Archived letter submitted to the British War Office, November 1917

War Office
Whitehall
London

Dear Sirs,

The battle for Passendale is won. I needn't say that it came at great costs, as I'm sure you're fully aware of the death toll already. I am writing to you because of the harrowing circumstance I experienced while serving in Belgium; a circumstance that stretches beyond the chronic horrors of this world war. Please, I beg, do not mistake my words as the senseless ramblings of a traumatized soldier, for I am not. I have sustained no lasting injury. The envelope containing this letter also contains my medical records, which I would much appreciate having back in my ownership upon reviewal.

On the 4th of September, I fought and defeated the Devil. This is by no means a symbolic statement claiming victory, for I am being very literal. Something that I can only describe as supernatural arrived on the Western Front and began a terrifying exodus.

CURATOR NOTE: Document incomplete. Initially stored in poor conditions. Handled carelessly by War Office admins.

Passchendaele (Passendale), Belgium, August 1917

Edward Morris hated the smell of cordite, and as he marched through the trench, he winced as the odor punched into his nostrils. This perpetual unpleasantness provided a host of excuses to escape, from death and disease to the rancid food they ate daily. Like every fighting soldier with him, Morris had come to associate this stench with the inevitable accompaniment of mutilated bodies. He braced himself. Arriving at the firestep, sandbags had spilled into the trench, along with steel pickets, segmented barbed wire, and several disfigured corpses beneath it all. Morris had walked in after an enemy artillery strike. Through the lingering smoke, he could barely make out the other side. This was no concentrated attack, it was a creeping barrage, intended to suppress their gunmen for an infantry assault. Every hundred yards for as far as Morris could see was the same.

It was August 28, a hazy Saturday afternoon. Across the war-torn wetlands, rifles and field guns snapped like corn kernels, and humming fighter planes soared overhead. In No Man's Land, soldiers from both sides showed their grit and persistence to cross, and each time they were quickly dealt with. But Morris would not be among them. He was the sergeant of a mortar platoon, regularly coordinating attacks on enemy emplacements.

Morris stepped with care into the firestep, checking for any survivors within the hazardous debris, but there were none. He paused for a moment and took in a deep breath. Then, accepting the disastrous situation, he retreated to a nearby dugout, brushing past a dozen or so somber-looking infantrymen on his way.

A shabby map laid on an old oak table - an overview of the battlefield. Morris didn't look at the map for very long and focused instead on the two stern men gazing down at it in visible frustration. Brigadier Andrew Norman and Major Edmund Orville were strategizing as usual. Across the table from Morris stood Gérard Jacobs, a Belgian commandant. Thirty-four years old, Jacobs was a sturdy and square-jawed man. His prematurely greying hair was hidden beneath a rusted Adrian helmet, and his intense, dark eyes were stabbing into Morris's soul. Jacobs and his troops had been sent here to bolster the allied position two days ago. He was the only available Belgian officer able to speak a lick of English, and already there had been fierce disagreements, mainly tactical disputes and accusations of ration theft. Morris held contempt for Jacobs and vice versa. Standing beside Jacobs was his subordinate, Mathieu Clément, a jittery young thing that somehow rose to the rank of captain, whose pale, anxious face made him seem much older than his twenty-two years. Clément was submissive. He never complained or made direct eye contact, he kept his head low and did exactly as Jacobs instructed.

As Morris approached his superiors, Orville said, "Morris, report."

"We've lost at least three machine gun squads to an artillery shelling, sir."

"Creeping?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the men are holding?" Brigadier Norman asked, one officer taking the lead from another. "The bastards are being repelled?"

"Yes, sir," Morris repeated a second time. "Our defenses are firm."

Jacobs slammed his fist into a corrugated partition, which caused a reverberating, tinny clang to ring out. It was an outburst of resentment. Jacobs believed on good account that the enemy was purposely holding back, that the allies' defenses were being slowly whittled down for an enormous assault in the coming days. The lack of preparation displayed by the Britons kindled in him a hatred for them. Clément swallowed a nervous lump, then, in his native French tongue, he quietly consulted his commanding officer.

