The Beast of Banalore

Table of Contents

DD-659: PRIVATE JOURNAL OF PINCKNEY, MILES
DD-660: “The Beast of Banalore”
DD-661: Timeline of Events
DD-662: Glossary of Terms

_______________***START OF NARRATIVE DD-659***________________

Miles Pinckney
Scientific Study of Religion and Mythology in Developing Worlds
Journal Entry 1
August 19th, 2023

Everything felt alien to me as I gripped the railing on the swaying deck of the USS Dashiell. I fought waves of nausea and tried to concentrate on the chatter of the crewmembers filling the salty ocean air. Several weeks ago, I departed from Charleston, South Carolina, my home, which now only existed in the pristine confines of my memory. I was entering a new world, the unfamiliar island nation of Banalore, with a single objective: to find and document The Beast.

Known by many names across the colonies and independent nations that dot the South Atlantic, on Banalore, they call The Beast “Bèt Terbang.” I was first introduced to the legend of this creature by my college roommate and best friend, Sathid Greenwald. 

Sathid was a fellow mythological studies major who, as a child, had been smuggled out of Banalore by the scientist Molly Greenwald. While she was there studying the ecological effects of emerald mining in Banalore, Sathid’s parents begged her to take the toddler back to America. Their gambit paid off only so far as getting Sathid to the States. His parents, having gone out of their way to defy the US colonial government, were sentenced and executed before Sathid’s ship reached the gray, sandy shores of South Carolina.

According to Sathid, The Beast was of immense cultural importance to the Banalorians. The monster was both furry and reptilian with scaly, batlike wings, ferocious claws, and venomous fangs that towered over even the tallest Banalorian when upright.

The more we delved into the monster’s mythos, the more I realized that it filled the “boogeyman” niche in Banalorian folklore. The demon claimed the lives of many, descending from the heavens to snatch loved ones and consume them whole in its lair. This taught children not to stray from home and to practice cautiousness around strangers, which was morbidly practical since dangerous outsiders had colonized their motherland.

Published literature concerning The Beast of Banalore is scant, to say the least. It’s surprising, considering it is one of the most crucial luxury resource colonies for the United States.

I aim to provide an anthropological study of The Beast by examining its importance as a folk tale, but I would be remiss if I did not disclose my bias. I don’t have any proof yet, but I believe The Beast of Banalore may be a real, corporeal creature. The idea was first posed to me by Sathid, who confessed that he had encountered Bèt Terbang as a child.

That night, Sathid had awoken to thumping and scratching on the wooden door in their one-room home. His parents somehow slept through the ruckus. Just as the door hinges threatened to break free, the voice of their neighbor, a kind elderly man named Mr. Eldonso, cut through the night.

“Leave this house at once!” he commanded hoarsely.

The thumping stopped, and then so quickly, Eldonso’s bravery and confidence wilted into a blubbering mess.

Sathid rose to the door, only for a hand to roughly grab and slam him back onto his cot. His father put a finger to his lips, insisting Sathid stay low and quiet. They were huddled together and forced to listen to the visceral sounds of his neighbor’s slaughter and pray they weren’t next.

The following day, villagers gathered around the slain man. Sathid waded through the legs of the adults in the crowd and caught a quick glimpse at Mr. Eldonso’s body. It was Sathid’s first encounter with death, and he would never forget its pallid, empty look.

The only visible wounds were two pencil-sized holes in the head. Several villagers remarked that the blood had been drained completely and cleanly from the cadaver. Sathid began to weep. His mother finally noticed that he had snuck out and quickly ferried him back into their home.

Through a mess of tears and whimpers, he begged his mother to explain what was happening. His mother just wiped his face and held him close for a while before staring at him and saying only one thing:

“Bèt Terbang.”

The story stuck with me. I have longed to visit Banalore ever since out of macabre curiosity for this strange, isolated society; however, getting to the island for most of my life has been nearly impossible. Until a few years ago, only those working for the DeVino Mining Corporation, a semi-nationalized US business, were allowed to enter the colony. Only now that the emerald industry has vacated the island has the federal government allowed tourists to visit. When the opportunity arose to study the island for my research fellowship, I jumped on it.

Journal Entry 2
August 20th

As dawn broke, so did the hazy view of Banalore. We approached the shores, and the air grew heavier and stickier. The dusty gray beaches were dotted with sand dunes, and behind them was a thick tropical jungle so gloomy and green it was almost black. The water surrounding the island was filled with colorful coral reefs. We dropped anchor a mile offshore and began the long rowboat trip to land.

