffed. “Is this some kind of joke? Codes in stories… That’s your list?”

Haddie shook her head. “This is real. There are people who are in serious danger, and you can help them. You left the government because they laughed and ridiculed you. That won’t happen with us. We know what you saw is real.”

Max approached the picture of his unit.

“I’ve got names and places and endless funds at my disposal,” she said. “We’re twelve to midnight, and only a few of us know it, and I need you on our team, not theirs.”

“Minutes?”

“Seconds. Twelve seconds.”

“These groups,” Max queried. “Are they that powerful?”

“You have no idea.”

Max extended his hand, touching the picture of his unit. He then followed a red string to a passage culled from a horror story. From the passage, he followed yet another string to a series of numbers—the time, day and place the creatures in the fog attacked them.

Haddie stepped away and soon returned with a folder, pulling out a picture of an abandoned cemetery in Chile along with a picture of a man. She handed the pictures to Max, and he stared at them for a long, thoughtful moment before nodding that he would join her team.

Chamber of Blood. Rabbits Attack Hiker in Colorado

A hiker is in critical condition after being bitten by a dozen rabbits that escaped the Acendix Research Institute, an emergency responder said Friday. The hiker was bitten in the legs and face near Misty Lake, said national park ranger Steve Downer. The hiker's condition was unknown Friday but doctors are optimistic.

Chamber of Blood. The Redcrane. Veil of Blood. 1.

Several paths lead to the harbour where peasants and merchants had witnessed the strange arrival of a foreign ship. They discussed the ship and the arrival in the surrounding villages with mingled anger, fear and curiosity. Most believed the foreigners were here to disseminate contraband and rob their beloved land of precious artefacts. Many believed a band of thieves was selling these precious goods to these foreigners in exchange for their weapons. Some even claimed that they had seen these thieves on the gangway, loading stolen artefacts and relics from fallen lords and noble families onto their ship.

Saku Nakano stood in the moonlight, considering her options. There was the long and safe route along the dirt road, and there were shorter routes through the dark and deadly woods where many unlucky villagers had been killed by creatures—it was said—not of this world.

Saku knew of these cursed places all too well. She had lost her entire clan to these mist-enshrouded areas over the years and now she roamed the country—the last of The Red Crown Clan—seeking out the great corruption that was upon her people, finishing what her clan had started centuries ago.

The enemies to her clan, The Black Serpent Society, served a nine-headed serpent made of black mist. They believed the black serpent would grant them powers and boons beyond human comprehension in this world and the next in exchange for unquestioning devotion. They were convinced that the black-mist serpent was a demon that slithered through these wooded cursed areas creating doorways into what they called The Belly of the Serpent, or just, The Belly.

Saku turned toward the dark woods, and sensing raw evil in her midst, she prepared to enter, thinking about the hushed conversations she had overheard in the nearby markets. She remembered the merchant hacking and gutting fish as he talked to a woman who was going through a bag of oysters she had just gathered in the sea. She remembered them talking about how they had seen bandits with pistols and gunpowder and other strange weapons.

I remember them mentioning the foreigners, she thought. They said they were Dutchmen. They were on the wharf speaking fluent Japanese with unknown merchants in plain kimonos with the exception of a strange serpent crest. They described the crest as a nine-headed serpent twisted in a circular knot as it chased its nine tails. They described only a few sailors and how most of the crew had perished of an unnamed disease during the voyage across the ocean.

A sudden laugh interrupted her thoughts.

“Where is your husband? “

A man in a plain brown kimono looked her up and down in the pearly light of the moon as he approached her.

Saku met his gaze but did not react or respond.

The man placed his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword as he continued to appraise her. She was tall and lean with strong, sinuous arms and piercing dark eyes. She had long, black oiled hair gathered in a perfect queue, doubled over and tied neatly with a red and white sash. She wore thong sandals and a simple black kimono. A vibrant red sash around her waist held two scabbard swords. One sword was short and straight, the other was long and curved at the tip.

“Where are your papers?”

The man edged closer to her with dim recognition in his eyes. He had heard rumors of an Onna-Musha in a black and red kimono roaming the land, destroying the wicked while protecting those who could not protect themselves. Or did she roam the land seeking justice for her butchered clan? Or was she a bandit leader who raided and pillaged villages?

The man couldn’t quite remember what he had heard, and he had forgotten the name people had given her. It was related to her clan and its origin. That much he knew, but not much more. It would have helped if he had paid closer attention when his wife had been discussing her many adventures with her sisters.

But he had ignored most of the stories as exaggerated gossip and legends not unlike that other samurai that everyone called a demon. There was no such thing as a demon samurai and there was certainly no such thing as a woman samurai that could perform all the feats the stories claimed she had performed.

Saku breathed deeply and placed her hand near the hilt of her long sword.

“Do you not see I am addressing you! Where are your papers! Answer me wo—”

With impossible speed, Saku whirled her sword in a gleaming silver arc and the man’s torso toppled off his hips and a fountain of warm crimson fed the ground. The twisted mouth twitched as it sputtered bile and blood and tried to make out the words, “Redcrane.”

He had remembered—

A moment too late.

