Assassin

Researcher's insight into the Assassin
Undated

The arrival of the Assassin marks a surprising turning point in the Louisiana Case. Before its arrival, the entity's major aspects were certainly formidable combatants, though designed for other purposes. The humanoid Assassin seemed especially sculpted to shock humans, and destroy them.

Accounts of such a creature are similar: that of a tall humanoid figure who can seemingly melt into a swarm of insects. Whether or not this is the result of trickery, or actual physical transformation, is debatable. Though with all things relating to this case, I am inclined toward belief in the most outlandish and bizarre theorizations one day, and incredulous the next.

Of this, I've noted a remarkable pattern in its behavior. The Assassin seemed capable of remarkable feats. Chief among them, the ability to split into several (three) manifestations of itself. These manifestations would function as a distraction, attacking hunters independently, while the true Assassin would use the opportunity to find the right moment to strike.

Thankfully, Harold Black preserved much of what we know. His encounter with the Assassin seems to have forged him into the man we revere today.

His account, in typical Blackian fashion, seems indirect by modern academic standards. Indeed, he does mention his failed career as a writer, and his inability to inform clearly seems to affirm this.

However, this does give a rare insight into the abilities of the Assassin, particularly their development from a human host. You'd be forgiven for missing some of the more pragmatic information, such as that the Assassin's chest seems to harbor a vulnerable point.

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The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"
1/5

Light the shadow that has so dogged my steps on the brightest days.

The words had come to me as I stumbled out of that labyrinthine prison, having for the first time become a quarry, prey to that roving swarm. My friends were dead, butchered by its blades, and my final shots had no effect, as they ricocheted off iron and stone, the swarm undisturbed, lurching toward me on a hundred thousand legs.

I had vaulted gantries, burst through doors, leapt the corpses of my comrades, to come outside again to breath clear air. And in that moment, of unrivalled and brilliant life, the final words of my father came to me.

Light the shadow that has so dogged my steps on the brightest days.

Words that I had fled from. South, to Atlanta, Tallahassee, Jackson, New Orleans, and finally Baton Rouge. Yet they had caught up to me. His cursed prophecy proved self-fulfilling. In the weeks immediately after his passing, I'd awoken from their echo in a cold sweat, and been trapped in their rumination until sun up. Watching the dark corners for the specter they heralded. In the end, it proved that the unease they caused set me on a path fraught with pitfalls. A path here.

Blinking in the sun, staggering down the steps of that prison, they came to me as a stroke of clarity. I would light the shadow that had dogged his step. I would repay my inherited debts. The Assassin, so aptly named, destroyed the man I was. A man scared of his shadow. In his place stands someone I'm unfamiliar with. Perhaps this is one purpose of this journal.

The second is the aforementioned repayment. A great deal of blood has been shed in the writing of these pages. It will prove my life's work, and perhaps that of others too.

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The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"
2/5

I was not always a hunter, far from it. Many years ago, I studied Natural Science at Harvard. An ardent believer then, the secularization of the school proved to disillusion me. I dropped out, aspiring to be a writer, though found little success. Soon after, my father passed, and I made my way South.

In October of 1890, I was in New Orleans. I was a staff writer for one of the papers. I followed, naturally, the murder of David Hennessy with great professional and personal interest. Unseen assailants in the dead of night gunned down the Police Chief. Despite a relentless hunt, his killers were likely never caught. Eventually, nineteen Italians found themselves imprisoned.

I was there for their barbarous lynching, I remember two of the wretched men dragged from jail. I must admit, the sight was too much, and I left. On the perimeter of the crowd, I saw another also making his leave. The man was hugely tall, and incredibly agitated. Something about him struck me as odd, and I began to follow.

Some way down the street he noticed me. A shot rang out from the mob at the prison, and on that mark he began to sprint. I gave chase, struck by a sense of abandon.

My pursuit led me down an alley where, cornered, the man spun. He kicked up a cloud of dust into my face that blinded me. To my disgust, by happenstance he seemed to have caught a large beetle, which I felt crawling across my face. As I cleared my eyes, I could hardly believe them, for it seemed the man was scaling the shear wall of the adjacent building. Seemingly hanging off the wall, he threw something. It missed me by an inch.

As it thudded into the ground, I realized it was a long, slender blade. I fled, leaving the man to disappear over the eaves.

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The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"
3/5

Shortly after, I was fired from the paper. My editor, John C. Wickliffe, took objection to my portrayal of the events of the lynching. Later on, it came out that he himself had been prominently involved, but by that time I was in the employ of another, Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana Hiram R. Lott.