I dipped my hand into the harbor as the men rowed to shore. Splashes of warm water tickled my sunscreen-covered face as our skiff skimmed across the olive-colored ocean. The rising morning sun had barely crested over the Banalorian canopy as it scattered golden light, glittering across the waves.

We were heading towards The Blue Jessamine, the newly constructed luxury hotel and the first of its kind on the island. Over the past several hundred years, emerald mining has been the primary industry of Banalore, making up over 95% of its GDP. According to the first accounts of the Dutch who arrived on the island in 1657, the emeralds were endless and were believed by the locals to extend down to the core of the Earth itself. 

Due to the centuries of exploitation and the depletion of the emerald veins, mining hasn’t been economically viable since the early 2010s. The Blue Jessamine, owned by the parent company of DeVino Mining Corporation, is the first attempt to establish a tourism industry in Banalore.

Clark Jacobson, our host and operator of the hotel, awaited us on the beach. He was a short, thin man who radiated nervous energy — constantly adjusting his hat, fixing his collar, and twisting thick locks of his long blonde hair between his fingers. Before our boat had even touched land, he was wading into the water, eagerly attempting to ferry our bags.

“Mr. Jacobson?” I asked. The water reached up to his middle chest despite being so shallow, and his head snapped to me.

“You must be Miles!” He said. “Oh, it’s lovely to meet you, so charming indeed! We are just — oh wait, one moment I planned for this.”

He stopped trying to wrangle our bags from the boat and rushed back to land, soaking wet. He lost no speed as he left the water and returned to the sand dunes. He scurried over to the closest one and hollered something harsh and indecipherable. 

A group of Banalorians rushed out from behind the dune and jogged towards us, coalescing into a “V” formation. The three men on the right leg of the “V” were muscular, dressed in antelope skins and palmetto fronds, and looked almost warlike. Aside from thin polyester bikinis, the three women on the left leg wore very little. All seemed stoic and slightly bored, except for the one woman at the tip of the formation who looked through us and into the vast sea behind, fixated on something unseen.

There was only the sound of the small waves crashing against the beach and the pathetic wheezing of Mr. Jacobson, who half-jogged his way to the front of the formation.

“Master Miles!” he wheezed. “Welcome –” 

The grand entrance speech was cut short as he gasped, failing to catch his breath. The gasping escalated to coughing and retching until, finally, he spit out a mouthful of bright red vomit onto the beach. Nobody moved to help him.

“No, stop, stop!” He said, shaking his hands at us. “It’s okay, it’s okay — it’s not blood. The color comes from the lovely, ruby-colored kipmab fruit — a staple of Banalorian cuisine.” He bared his pink-stained teeth, surrounded by his pale lips set in his flushed red face.

After gathering his composure, he started again, “Welcome to Banalore! The crown gem of the southeast! Please accept our humblest welcome as you enter an exotic land of fantasy! We are here to serve your pleasure, you immensely noble masters. Please don’t be afraid to sample the many cultural fruits of this ravishing land during your stay.”

As he said “cultural fruits,” he approached the scantily clad woman in the center and raised his eyebrow with grotesque disrespect.

“Mr. Jacobson,” I said. “I am here strictly to research, not partake in whatever culture you think this is.”

Jacobson screwed up his face. He moved closer to me and hissed in a harsh, unsubtle whisper. Little bits of smelly spittle sprinkled my face.

“Many government folks come to this island for ‘research,’ but I know what that means,” Upon saying this, he snapped his fingers, and the woman closest to me approached and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Well, I don’t work for the government,” I said, removing her hands from my hips. I faced the locals and announced, “We are here to find The Beast of Banalore and nothing else.”

The Banalorians shifted and shot quick, nervous looks at one another. Jacobson tilted over in a clumsy half-bow. He snapped again, and three men approached and started unloading our bags from the boat, a look of dread plain on their faces.

“Allow me to show you to your rooms,” Jacobson said.

Journal Entry 3
August 21st, 0200

After finally arriving at my villa, I transformed the luxury suite into a research lab. In the dining room that overlooked the Atlantic, I stripped the white linens off the teak table and pinned a large map of Banalore across it. On one end, I piled research books about Banalorian folklore; on the other, I arranged my jars and tools for collecting nature samples. In the center, I laid the journal I am writing in now. 