Returning her sword to its scabbard, Saku sighed and said an inward prayer for the brute. Then she stepped over his jerking torso and entered The Belly of the Serpent.

WITH CAREFUL, SILENT STEPS,
Saku pushed smoothly through The Belly, paying close attention to the lurking black mist slithering through gnarled trees that seemed to shift and waver with her every step, as though to intimidate her.

Don’t make a sound, she thought, stepping down a slope through noiseless shadows toward the sound of waves crashing against rocks. She was close to the wharf. She could smell the seaweed, fish and salt in the air.

There was also something else.

A strange heaviness in the atmosphere.

Staring up through the shaking canopy, she saw thick clouds marching across the sky. She sensed the floor moving, and looked down to see her legs completely submerged in the creeping mist. A moment later a branch cracked not ten paces away, and she knew she wasn’t alone anymore.

Saku neither ran nor hid. She froze, closed her eyes, listening carefully for threats approaching through the black mist that heaved and moved as though it were alive.

Saku knew she was somehow—as difficult as it was to explain—in two worlds at once. And she knew there were demons and monsters in the other world that hunted within these overlapping areas.

Saku didn’t know much about this other world. What she knew she had learned from her mother and father. The Black Serpent Society—they had once explained—believed the black-mist serpent was a living deity that consumed people, towns, civilisations and worlds.

The Black Serpent Society believed that within The Belly there was lost knowledge and power from all these consumed worlds that could help them usher in a golden age of peace, prosperity and abundance. Their dedication, their devotion, their ritualistic killings were, in the end, for the betterment of humanity.

The Red Crown Clan, however, believed the promise of a golden age was nothing more than a cosmic ruse—a shiny gold lure to snag minnows, fish and whales in the abyss.

With a deep breath, Saku sensed the threats were gone. She opened her eyes and continued through wavering light and shadow as the wind began to pick-up and the mist grew thicker. But then she stopped suddenly when she heard a familiar roar.

A thunderous roar that seem to shake the world.

This time she didn’t close her eyes.

She didn’t run.

This time she silently lowered herself by a tree as she heard the pounding footfalls of a giant samurai in shiny green and gold armour approaching. She heard him smashing bushes and trees with his kanabo as he searched for her in the shadows. She knew without seeing him that she was being hunted by the samurai that had been corrupted and turned into a demon by the Black Mist Serpent.

Her sister had told her many tales about this samurai. How he had once been a man of honour and conviction. How he had hunted and executed corrupt merchants and false samurai. How peasants and villagers began calling him a demon because of his savage methods. And how he had ultimately been turned into the very thing he hated most, the very thing the stories depicted him as—

The Oni Samurai.

The very same Oni her sister savagely battled long ago when they had been caught in the mist. She had escaped, her sister hadn't and now all she wanted to do was take down this demon and make him tell her where she was.

But Saku knew better than to lose herself in the past. She pushed the memory of her sister out of her thoughts and instantly found her focus. She looked through a gap in the trees toward the wharf, where she saw orange specs of light against the wall of darkness that was the sea. She could make it. She could outrun him to a place where he could not follow.

Looking over her shoulder, Saku saw the giant samurai only ten paces away. He was decked in shiny gold and green armor, and carried around his back a massive leather bag dripping, thick blood at the bottom. A few heads jutted out of the bag and clouds of buzzing flies surrounded him.

The Oni searched the trees and bramble and was now only seven paces away. Unexpectedly, something jerked away from a bush and he launched at the creature and smashed it with his kanabo, losing his bag in the attack. The bag fell and dozens of heads rolled toward her.

One head stopped at her feet and stared at her with wide open eyes.

Saku gasped as she suddenly realised she was staring at her own face. She fixed her gaze at the other heads in the mist and thought that they all seemed to resemble her, as though this demon samurai had already decapitated her countless times before.

None of it made sense.

Impossible, she thought. It cannot be. And yet… it is… Have I fallen to the demon before? Are there others like me in the demon world that made him? But look… a scar!

Saku observed the head at her feet and noticed a long scar on the side of her face. She instinctively felt her own cheek where the scar should have been. It was proof that this was someone else, though she could not deny the resemblance was uncanny.

Saku swatted flies and reached for the head to get a closer look, but then she suddenly froze when she heard a terrifying roar not five paces behind her. In one fluid motion she dove into a thicket as the kanabo missed its mark. Without a moment to spare, she scrambled to her feet and turned just in time to see a gore-covered kanabo with the crushed head of a rabbit coming down on her with devastating speed.

Quickly, she sidestepped and withdrew her sword. An instant later she slashed off the demon’s arm with a roar of her own. But knowing the arm would grow back in the mist, she turned and charged away, desperately running for the beach. She had downed the demon before, but somehow it always managed to rise unscathed to continue the hunt.

There was no defeating the demon.

There was only one option: escape.

As she rushed through the woods, she turned back to see the demon chasing after her. She pushed herself to run faster and faster, and just as the demon lunged at her again, she dove out of the mist through a break in the trees to a place he could not follow.

The demon samurai stopped suddenly and watched her closely.

