Chapter 112: Bradon Family... Pain Of 23 Years...

Down Hotel…

Inside the dimly lit Down Hotel, Jojo, Freya, Alice, Rosalie, Klaus, Elijah, Jacob, and Leah sat around a table that had been dragged to the center for a discussion.

Trish and Darry sat quietly at a desk behind Jojo, observing the conversation without interrupting.

"If his body is fake, then where is his real body?"

Trish's voice broke the silence, her tone edged with concern.

She glanced between Jojo and the others, waiting for answers.

Jojo leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he recounted his findings.

He explained how the Creeper's puppet body worked and why his Penance Stare had been ineffective.

Sigh~

"Yeah… I don't know where the original body is,"

Jojo admitted, shaking his head.

"But there has to be a bigger reason behind why it hunts humans every 23 years, and only for 23 days."

Chuckle~

"Well, isn't it obvious? He hunts because he's hungry,"

Klaus quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye.

His casual remark earned a few nods from the group.

There were other supernatural beings—like vampires—who needed to feed on something to survive.

It wasn't an unfamiliar concept.

Cough~

"Maybe it's… a punishment."

The soft voice came from Leah, who had been sitting silently at the edge of the group.

She raised her hand slightly, clearing her throat to gain their attention.

Everyone turned to look at her, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Leah wasn't used to speaking in front of the core team of the DMC, especially Jojo.

Despite joining the Demon Management Corps voluntarily to work under Jojo—whom she admired deeply—she'd spent the past two years on the sidelines, unable to prove herself.

When she heard Jojo was forming a team to handle a tier-level 4 supernatural case, she had jumped at the chance.

Still, the weight of being part of such a high-stakes mission wasn't lost on her. She continued, albeit a bit awkwardly:

"I mean… maybe the Creeper is cursed, forced to do this every 23 years as some kind of penance."

The room fell silent for a moment as the group considered her words.

Leah had immediately joined the team after hearing about the mission from Freya, whom she worked under as an assistant.

Now, as she voiced her perspective in a room filled with seasoned hunters and people from outside her pack, she felt a wave of awkwardness.

Her gaze darted nervously between the faces of the group, unsure of how her comment would be received.

"____"

"____"

"____"

The room fell silent as everyone processed Leah's suggestion—that the Creeper's hunt might be a punishment inflicted upon it by someone or something.

Um~

"Interesting... a very interesting perspective,"

Freya finally said, breaking the silence.

Her raised eyebrow and thoughtful expression showed she was impressed.

Leah blinked, surprised by the compliment, and gave a hesitant smile.

"I thought so too,"

Jojo added, nodding.

He offered Leah a small smile, which eased some of her nerves.

"That possibility crossed my mind as well."

Jojo had been considering the same theory—that the Creeper's cyclical hunt was tied to some mysterious punishment.

Leah's insight validated his suspicions, and it seemed to resonate with the others too.

The group spent the next half-hour discussing this new perspective, diving into theories and potential leads.

By the end of the meeting, they reached a consensus on their next steps.

They decided to resume their search for the Creeper at dawn.

Daylight would bring increased activity on the highway, forcing the Creeper into more predictable patterns and limiting its movements.

As the meeting adjourned, the tension in the room eased slightly.

Leah lingered near Freya, still feeling out of place among the more experienced members, but her small contribution had earned her some respect—and a boost of confidence she sorely needed.

The Next Morning...

As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, the hotel owner and his daughter arrived earlier than usual.

The tension was evident in their steps—they had been sent away the previous night by the two cops, Dana and David, and had spent the night worrying about their hotel.

The little they gathered from their brief conversation with the officers suggested that serious trouble had unfolded.

Somehow, their modest hotel had become the epicenter of it all.

While they were concerned about the safety of the kids who seemed to be the target of some deranged individual, their primary worry was the condition of the hotel—their sole source of income and livelihood.

Chime~

The doorbell jingled softly as they stepped inside.

What greeted them was a surprising sight: a group of strangers actively chatting with each other, filling the quiet morning air with energy.

The hotel owner frowned, confused.

"Who are you guys?"

he asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and concern.

A young woman stepped forward.

It was Trish.

"They're the ones who came to help us,"

she explained, her tone calm and reassuring, easing some of the tension.

The hotel owner's daughter, visibly more anxious, looked around and hesitated before asking,

"What about the two cops? Dana and David?"

Rosalie, who had been near the door, overheard the question.

She turned to the pair and answered with a reassuring tone.

"They went to the hospital. Don't worry. We'll be leaving this place soon."

With that, the group began to file out of the hotel, their movements purposeful.

Darry and Trish followed closely, leaving the hotel owner and his daughter standing in the lobby, bewildered yet relieved that the strange ordeal seemed to be coming to an end.

Nearby Village...

Under the shadow of a withered tree, an old woman stood silently, her frail figure outlined by the golden hues of the rising sun.