Truthfully, after interacting with Jacobson, I was worried that my research instruments would be underutilized. It may have been foolish to have come to this tiny island hundreds of years after a significant Western nation sunk its parasitic fangs into it. Capitalism may have already run its course and sterilized any semblance of authentic culture.

I went to the bathroom adjacent to the front room to wash up. Upon emptying my pockets, I discovered a rolled slip of paper tied with a red ribbon that was no more than several inches across. In flowing, cursive script, a poem was scrawled:

Across the wind and wayward sea,                        Far you’ve come to play with me.

The blood shall pass from hand to back,
Sisters cry and brothers black.

Despair across the land you’ll bring,
’til you pass through the crimson spring.

Through the green and beneath the cave,
underneath where the hallowed wingless wave.

When the Nächtmann passes, forevermore,
Only then will you meet the Beast of Banalore.

I pondered briefly before a sharp knock on the open door interrupted me. Mr. Jacobson and a large Banalorian man, nearly twice his height, stood in the doorway.

“Mr. Pinckney –” he started.

“Just Miles,” I said.

“Miles, I just felt so awful about our previous encounter. Please let me make it up to you with a free session with our on-site Shaman.”

“This guy?” I said, nodding towards the bear of a man shadowing him.

“Oh, haha, no, this is Princent, my bodyguard.”

Princent furrowed his brow and grunted.

I followed the tiny man with the humungous bodyguard into the hotel’s main building and then up a long, winding staircase that led to a hallway. At the end were immense, oak French doors.

Inside was a tall, spindly man hunched over a wide desk, scrutinizing a hefty tome through a magnifying glass. His beard and hair were wild, dark, and peppered with grey streaks. He looked up and smiled at me. His demeanor conveyed a distinct youthfulness despite the deep-set wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that betrayed his years.

“Please sit down,” He beamed. “My name is Gengar. I heard you want to hear about him. About The Beast.”

Gengar and I spoke for many hours that evening. Our conversation started professionally as he detailed the history of the island and an overview of his people’s culture. I already knew almost everything he was telling me, but I played dumb to prove to myself that he was knowledgeable. For the first time since stepping on the island, I felt I was with someone I could trust — someone authentic.

At first, he was guarded and strictly academic. It was only after we opened a bottle of bright red kipbam liquor that I heard his story. Like many encounters with The Beast, it happened when he was a boy.

Gengar and his older sister, Tengi, had ventured out early that day to a plateau several miles from home to forage for wild onions when they were caught in a sudden downpour. The siblings took shelter in a damp, mossy cave that was nearby. By the time the rain had abated, the sun had already begun to set. As they departed, Gengar took a final glance at the cave and saw a pale creature scurry out.

Gengar and Tengi hurried home, racing against the setting sun. They soon found themselves hiking through the darkened jungle with only sparse streams of pale moonlight illuminating their path. Gengar couldn’t shake the feeling they were being followed and kept peering over his shoulder. Occasionally, he’d glimpse small movements in the shadows, but the “unreality” of what he’d seen earlier made him second-guess himself.

He abandoned all doubt as they broke through a thicket of vines and stumbled upon him — The Beast, hunched and lapping water out of a spring. He was predominantly humanoid in features but with alabaster white skin, inhumanely long fingers, and capes of flesh that connected his flank to his arms like bat wings. Fighting the terror that gripped them, they crept closer.

A thin layer of small reptilian scales covered the creature’s body. The moonbeams reflected off them, causing The Beast to sparkle ethereally. Gengar recalled thinking he was absolutely captivating. The creature rose on his hind legs and strode towards Gengar and Tengi like a man. This is why Gengar insisted on referring to the Beast as “him.”

The most exciting deviation from previous lore was his eyes — huge, deep-set, and bright green. Despite the terror they were experiencing, The Beast hypnotically drew the children in closer.

As they approached, the Beast snapped its head and ululated a deep, howling moan, breaking the spell. The kids froze, and the Beast sprinted straight toward them, bounding on his muscular legs like an Olympic sprinter. They fled but were quickly overtaken. Gengar was spared from the onslaught, but The Beast pounced on Tengi and attacked her with his fangs and freakish, long fingers.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, pausing to take another swig of the sweet kipbam liquor.

“Don’t be,” Gengar said. “She did not die.”

“What?!” I gasped, nearly spitting out my drink. “But how? Every meeting with The Beast ends in death.”

“Not all,” Gengar replied. He stared at his drink for a moment and furrowed his brow. “Although I’m afraid I did lose her that day, in a way. Shortly after our encounter, she ran away and never returned. I haven’t heard from her in 30 years. Frankly, I’ve given up on all hope for her return and just pray that she is safe somewhere.”