Saku clambered to her feet, brushing off sand, seaweed and salt. She turned to face the edge of the woods where she saw red glowing eyes fade into the night. Then she heard the crunch of rocks behind her followed by a clicking sound. She turned slowly to face the barrel of a musket pistol glinting in the moonlight.

Chamber of Blood. The Redcrane. Veil of Blood. 2.

SAKU LOOKED BEYOND THE PISTOL
to a man in a dark kimono and short black hair. He inched closer to her with a smile, but she did not move nor give him the satisfaction of flinching. She met his gaze and edged back slightly. Then she stared off in the distance where she could see shadows moving about a cluster of abandoned homes near the wharf. The small village had been abandoned, no doubt, due to its proximity to the woods and the creatures that lurked within the mist.

The man cleared his throat and placed the barrel inches from her face.

Saku stared into his eyes without fear or concern. She looked down at his sandals and back to his eyes. “Move!” he ordered, his ignorant smile widening. “I know who—”

A sudden flash of moonlight and his head toppled off his shoulders before he could finish his sentence.

Saku watched the headless body spray warm blood into the cool night as it jerked left and right and finally collapsed into a mound of shells and seaweed, startling a nervous crab that instantly scuttled away into the gloom of night.

Saku gripped her sword and patiently picked her way through the jagged rock formations to reach the small village where Black Serpent brutes guarded the area against anyone who might try to interfere with their dark rituals and secret trade negotiations.

She moved silently through the shadows, following the edge of a home. She froze when she heard footsteps approaching. She slowly placed her back against the wall and waited. She peeked around the corner and saw two thugs telling stories about the demon samurai.

She crouched slightly, then, like a mighty tigress, she leaped into the air and thrust her sword through the two heads. They jerked violently then collapsed when she pulled her sword from their skulls.

She took a moment to survey the area, then made her way noiselessly to the wharf where three thugs laughed and made jokes about the strange red alcohol the foreigners had shared with them.

She held her sword firm, and she started toward them, practically gliding with quick, smooth steps. Just as one brute turned to meet her focused gaze she lunged with blinding speed and—

Three headless bodies suddenly staggered stupidly in the dark and collapsed into each other with arterial blood spraying darkness against the bright light of the moon.

Wiping warm blood off her face, she climbed a series of crates, moved past a clump of fishing nets, and crouched by the gangplank. She listened carefully for movement and heard steps just above in the ship.

When the footsteps receded to silence, she moved stealthily up the gangplank and halted, scanning the ship, spotting one thug sitting crossed-legged on a crate. Beside him were several other crates bearing the VOC logo and name of the Dutch East India Company.

Carefully, Saku embarked on the ship and moved toward the brute. But just as she prepared to pounce, she heard a click, followed by a high-pitched wheeling sound. It took her less than a moment to understand she had been lured into a trap—less than a moment too late.

Before Saku had time to react, she felt the heaviness of a net collapse over her as dozens of thugs surrounded her with dirty looks and curses. She then watched the sitting thug, the leader of the group, turn to face her.

The leader smiled, stood briskly, and laughed. “We thought you might show up?” he said as he approached her. He made a quick wave with his hand, and the thugs instantly trained musket pistols on her. “You’ve been quite busy interfering with our good work.”

She didn’t respond, but she pushed and pulled against the net to gauge its strength. She glared at him as she realized this was no chance ambush. The Black Serpent Society had been tracking her and had somehow managed to trap her. The leader shook his head at her.

“Your clan is destroyed. Your weapon is irrelevant and outdated. You’re outnumbered and trapped and still you think you can do the impossible.”

This will be difficult, she thought. But not impossible. I’ve been in worse situations and survived.

Saku inched closer to the leader as he smiled at her. She believed his reluctance to shoot her was evidence that they wanted her alive for one of their rituals.

The leader motioned to all the thugs and laughed, again.

Saku gritted her teeth and studied the thugs as they slowly closed in on her from every direction. She looked into the leader’s thieving dark eyes and saw all the lies and treachery of the Black Serpent Society. Then, looking beyond his eyes, she visualised herself triumphing against her enemy, leaping from thug to thug, cutting them down with her sword like weeds.

Suddenly, the leader barked orders, snapping her back to reality. The thugs inched closer to her with hideous smiles and wide, nervous eyes.

“Surrender willingly,” the leader said flatly. “And we will reunite you with your clan—as misguided as they may have been.”

Saku understood his meaning.

He believed their rituals would open a doorway into the nameless realm where they were supposedly trapped and cursed to live out an endless cycle of life and death for reasons beyond comprehension.

Saku didn’t know what to believe. What she did know was that she wouldn’t allow these thugs the satisfaction of serving her on a sacrificial platter to the darkness they served and she had promised to destroy. She had made an oath long ago as a member of the Red Crown Clan to cleanse the world of the reeking corruption that was the Black Serpent Society, and she planned to honour that oath.

With the strength and power of her ancestors coursing through her veins, Saku instantly rushed forward, her hand thrusting through the net. Powerful fingers grabbed the leader by the scruff of his kimono and pulled him in. Then, using him as a human shield, she whirled as pistols fired and balls ripped through his belly, chest and skull.

