The Night Stalker.

The blood moon bathed the barren streets in a scarlet glow as Carl Kolchak sat in his hotel room. His shadow stretched long and jagged across the cracked pavement, merging with the darkness around him. The night was unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence that felt alive, pressing against his ears and chest. He pulled out a sleek recording device—modern, compact, with a glassy, obsidian finish that reflected the crimson light above. A faint tremor passed through his hand as he held it up, pressing the record button.

He took a deep breath, the sound of it amplified in the stillness.

"This is Carl Kolchak, recording at—" He glanced at his watch. "—19:45 hours, just outside of Gary, Indiana. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up, but if you’re listening to this... well, it means I haven’t stopped trying."

His voice was steady but carried a raw edge, as if something inside him was fraying with every word.

"After I left town, I began posting notices on every corner of the internet, in every dark nook and cranny I could find. All in relation to my wife, Gail." His tone faltered slightly, the name heavy on his tongue. "She disappeared years ago. Some say Crouch End in England is where she vanished. I’ve gone over the accounts, the details. People go missing there in ways that don’t make sense, in ways no one can explain."

"But that’s not the only place. Ealdwic, nestled somewhere in the shadows of London, feels eerily similar. I’ve spoken to people, read the reports. Ealdwic isn’t on most maps, and those who’ve gone there often... don’t come back. What kind of forces could make entire people, entire places, vanish? It feels like the two are connected, somehow. Like two sides of the same warped coin, both touched by things we were never meant to understand."

"And then there’s Skorzeny. After we staked him, after we watched him turn to ash, it wasn’t over. Not really. His victims? All of them—cremated. Not by accident, and not by grieving families. This wasn’t normal protocol. It felt deliberate. I’d bet my life some shadowy society, or a black-budget government agency, swept in to clean up the mess. Why? Because they know something we don’t. Something they don’t want us to find out."

His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

"I haven’t slept a full night since this began, and I doubt I ever will again. And now, you might not either. Because no matter how safe you think you are, there’s one fact you can’t bury under red tape and bureaucracy: Skorzeny’s death didn’t bring closure. It brought questions. And those questions will eat at you, like they do me, every time you tell yourself, ‘It couldn’t happen here.’"

Kolchak stopped the recording, staring at the device for a moment before slipping it back into his jacket.

A dim bulb buzzed faintly, casting a weak yellow glow over the peeling wallpaper and cracked linoleum floor. Kolchak sat at an old wooden desk, the edges nicked and worn, and opened his laptop. The glow of the screen illuminated his tired face as he navigated to a site buried deep in the digital labyrinth.

The blood moon loomed high as Kolchak worked, its eerie light casting the derelict city in shades of crimson and shadow. In the night sky, it hung like an omen, watching as humanity unknowingly edged closer to the precipice of its end.

Kolchak entered his credentials, his fingers moving quickly but deliberately over the keys.

Once inside, he opened a new thread and began typing up his report, detailing Skorzeny’s final words, the blood moon, and the Red Star. A small notification pinged in the corner of his screen—a private message from a user with the handle Watcher13.

Watcher13: "Kolchak. You’ve seen it too. We need to talk. There’s more you don’t know."

Kolchak’s fingers hesitated above the keyboard, his pulse quickening. He typed back a curt reply.

Kolchak: "Tell me everything."

The blood moon outside seemed to press closer against the window, its crimson light bleeding into the room. As the screen refreshed, a final unsettling realization crossed his mind. The conversations, the reports, the mysteries—they were all feeding into a web of connections that spiraled far beyond anything he had imagined.

The laptop screen glowed starkly against the gloom.

The site’s header: AnonX.com.