The ice clinked in his drink as he downed it and placed the glass on his desk.

“Can I be frank with you, Miles?”

“Of course.”

“Your presence brings me much fear. Coming here, asking these questions on our island. It makes people uneasy,” he breathed. “To us, this is not just a folk tale.”

“It’s not just a story for me eith–“

“– I think the truth about The Beast is extraordinarily different than we think it is,” Gengar muttered. 

“What do you mean?”

He looked at me with bleary eyes, almost surprised I was still there. After a moment, his warm smile returned.

“Please, Miles, I am not as young as you, and the kipbamissa is getting to my head,” he said, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temples. “Please return tomorrow, and I will tell you my new, more modern theory about The Beast.”

I turned to leave but stopped at the door.

“Oh, one last thing,” I said. “Someone slipped a mysterious poem into my pocket when I arrived on the island. Could you take a look?”

I handed him the slip of paper, and his eyes grew wide. Suddenly, he was fully awake again and began pulling papers and books out of the case behind him.

“Gengar?”

“Go, now. I will speak with you tomorrow,” Gengar commanded. He passed me back the paper without looking up from his book.

Exhausted, I returned to my villa as the nascent dawn drifted through the palmetto fronds outside my bedroom window. A faraway call of an unknown bird echoed in the distance. I was grateful to have the silky, familiar Atlantic air caressing my face as I closed my journal for the night.

Journal Entry 4
August 21st, 1000

I awoke with a blistering headache and thirstier than I had ever been. After downing several glasses of water and eating breakfast, I showered and dressed quickly. Before leaving, I examined the first few couplets on the scroll surreptitiously planted on me.

Across the wind and wayward sea,                        Far you’ve come to play with me.

The blood shall pass from hand to back,
Sisters cry and brothers black.

Despair across the land you’ll bring,
’til you pass through the crimson spring.

It may simply be an attempt by the locals to frighten the newcomer. Still, given the mysterious nature of the island and its residents so far, I can’t shake that it’s the key to finding The Beast. I leave now to see Gengar and hear the theory he had promised last night.

Journal Entry 5
August 28th, 0900, Banalorian Jail
Transcription from notes taken on toilet paper.

I’ve spent the past week alone in a Banalorian jail cell, awaiting the results of a murder investigation.

After closing my previous entry, I left my villa and headed to Gengar’s office but paused outside, noticing the doors were ajar, and the seam between them was splintered. I pushed it open and found Gengar’s head slumped in a pool of sticky blood that had collected on his desk. A white-handled bone knife, covered in blood splatter, stuck out of his back.

I rushed over and searched for a pulse on his neck to no avail. My mind spun in a panic, and I crumpled onto the stool beside his desk and tried to center myself. Under Gengar’s head was a blood-soaked map, and pinched between the rigor mortis-locked fingers of his right hand was a small stone — no more than several inches across. It was shaped like an equilateral triangle with divots on the three points and occult symbols etched in the center. Against my better judgment, I slipped the tiny stone into a covert pocket in the seam of my pants.

I tried to examine the map closer but was interrupted by a shrill scream. One of the hotel maids was quivering in terror with her hand clamped over her mouth. She dropped several bottles of brightly colored cleaning supplies, causing them to spill and swirl together like paint on an easel.

Before I could think of the Banalorian word for “Wait!” she had sprinted off and down the hallway. Moments later, Mr. Jacobson, his bodyguard Princent, and three other bulky Banalorian men in police uniforms were at the door. I was arrested, and they roughly dragged me to jail.

The cells are cold and sparse, with only a tiny sink and toilet in one corner and an uncomfortable metal cot hanging against the wall by chains. I’ve attempted deep breathing exercises and meditation, but those quickly devolve into a panic attack. I’ve opted to pace back and forth in my cell and turn over the situation in my mind.

As far as physical evidence goes, my odds of freedom look grim. My fingerprints and DNA are all over the crime scene. I’m sure blood got on me after fumbling with the map, too. It would be a slam-dunk case for any halfway-decent prosecutor. Only one thing works in my favor: motive or lack thereof. There was really no reason for me to kill this man whom I’d met only once. But then again, why would anyone kill Gengar?

In despair, I laid down on the chilly, bare tiles of the cell with my hands in my face and started sobbing. My mission was turning into a complete failure. I wedged under the metal cot as I used to do as a child. It’s an embarrassing habit, but being wrapped in a small space sometimes soothes me.