Through the rising smoke from the pistols, Saku could see the thugs trying to reload. Without a moment to lose, she tossed her busted and shredded shield to the ground, and, with difficulty, she sliced through the net with her sword. A moment later, she was a hurricane of death and destruction, leaping from thug to thug as her hissing blade painted the deck red.

The thugs didn’t know what to do. They were too stunned to react. It was like fighting a ghost, a monstrous shadow, a formless mist with swords for claws. Their futile attempts to parry her attacks with pistols met empty air as limbs fell and heads rolled.

It was a horrible nightmare, as if by some strange, ironic twist of fate the Redcrane actually drew her power from the black mist serpent so that she was somehow a servant of the very darkness she had sworn to eliminate.

When the last thug fell with a gasp, Saku found herself surrounded by blood and carnage. She took in the stench of gunpowder as her gaze slowly lowered to a thug groveling like a maggot. She had sliced his legs at the knees and he was crawling away with nervous elbows that slipped with every move in the growing pool of blood.

Wiping the gore off her face and kimono, she blocked his path and crouched to face him. The thug looked up at her with widening eyes. A bleat of terror rose from his throat that rose to a shrill pitch as she raised her sword and ended his service to the Black Serpent Society.

Saku rose slowly, and searching the ship, spotted a cluster of oil lamps glowing and flickering atop a crate. With focused determination, she picked her way through the bodies and kicked the crate, sending the oil lamps scattering to the wooden deck below.

The lamps spat liquid fire and set the deck and lifeboat ablaze. Then, walking away from the burning ship, Saku considered everything she had just experienced.

Trapped. How did they know she was coming for them? How could she have taken the bait? How had she been lured so easily?

Enough. Warriors do not waste time with what ifs and what they should have or could have done. What matters now is the present and taking the next right step.

Where to now?

She couldn’t think straight.

Despite all her training, a flame of anger burst in Saku for her careless mistake. Yet, she repressed her frustration and knew there was no use for it. Anger would only cloud her judgment and waste her time. She needed to keep her composure because—

Her friends and family could not have perished in vain. Because she was the last of her clan. Because the Black Serpent Society had to be stopped. Because she the hope of all those who believed she would end the darkness that was upon their land. Because she was—

The Redcrane.

Arcus 41

The Mad Designer sketches are preposterous yet entertaining. I just went through hundreds of sketches of monsters and killers in tuxedos and golfing attire. Makes no sense, and yet I found myself pinning these absurd illustrations in my study. They have absolutely no value to my investigation, yet they made me smile, even laugh, and, perhaps that’s enough. Perhaps helping me forget the horrors of this place even for just a moment turns the absurdity of these designs into a kind of medicine. As much as I take offense to the complete disregard the Mad Designer has for these characters… I can’t help but search the Chamber of Blood for more Emperor Dwight illustrations. They are — so far — my favourite.

Arcus 8542

The creatures move around The Fog, watching me without attacking. They're waiting for the perfect moment, which will never come, for I have barricaded every door and window and practice savage and efficient combat manoeuvres with my nine iron. I've caught glimpses of their forms, and they are ever-changing, as though imitating all the monsters I've read about in my favourite stories, as though The Fog itself were an extension of my dark imagination and fears. I'm calling these horrible things… Creatures of the Fog.

Chamber of Blood. Dejavuism.

It was a book club, and they were arguing over the latest Edwin Cain novel along with the interview the author had given where he discussed a concept he had called Dejavuism. He put forward the theory that our brains are biological, quantum computers with vast networking abilities beyond our current understanding of physics. Cain believed that our quantum brains could connect to other beings with similar frequencies within the multiverse as though they were inter-dimensional cellphones. The club members, who discussed these theories and how they sometimes felt their inner voice was another version of themselves advising them from another time or place, began telling stories about instincts, gut feelings, and deja-vu experiences that felt all too real. There was one skeptic who scoffed at the idea of the multiverse. He thought the idea was ridiculous comic book nonsense, and he laughed at the very notion that our brains were interconnected, multidimensional computers that received or projected ideas from the ether.

One woman exclaimed:

“It could be true. Such a theory would help us understand why ideas seem to come to us as a group, or why so many similar ideas seem to bubble up all the world at pretty much the same time. Who’s to say we aren’t all tapping into the same stream of ideas.”

The sceptic answered:

“It’s just coincidence. That’s all it is when a bunch of people from different places come up with similar ideas. And coincidence has nothing to do with the multiverse or other versions of ourselves in the universe.”

Another man shook his head and said:

“I don’t really agree. There’s shit out there we just don’t understand, and I recently read the idea for Wi-Fi and cellphones came from a bunch of scientists trying to understand a gland in our brain. A gland that’s bioluminescent and seems to be searching for signals. Granted this could be online misinformation, but what is true, and what many cultures believe is that our artists can tap into things not of this world. What I found interesting was how Cain said these visions that artists receive are only accessible to those who experience trauma when they’re young, those who have been bullied, abused, exiled… those who have learned to shut out their reality for self-protection in order to fully experience other realities.”

A woman added:

“The door to the physical world closes, the door to another world opens.”