The tree, barren and lifeless, stood in stark contrast to the lush greenery surrounding it.

Not a single leaf adorned its twisted branches, as if it had been cursed to stand as a grim sentinel for decades.

The woman, likely in her late sixties or early seventies, carried the posture of someone weathered by both physical labor and emotional trials.

Her face bore the lines of countless hardships, each wrinkle a testament to a life lived with resilience.

Her hair, grey and wispy, was tied back into a loose bun that betrayed her practical and modest nature.

She wore a simple rural outfit—a button-up shirt paired with a plain cardigan—functional and unpretentious, reflecting her humble life.

This was Gaylen Brandon.

Crow~ Crow~

The cawing of crows overhead punctuated the stillness, drawing her gaze skyward.

She watched as the birds soared across the morning sky, their black forms cutting through the golden expanse.

Her expression was distant, her thoughts far away.

Memories of her last encounter with her son surfaced, unbidden.

The pain of his loss felt as sharp now as it had on the day she lost him.

"____,"

she murmured under her breath, her voice trembling with an emotion she couldn't quite name.

Regret? Anguish? Or perhaps, the faint hope of understanding something she had never been able to grasp.

The wind rustled softly around her, carrying whispers of the past and a sense of foreboding, as if the lifeless tree under which she stood held secrets yet to be revealed.

Flashback...

23 Years Ago...

The night was eerily quiet, save for the sound of a shovel striking soil.

Gaylen Brandon stood under the same lifeless tree where she now stood in the present, her breath visible in the cold night air.

Before her, her son Kenny Brandon worked feverishly, shoveling dirt to fill a freshly dug hole.

His movements were frantic, his face pale under the moonlight, and his eyes darted around as if expecting something—or someone—to appear at any moment.

"Kenny..."

Gaylen's voice trembled as she stepped closer, fear and confusion swirling within her.

"Why are you doing this? Why, Kenny? It hurts too much... seeing you like this."

Kenny froze at her words, his grip on the shovel tightening.

His shoulders hunched as he stared at the ground, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Listen!"

he suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the stillness of the night.

Gaylen flinched, taking a step back.

The silence that followed was oppressive, the air heavy with unspoken truths.

Kenny exhaled sharply, trying to compose himself.

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of his actions pressed down on him.

Sigh~

"Mom... just listen, okay?"

His voice was quieter now, but his words carried an urgency that sent chills down Gaylen's spine.

"Time's up. It's coming back. Just as I said it would."

His narrowed eyes glinted with fear and determination.

He shoved the last bit of soil over the hole and patted it down with trembling hands.

"What are you talking about? Why, Kenny?"

Gaylen's voice cracked as she stepped closer, her maternal instinct warring with the terror Kenny's demeanor inspired.

Kenny's face twisted in anguish.

His eyes finally met hers, and she saw it—a terrible secret, a truth so horrifying that it had driven her son to the brink of madness.

"It doesn't matter,"

he said bitterly, his voice breaking.

He gave her a smile—a weak, pained thing—and turned his back to her.

"Mom, go home. You can't... you shouldn't know."

He whispered the last part, almost to himself, before throwing the shovel over his shoulder and walking into the darkness, leaving Gaylen standing alone under the gnarled tree.

Flashback Ends...

Gaylen blinked, her mind returning to the present.

The golden light of dawn filtered through the trees, but her heart felt as cold and heavy as it had that night.

"Why, Kenny?"

she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the morning breeze.

She stared down at the ground beneath the tree, as if hoping the answers were buried there alongside whatever her son had hidden.

Sob~ Sob~

Gaylen knelt under the lifeless tree, her frail frame trembling with each heartbroken sob.

Her hands dug into the dirt, her nails scraping against the cold ground as she whispered her son's name,

"Kenny... Kenny..."

Her voice cracked, carrying a pain that had festered for 23 long years.

The memories of that night and her son's ominous warnings played on repeat in her mind.

Recently, they had become harder to ignore—his voice haunting her dreams, urging her to protect Addison.

"Take her somewhere safe,"

the voice echoed in her mind.

"Before they come."

The tone was desperate, filled with dread.

Gaylen didn't need to ask who they were—she could feel the malevolence creeping closer.

Creak~

The old farmhouse door swung open, its hinges groaning against the still morning air.

A young girl, barely 18, stepped out onto the wooden porch.

Addison Brandon—her light brown hair catching the early rays of the sun—looked toward her grandmother with growing concern.

"Grandma?"

Addison called softly, her voice hesitant.

She descended the creaking steps barefoot, the dewy grass cool against her feet.

Addison's face reflected both worry and weariness, the weight of her unusual life etched into her features.

Her grandmother's strange behavior had only escalated over the years.

Talking to herself, retreating from the world, and now this—crying under the dead tree at sunrise.

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(Author's POV)

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