"Our mortars are still not within range of their ammo dumps or supply lines," Morris said to Orville. "And all our field guns have been commandeered by Brigadier Nelson in the east."

"Well, at least we're not sitting ducks," Orville sarcastically replied.

In response, Jacobs stormed to the table and stabbed his finger onto the map. He pointed to the farthest salient, where the stretch of allied trenches finished and the southernmost point of Houthulst Forest began. "Here! Send sappers to work here!"

Though the three Britons could sense Jacobs' anger building, they weren't expecting such emotional lability to explode mid-discussion. The Belgian's veins, thick and dilated, stuck out like a bad allergy from his exposed neck. His teeth were clamped shut, as though biting down on every impulse to avoid punching someone.

Brigadier Norman simply sighed. "Gérard, we've already discussed this... We cannot afford to send engineers out there when we need them here, on the frontline, repairing!"

"You don't tell me how to use my troops!" Jacobs snapped.

Morris caught the warning in his voice, Jacobs was defending his rank. He understood where it came from, the Brits constantly dictated how the battle should be fought. For once, Morris had no wish to challenge him, but Brigadier Norman and Major Orville had other ideas. To make any kind of progression, they needed to work together, as it was too late into the campaign to be scuffling for control now.

Orville's tone was ruthless and bullish, "You'll do as your fucking told! You were sent to help with our efforts, not the other way around, you dumb fuck!"

Jacobs flipped Orville off. "You stupid buffoon, this is a joint effort! Our defenses are being dwindled down faster than the sappers can fix, we must change tactics!"

Norman pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gérard, until we have access to artillery and air support, I can't authorize this. There's no justification for any sappers to be relocated. We can't replenish them if something happens, there are no reserves."

Jacobs marched out, Clément following closely behind, "We're all going to fucking die!"

"Morris." Norman said, taking up a pencil and scribbling onto a coffee-stained paper note, "Use a carrier pigeon, ensure this is delivered to Brigadier Nelson."

"Of course, sir."

"If all goes as planned, we should have some guns firing on our Jerrys by dusk."

Two weeks ago, Roger Nelson, a newly assigned brigadier, had been appointed as a field commander to the most violent front of the battle, twelve miles to the east. His military record was fantastic, but still, the conflict remained an inimical stalemate. Brigadier Norman loaned Nelson half a dozen Howitzers and two scores of gunners to help tip the balance. In truth, however, these contributions made little impact, as the Germans responded by simply deploying more of their own.

"Only some?" asked Orville.

"I don't expect Roger to involve many, he's clearly tied up... If not a bit close-fisted." Norman folded the note and passed it to Morris, "Hurry now."

"Yes, sir." Morris took the note, saluted, and made his brisk exit.

Quietly, Orville then said, "Can you believe that fucker Jacobs? All he does is complain."

Norman directed his attention to the map. "The bloke's proposal isn't bad, we just can't take any unnecessary risks. Unless Roger starts pushing back, we shan't be doing anything that could further endanger our engineers. Until then, a stern shelling before tea time should be enough to pin those pricks down, if only for a brief moment."

"Aye," Orville replied.

"On a side note, I suspect you've heard the rumors surrounding Houthulst."

"The forest?.. No, I haven't."

"Funny, I was sure you had. Well, not three days ago, Belgian infantrymen came in from Houthhulst for triage. They claimed that soldiers were vanishing in the night without a trace, and mumbled some gibberish about vengeful forest spirits." Norman's gaze met Orville's, "It's best we try to discredit these hearsays wherever possible. The men have enough on their minds, they could do without the silly ghost stories unsettling them."

"It sounds like bloody nonsense to me," Orville said.

"Right you are."

Norman looked back at the map, the forest now encircled in faded graphite. Beneath it, a line of dense black ink stretched in wavy patterns from one side of the page to the other, detailing the current extent of their territory. Norman believed this line was a testament to British fortitude. It was proof that the Entente Powers were more than just pushovers. This was a war they could very well win.