The sceptic laughed and was just about to speak when another woman, an aspiring storyteller, interrupted him and said:

“I get visions and dreams about the same place all the time. One of my recurring dreams is of Romulus how he is taken up by a massive black storm cloud and brought to this dark realm where he’s chased by a hideous creature… a monster that could not possibly exist. What’s strange is he’s not alone. He’s not the only being hunted. He’s with a biker and two other Scottish men who at first I thought were sailors, but then I had this other dream that showed me that they were, in fact, lighthouse keepers. I did some research and I could swear by the pictures that the biker I was seeing was Yui Kimura, the one who disappeared a few years ago.”

The skeptic laughed and said:

“So what your saying is the Emperor of Rome wasn’t assassinated by his generals but is somehow stuck in some kind of demented world with Yuri Kimura and two lighthouse keepers. This, you somehow believe, is real. Romulus and Yui are running from a monster as we sip coffee and tea in our cozy chairs and talk books and authors. This is what you’re putting forward as something possible? Something reasonable for all of us to believe?”

A woman said:

“It sounds a bit out there. But maybe there are things in the cosmos that are beyond reason or science.”

Another woman beamed at the aspiring storyteller and said:

“Real or not, you should write a story for your blog or even for your next performance. I think it would be a lot of fun, even if it does require a little suspension of disbelief.”

The aspiring storyteller smiled and answered:

“Actually, I have a draft I’ve been working on, which I wanted to share with the group before I posted it. I’m still not sure if it’s a story I can perform because it’s a bit complicated and messy, but maybe you can help me find ways to energize and simplify it.”

Everyone nodded enthusiastically, except for the sceptic who rolled his eyes.

The storyteller pulled out a coffee stained notebook and opened it to a story that she still hadn’t titled. She took a deep, calming breath and began:

“This story doesn’t have a title but I’m thinking of calling it The Tragedy of Cliff and Alex, who were real people and who disappeared before most of us were born. Now, I’m not one to believe in conspiracy theories or urban legends but their story, which I acquired through extensive interviews and research opened my mind to the possibility that there is more to our lives than that which can be seen or proven.”

The sceptic quipped:

“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?”

The storyteller ignored his comment and continued:

“Love, for example, exists and ceases to exist just as soon as we indulge in proofs and evidence. As soon as there is doubt… as soon as there is a need for proof… love is dead. And yet, we know love is a real. And we know — don’t we — that love is quite unreasonable. It’s powerful. It’s maddening. And we hate that we can’t define it. Love exists, and it doesn’t need to be proven in any way, shape or form for it to be real—” the storyteller made an exaggerated gesture to grab something in the empty air — ”And yet, just as soon as you try to grasp it — it tatters at the touch.

“Cliff Barra always loved horror movies. He started making scary movies when his father bought him his first Super 8 camera. And so it comes to no surprise that he grew up to be a famous director who translated his favourite gothic novels and horror stories to the silver screen. It’s also no surprise that when he met Alex Damaro, an equally famous art director known for his brilliant and visionary production sets and costume designs, that they were instantly smitten with one another. Together, it`s safe to say, they produced some of the scariest and most iconic films to date. But all this changed when Alex suddenly disappeared while on set in a rolling cloud of black fog the crew insisted they had not designed.

“From that point on, the movies stopped. A great heaviness came over Cliff as he found himself confronted by the horror that he would never see Alex again. He turned his back on his friends, his career, his life, and he became possessed by an obsession to find out what had happened to Alex. Investigations into this strange fog led him to a group of people searching for missing loved ones. With this group he learned about the existence of secret cults and societies that understood The Black Fog and the strange realm from which it came. He dug deeper and deeper, discovering his old movie set wasn’t haunted as everyone said it was… but was… a kind of doorway to another realm. So he returned to the haunted movie set where Alex disappeared and waited… and waited… He waited for days until finally he heard Alex’s laughter, and with the laughter came The Fog. And the fog rolled in and carried him away.

“And so, Cliff ended up in another world that defied his wildest nightmares. He followed Alex’s voice through a darkness that had never known the light of day. At last, he came upon a forest of wooden stakes bearing skewered heads. He picked his way through the stakes, inspecting each head. The scene reminded him of one of the first films he had made as a teenager. He soon came to one head that resembled an old producer friend of his. Suddenly, the eyes sprang open, and Cliff started. At once, all the heads came alive, taunting and ridiculing him like he had been ridiculed as a child for his passions and hobbies.

"But Cliff stayed the course despite the insults and the taunts that he would never see Alex again. One head of the thousands shouted louder than the rest. The head screamed that Alex was being corrupted and that he should turn back before it was too late. Realizing this severed head knew more than the rest, Cliff kicked the stake and caught the head as it toppled off. The head protested and yelled that it had once been a king and it didn’t want to be in the hands of a commoner. And Cliff promised the king he would release him after—and only after—he helped him find Alex.

“Long story short, the head lead Cliff to the edge of a massive gate that surrounded a town that resembled every production set Alex had ever designed for Cliff. Before he could take in the area, he suddenly heard Alex screaming in the distance. The king warned Cliff not to interfere with the process and explained that Alex was being twisted and tortured into a brutal, murdering monster for reasons they would never understand.