My work was clerical and tiresome. I drank often and in quantity, my evenings spent in a stupor. It was during this time I met a dear friend of mine, Vincent Orsica. A friendship of chance, we always seemed to meet at night, in one saloon or another. Some years my senior, he gave me invaluable advice over countless whiskeys and cigarettes.

Over a year or so, as my trust in him grew, I shared all manner of secrets. I was close with Mr. Lott, and we frequently argued. The accounts of such disagreements seemed to interest Vincent greatly, and I shared them willingly, secretly delighted to have the rapt attention of one I respected so greatly.

He took pity on my health, and began taking me for long walks in the woods, and practicing a bit of sport shooting. The first time I saw him sober, I still remember, being surprised at how tall he was. These walks developed into hikes and hunts, and had a tremendous impact on my health, and would prove invaluable practice.

The last time I saw Vincent, we'd drunk until morning. I'd been recounting a particularly funny disagreement, over a continued obsession of Mr. Lott's. He was a great believer in an Atlantic-Pacific canal through Nicaragua. I was a stern critic, there were issues closer to home for him to worry about, and the effort in Panama was an unmitigated failure. Nevertheless, against my advice, Mr. Lott had sailed to Nicaragua that afternoon, and I was again out of work.

We left the saloon at dawn. I think it was the drink, but as Vincent walked away, he seemed to split and multiply, eventually vanishing down a dozen alleys.

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The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"
4/5

Hiram R. Lott died out in Nicaragua, another was sworn in his position of Lieutenant Governor. Wandering the docks, thoroughly inebriated, I eventually found work with a man by the name of Samson. Thus was my introduction to this bloody and violent work. It was a far cry from writing, though I hoped I could serialize my adventures at some point in the future.

Through Samson I met a young group of other hunters, and together we one day found ourselves in the upper gantries of the new prison, out Lawson way. The first of my friends was blinded by a thrown clump of insects that crawled over his face, some disappearing down his throat. Screaming, he was hardly aware of the shadow rising behind him. We watched, mouth agape, as it grew to its full stature, then suddenly drove a blade through the belly and let him drop. To my knowledge, the Assassin's first kill.

We started firing, the Assassin seemed to split into three and rush the next of us. One flew at me, and I hit it with a single shot. It burst. My mouth was full of legs, thoraxes and mandibles, beetles crawling across my airways. By the time I'd cleared them, I saw another of my friends get jabbed in the stomach by the Assassin, darting to avoid a final swing of his axe, then slashing his throat, blood bubbling out of the clean gash.

I saw then into the void of the monster's face. The most remarkable feeling struck me. Recognition.

I vowed on my father's words to prevent that happening again. The massacre of my comrades. I would arm hunters with the knowledge they needed to survive out here.

It was that moment of recognition that led me to where I am today. For in that void I saw Vincent.

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The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"
5/5

I went through everything I'd written the last few years. I turned out my humble quarters for every scrap of paper I'd jotted on, every memory I'd crystalized into writing. I visited psychologists, chemists, and mystics, anyone who could do anything to help me remember. I needed to recall everything I could about Vincent.

A crumpled note and incessant questioning of strangers of the street took me to his quarters. A dilapidated garret overlooking the prison where the lynching took place. Bare of furnishing. Again, a sense of recognition. As I walked the streets outside, I realized I'd been there before. The alley the man had disappeared down. I put everything relevant to paper.

Another line of enquiry took me closer. Apparently, another hunter had seen the Assassin, by the name of Glanton. I found him out in the bayou, inhabiting an abandoned church, deep in the hunting grounds. He was dressed in black and had strung bones from his clothes, yet his face was youthful and plain.

The Assassin had come to him one night, and they had fought until morning. The fight was only over when he'd planted a blast from his Romero straight in its chest, which had caused it to recoil and flee. I asked him where this had taken place. He laughed and gestured to the church. He was waiting for it to come back.

Disturbed, I returned to the city. Bringing everything together, I had a picture of the Assassin. I presented this information to other hunters, and not before long. I was ready to track it down and kill it.

Only I didn't. My men stopped me. They promised me a share of the bounty. The information I'd assembled was valuable. But they couldn't risk losing me.

They asked me instead to study the monsters. To illuminate them. I'm ashamed to say, I assented. And thus was this journal born, and found its way to you.

Light the shadow that has so dogged my steps on the brightest days.