Drawn to the steel vehicle by its irresistible danger, the creature lurked in the scorched treetops of Houthulst Forest. It remained hidden among the naked branches, its body a barely perceivable shimmer in the orange sun rays. Initially focused on the A7V heavy tank, it became more intrigued by the warm-blooded bipeds that stood guard beside it. Hesitant to move any closer, it remained where it was, seamlessly flicking between infrared and ultraviolet vision. Yearning to hunt, this small German military section was a welcome challenge for the skilled predator, but it was far too dangerous to engage directly.

Then, something garnered its full attention. Deep below, one of the bipeds had broken away from the group. Peering stealthily, the creature watched as the soldier disappeared behind a thick grove to alleviate his bowels. An enticing opportunity arose. Scanning the environment as it began plotting out a route, the creature cautiously made its move, sounding with a series of tumultuous clicks.

Cadet Otto Webber squatted on a dead oak, fatigues around his ankles, whistling Ride of the Valkyries off tune. Once this woodland flourished with wildlife, back when Belgian hares and prowling foxes were not an uncommon sight. But war is a growing fire, and the beauty of nature is no barrier to the hungry gaze of expansionists and conquerors. Poison gasses, repeated bombings, and enormous bushfires caused by liquid fuel had reduced Houthhulst into a harrowing sea of sorrows. Almost everything had been burned to black.

Webber finished up and tended to himself, examining the stripped offshoots of the trees above, wondering what - if anything - at that moment was looking down at him. With the exception of distant fighter planes making their arduous rounds, nothing moved. The rumor had spread quickly. Nefarious spirits were watching, waiting with the patience of Job to strike at the unexpecting. Webber dismissed the story as nothing but guff. He left the grove and circled back to his section, only to promptly stop.

Bodies hung like festive streamers from the canopies, bloodied and mangled, held aloft by their ankles with makeshift rope. Webber widened his eyes and raised his bolt-action rifle, already primed to fire. The barrel swept from left to right, searching for the culprits responsible, but nobody was there. The A7V was as he remembered it mere moments ago, untouched and unmanned. There were no telltale signs of struggle and Webber hadn't heard a single gunshot. This was some kind of ambush.

It had meant to be a break, a short respite before they continued their descent into chaos. Now, Webber was alone. Yesterday he'd tried to fight a soldier from the French Foreign Legion one-on-one. He barely escaped the encounter intact. Webber had no wish to combat this unseen enemy on his own, yet his instincts prevailed and fueled him with adrenaline.

Lodged in a nearby tree he spotted a long thin instrument. Shaped like a two-pronged fork, its sharp tips had burrowed into the trunk at eye-level. Since his deployment, Webber had seen many different types of munitions over the grueling months. Nothing like this, however. Blood coated its chrome shaft, still dripping from the recent onslaught. Webber turned and stood still for a very long time, his senses dialed to eleven. This was the first time he felt truly vulnerable, the first time he knew his comrades couldn't help fend off the lurking danger. Webber couldn't begin to imagine who or what he was up against.

He felt a sense of evil, a lingering tremor of terror. The perpetrator had not attacked from the sides, nor had it come from behind to flank the unsuspecting section. It had focused its attack from the trees. Webber walked slowly to the A7V, ceaselessly staring up into the canopy. His stomach churned at the petrified faces of the deceased men gawking down at him. Arriving at the entry hatch, he paused to check his surroundings, then lifted himself onto the tank's side and pulled on the handle, opening it. Yet when he reached in, the horror assailed him once again, as a sharp burning sensation suddenly ran from his spine into his chest. His blood was now splattered all over the steering wheel and lever controls. Two upward-facing serrated blades poked from his shirt. Webber did not have the time to scream, nor would anybody hear him.

The invisible assassin had dealt a deathly blow. The pain lasted well over ten seconds and Webber was conscious through all of it. The strike was a precisional one, deliberately missing his neck and spine in favor of impaling his heart and lungs. It took the time to do it right, to finish Webber swiftly, nothing more. Still, he lived long enough to know he was going to die. Webber's torso was quickly soaked, enveloped by a warm red patch. Then, he went limp, and blood-infused froth leaked from his mouth.

With little difficulty, the creature briskly yanked Webber's lifeless body from the tank; snatching it away into the dark depths of Houthulst Forest.