“But Cliff couldn’t bear to hear Alex suffer. Every agonizing scream was a dagger in his heart. And so, dropping the head, he climbed over the gate and, unperturbed by the formless creatures moving in the fog, he followed the cries to the top of a castle he recognized from his Frankenstein film. Cliff charged up the winding stairs to the roof, where he found Alex agonizing on a metal table as bolts of lightning struck him every few moments from a thick, black storm cloud. All around him in glass prisons filled with formaldehyde were all the monsters Alex had ever designed since he was a child. Cliff couldn’t believe what he wasn’t seeing. It was as if this living nightmare were all a projection of their combined memories.

“Cliff didn’t even try to understand what was happening or what he was experiencing. Without hesitation, he rushed up to Alex not knowing what to do. In the shadows he spotted an ax on the cobblestone floor and instantly grabbed it. Then, despite the deadly lightning, he pushed through the sizzling and sparking pain to smash the chains that bound Alex to the table. Alex opened his half-conscious eyes with difficulty. He barely recognized Cliff. Alex squinted with charred eyelids and managed to murmur words that made Cliff smile. Then Cliff hefted Alex over his shoulders and charged down the stairs and out into the thickening fog where frantic, formless creatures did all they could to prevent them from escaping.

“Cliff kicked, punched and charged through the fog, smashing through creatures, crows, and claws—everything and anything the world set against him. He remembered the king telling him something about a hatch—the hatch would somehow lead to freedom. Desperately, Cliff searched the ground as he heard a roar followed by a clap of thunder. Pounding steps chased him through the darkness. He didn’t even bother to look back. He rushed forward until he saw it! The glint of metal by a crumbling Gargoyle statue from one of his movies. He ran to the hatch, opened it, and lowered Alex to safety. Then, just as he was about to descend, something sharp like talons clutched his ankles and pulled him screaming into the raging fog!

“I’d like to say that it all worked out in the end and that they lived happily ever after. But that’s not the truth of this story. The truth is Cliff took Alex’s place at the torturer’s table and was turned into a perfect champion of horror with little or no memory of who he was or how he ended up in this dark realm. And Alex… well… He ended up with a group of stranded souls who did whatever they could just to survive. But that’s another story for another time. Suffice to say that love torments all—bringing the best and worst out of us when we least expect it.”

The storyteller finished and everyone was silent and inward, thinking about what they had sacrificed for love and what they would sacrifice for love. But not the sceptic. No, the sceptic was turning the story over and over in his head searching for issues. At last, he broke the silence, asking:

“What happened to the head? The talking head? Cliff just drops the king’s head and then you never hear about it again. It kind of makes the story incomplete.”

A woman blurted out:

“Who cares about the damn head? It’s a love story!”

The sceptic added:

“Also, I don’t think you can use 'tatters' as a verb.”

The storyteller smiled and politely said:

“I’m still working the story, and the ideas are still coming to me in my dreams. I’ve been logging them in my notebooks and I’ll re-read the current version more critically to see if I need to do something else with the talking head.”

Another woman said:

“All that horror, and for what? To end up twisted and tortured and turned into some abomination worse than anything he ever filmed. I feel so bad for him.”

A man said:

“I don’t. Not because I don’t like him as a character, but because that’s just the kinda things we do for love—the horrible and the beautiful, the bitter and the sweet, the euphoria and the madness—” he lost himself in a memory for a moment—”Love twists and torments. And I’m sure there’s nothing that dark world can do to anyone that would surpass the torment of not knowing what had happened to a loved one… or worse… the regret of knowing what had happened and not doing anything.”

Another man said:

“Well, I do hope you publish this story on your blog. I found it heart-breaking and terrifying… and I guess I’m wondering if you really think this is what happened to the real Cliff and Alex.”

The storyteller shrugged and closed her notebook as she prepared to leave. She wasn’t sure what she believed anymore.

The sceptic laughed and said:

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think the real Cliff and Alex faked their disappearance to get out of the limelight, and they moved far, far away to some gorgeous, exotic island where they’re eating grapes, drinking margaritas, and living happily ever after.”

The man said:

“Well, I do hope you’re right and the story is just a story. But if you’re not… well… I hope Alex will one day be able to do for Cliff what Cliff did for him.”

A woman said:

“It kind of makes you wonder if the characters we read about in the books are actually real somewhere.”

Another woman said:

“A story in this world, reality in another.”

The storyteller stood, smiled at all the book club members, and excused herself as she had an early shift at the café. Everyone said goodbye, watched her disappear out the door, and then returned to their discussion about Edwin Cain, Dejavuism, and the story they had just heard.

Video

This video is unlocked after completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

Challenges

Level 1

Challenge	Task	Type	Character	Completion Rewards
Bring the Light	Repair a total of 4 Generators.	Regular		3	15,000
Glyph Caretaker	Commune with 1 White Glyph.	Glyph		5	25,000
Liberator	Unhook 8 Survivors. Must unhook them safely.	Regular		3	15,000
Whatever It Takes	Stun the Killer 4 times.	Regular		3	15,000
All Better!	Completely heal 1 Health State of any Survivor.	Master		5	25,000
The Last Place You Look	Unlock 4 Chests.	Regular		3	15,000
Appeal to Heal	Fully deplete 4 Med-Kits.	Regular		3	15,000
Leap of Faith	Vault a Pallet or Window while in a Chase 6 times.	Regular		3	15,000
Heroic Virtue	Survive while other 4 other Survivors escape the Trial. You must remain in the Trial while they escape.	Regular		3	15,000
High Skill	Get a Great result on 3 Skill Checks.	Regular		3	15,000
Tenacious Tactics	Escape 1 Trial while having Tenacity equipped.	Master		5	25,000
Risky Reconnaissance	Hide within 10 meters of the Killer without being caught for a total of 20 seconds as Detective Tapp.	Master		5	25,000
Bloody Good	Hit a Survivor with your Weapon 10 times.	Regular		3	15,000
Deadly Pursuit	Chase Survivors for a total of 120 seconds.	Regular		3	15,000
Deadly Games	Place 4 Reverse Bear Traps on Survivors as The Pig.	Master		5	25,000
Scrap Yard	Damage 12 Generators.	Regular		3	15,000
Gruesome	Hook 12 Survivors.	Regular		3	15,000
Hunter's Ambition	Start a Chase with 8 different Survivors.	Regular		3	15,000
Reverent	Sacrifice 6 Survivors to The Entity.	Regular		3	15,000
Suprise!	Hit 2 Survivors with an Ambush Dash as The Pig.	Master		5	25,000
Hang'em High	Sacrifice 2 Survivors while having Hangman's Trick equipped.	Master		5	25,000
Bloody Rewards	Earn 50,000 Bloodpoints.	Regular		3	15,000
Drop or Chop	Complete a total of 20 of the following actions: Drop Pallets while being chased by the Killer. Break Pallets.	Regular		3	15,000
Glyph Seeker	Commune with 1 Red Glyph.	Glyph		5	25,000

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description	Collection
	Arachnid Egg	Uncommon	Here begins the infestation.	Terra Arachna

Level 2

Challenge	Task	Type	Character	Completion Rewards
A True Friend	Unhook a Survivor safely or take a Protection Hit 15 times.	Regular		3	25,000
Long Distance Runner	Be chased by the Killer for a total of 90 seconds.	Master		5	35,000
Escape Route	Lose the Killer in 3 Chases.	Regular		3	25,000
Grease Monkey	Fully deplete 5 Toolboxes.	Regular		3	25,000
Sore Ankles	Fall from a great height while being chased 3 times.	Regular		3	25,000
The Engineer's Guild	Repair a total of 4 Generators while cooperating with other Survivors.	Regular		3	25,000
Stop 'Em In Their Tracks	Stun or blind the Killer 3 times.	Master		5	35,000
Follow Your Hunch	Finish repairing 1 Generator.	Master		5	35,000
Cooperative Healthcare	Heal a total of 4 Health States while cooperating with other Survivors.	Regular		3	25,000
Glyph Caretaker	Commune with 2 White Glyphs.	Glyph		5	35,000
By Any Means Necessary	Drop 8 Pallets while being chased by the Killer.	Regular		3	25,000
Glyph Graduate	Commune with 2 Yellow Glyphs.	Glyph		5	35,000
Knockout	Knock down 12 Survivors.	Regular		3	25,000
Deadly Pursuit	Chase Survivors for a total of 240 seconds.	Regular		3	25,000
Anger Management	Break 15 Pallets.	Regular		3	25,000
Generate Fear	Hit 1 Survivor with an Ambush Dash within 10 meters of a Generator as The Pig.	Master		5	35,000
Choosing Violence	Hit a Survivor suffering from the Exposed Status Effect with your Weapon 3 times while having Make Your Choice equipped.	Master		5	35,000
Execution	Kill 4 Survivors by any means.	Regular		3	25,000
Darkly Obsessed	Hook the Obsession 6 times.	Regular		3	25,000
Watchful Eye	Damage 3 different Generators while having Surveillance equipped.	Master		5	35,000
Gatekeeper	Finish a Trial without any Survivor escaping through the Exit Gates.	Master		5	35,000
Golden Age	Earn 8 Emblems of Gold quality or better.	Regular		3	25,000

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description	Collection
	Arachnid Hatchling	Rare	From cocoon-like egg emerges wiry, spindly legs.	Terra Arachna

Level 3

Challenge	Task	Type	Character	Completion Rewards
The Last Place You Look	Unlock 10 Chests.	Regular		3	30,000
Life Giver	Heal a total of 8 Health States.	Regular		3	30,000
Heroic Virtue	Survive while 6 other Survivors escape the Trial. You must remain in the Trial while they escape.	Regular		3	30,000
Raise the Stakes	Get a Great result on 4 Skill Checks while having Stake Out equipped.	Master		5	50,000
Glyph Caretaker	Commune with 3 White Glyphs.	Glyph		5	50,000
Bring the Light	Repair a total of 12 Generators.	Regular		3	30,000
Feather Foot	Escape a Chase within 20 seconds of falling from a great height while having Balanced Landing equipped.	Master		5	50,000
Liberator	Unhook 12 Survivors. Must unhook them safely.	Regular		3	30,000
Strategic Alliance	Perform a cooperative action for 240 seconds.	Regular		3	30,000
Go for Broke	Sabotage 10 Hooks.	Regular		3	30,000
Machinist	Finish repairing 3 Generators.	Master		5	50,000
Unleash the Rage	Break 30 Breakable Walls, Pallets or Generators.	Regular		3	30,000
Bloody Good	Hit a Survivor with your Weapon 20 times.	Regular		3	30,000
Hunter's Ambition	Start a Chase with 16 different Survivors.	Regular		3	30,000
Knockout	Knock down 20 Survivors.	Regular		3	30,000
Execution	Kill 12 Survivors by any means.	Regular		3	30,000
Unshackled	Finish a Trial with no more than 1 living Survivor while having Enduring, Lightborn and Tinkerer equipped.	Master		5	50,000
Rip 'Em Up	Hit 7 Survivors with The Chainsaw as The Hillbilly.	Master		5	50,000
Golden Age	Earn 12 Emblems of Gold quality or better.	Regular		3	30,000
Drop or Chop	Complete one of the following actions: Drop 15 Pallets while being chased by the Killer. Break 15 Pallets.	Regular		3	30,000
Glyph Seeker	Commune with 4 Red Glyphs.	Glyph		5	50,000

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description	Collection
	Arachnid Predator	Very Rare	Though newly born, it is already prepared to feast.	Terra Arachna

Level 4

Challenge	Task	Type	Character	Completion Rewards
Craft Time's Over	Cleanse 20 Totems.	Regular		3	45,000
A True Friend	Safely unhook or take Protection Hits 25 times.	Regular		3	45,000
One More Time	Succeed at 6 consecutive Skill Checks.	Master		5	60,000
Outta Sight	Hide within 10 meters of the Killer without getting caught for a total of 120 seconds.	Regular		3	45,000
Nea's Skills	Lose the Killer in 4 Chases as Nea Karlsson.	Master		5	60,000
The Last Place You Look	Unlock 15 Chests.	Regular		3	45,000
Life Giver	Heal a total of 10 Health States of any Survivor.	Regular		3	45,000
Whatever It Takes	Stun the Killer 12 times.	Regular		3	45,000
The Engineer's Guild	Repair a total of 10 Generators while cooperating with other Survivors.	Regular		3	45,000
Near Miss	Avoid 5 Basic Attacks by a nearby Killer.	Regular		3	45,000
Glyph Caretaker	Commune with 4 White Glyphs.	Glyph		5	60,000
Knockout	Knock down 22 Survivors.	Regular		3	45,000
Unleash the Rage	Break 50 Breakable Walls, Pallets or Generators.	Regular		3	45,000
Exposed Target	Hit 15 Survivors with your Weapon while that Survivor is Exposed.	Regular		3	45,000
Blood Runner	Hit 1 Survivor with a Chainsaw Sprint of 20 meters or more as The Hillbilly.	Master		5	60,000
Shutdown	Close the Hatch 2 times.	Regular		3	45,000
Deadly Pursuit	Chase Survivors for a total of 300 seconds.	Regular		3	45,000
Dark Adherent	Hook Survivors 9 times.	Master		5	60,000
Obsessive	Kill the Obsession 8 times by any means.	Regular		3	45,000
Scrap Yard	Damage 25 Generators.	Regular		3	45,000
Tinker Treachery	Hit 4 Survivors with your Weapon while you are Undetectable while having Tinkerer equipped.	Master		5	60,000
Glyph Tracker	Commune with 2 Purple Glyphs.	Glyph		5	60,000
Iridescent Age	Earn 12 Iridescent Emblems.	Regular		3	45,000
Glyph Seeker	Commune with 5 Red Glyphs.	Glyph		5	60,000
Salvation or Sacrifice	Complete a total of 20 of the following actions: Safely unhook Survivors. Hook Survivors.	Regular		3	45,000

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description	Collection
	Arachnid Mother	Ultra Rare	One day its spiderlings will spill across the realm.	Terra Arachna

Glyphs

Main article: White Glyphs

White Glyph

• Tome 10 - SAW introduced White Glyph challenges.
  Upon selecting the Glyph Caretaker challenge a White Glyph will spawn in the Trial Grounds and needs to be communed with to gain the Pocket Mirror Item, which must be carefully carried into the Basement to another White Glyph.
  • The Glyph Tracker Challenge is only available to Survivors.

Trivia

• An IGN article published two days prior to the Tome's release confirmed that the voice of the Jigsaw Puppet, facing The Observer in the Reveal Trailer, was done by actor Tobin Bell himself, who has played John Kramer/Jigsaw in all Saw films aside from the latest one, and the only one in which Jigsaw didn't appear in-person, 2021's Spiral.
  • Jigsaw did appear in Spiral but was only mentioned and shown in a photograph, so Bell didn't actually play a role in the film.

• • Tobin Bell is the third actor with an established Hollywood career to lend his voice to Dead by Daylight, after Bruce Campbell who reprised his role of Ashley J Williams, and Doug Bradley, who voices The Cenobite and played Pinhead in the Hellraiser films.