When I finally regained my composure and wiped away my tears, I noticed something carved into the underside of the cot.

If you find yourself in this horrible place, know this:

Salvation lies with Terbang Gizartea.

Seek Kamatayan Hilkor for the truth.

-Tengi

Surrounding this scrawl were even more minor scratches resembling tally marks that virtually covered the underside of the cot. I counted 1000 marks in total.

It was Gengar’s missing sister! She must have spent years in this cell. I was going crazy after only spending a week; I couldn’t imagine the thousand days she spent in this horrible isolation. Knowing she survived this hell hole has reinvigorated me. I am too deep to abandon this adventure now.

Journal Entry 6
August 28th, 1700

Not long after my last entry, Mr. Jacobson came to my cell with the police chief and a guard.

“You’re free to go,” Jacobson said. “Please accept our most humble apologies for this silly mistake. I don’t know how we could have made such a blunder.”

The guard put his keys in the lock and opened the door with a loud thunk. As I exited, the police chief, a tall Banalorian man with wispy brown hair, muttered something unintelligible.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I said, ‘I’m sorry,'” he spat.

“Don’t worry; I understand you had to do your job. I hope we can find the real killer,” I said. At this, he stared daggers and slammed the cell shut.

“Please take your things and go,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry. Did I do –“

“– Could we please chat in my office, Mr. Pinckney?” Jacobson snapped. He rushed me into a room at the end of the hall. A filing cabinet was labeled “Civilians of Note,” and hanging over it on the back wall was a large topographical map of Banalore with variously colored thumbtacks sticking out.

“Why do you have an office in the police station?” I asked.

“Miles,” Jacobson began. He took a dark tone and suddenly shifted from the pathetic doormat I had met upon arriving on the island to a severe and foreboding presence. “You need to leave the island.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re upsetting the natives. Things were bad enough when you were just poking around, asking questions about their worst nightmare incarnate, a story hammered into their heads since they were children,” he explained. “But now you’re connected to a verified murder?”

“Mr. Jacobson, you know I’m innocent,” I said. “Someone else killed Gengar, and they’re still loose on the island.

“You and I both know that,” he said. “But they don’t.”

“Why did the chief let me go then?”

“Oh, grow up, Miles,” Jacobson blurted. “The ‘chief’ is nothing more than a figurehead I use to govern this island.”

“I’ve never heard of a hotel manager directing the chief of police.”

“It looks like I assumed too much with your coming to my island. That is my mistake, and I won’t repeat it,” he glowered. “You don’t need to understand everything about the DeVino Corp, but please understand this: nothing happens on this island without my say-so. Got it?”

Jacobson rose and faced the map on the wall.

“Do you see all these tacks?” he asked. “Each denotes a sighting of ‘The Beast,’ which is always accompanied by some violent crime — assault, disappearance, even murder.”

He selected a red thumbtack from his desk and pinned it over the resort.

“How does nobody know about this?” I asked. “I scoured the news before coming here and saw nothing.”

“I’m really not sure, Miles. I guess people in America don’t care if a mass murderer is on the loose in a tiny country nobody has heard of,” he mused. “Maybe you should write about that in your little research paper.”

“I’m not sure I know enough at this point to write anything truthful,” I said.

Jacobson loomed over the desk with his fists balled up and knuckles pushing into the wood, turning white. Then, he relaxed.

“To be honest, almost all victims were mercenaries and security forces for the DeVino Mining Corporation. So, no love is lost among the locals,” he said. “The company has kept it quiet because the insurance payouts would be much higher if they discovered their loved ones’ deaths weren’t accidental.”

“What about Gengar? How will the locals react to his death?”

Jacobson furred his brow and let out a sigh. He picked up a red thumbtack and played with it between his fingers.

“Precisely why I need you to leave,” he replied. “Can you really blame the locals for being upset? Gengar’s murder does appear to point to you. Luckily, I can ensure you leave this island, free to return to your privileged life on the mainland.”

He slammed the thumbtack into the desk, splintering the wood.

“But I fear if you stay any longer, I won’t be able to help you. I hope you’ll do the right thing and leave the island immediately.”

“Since you know so much about the goings on of the island,” I said. “What happened to Tengi, Gengar’s sister?”

Jacobson’s face dropped, and a look of fear flashed.

“I haven’t the faintest clue.”

Journal Entry 7
August 29th, 1000

After leaving Gengar’s office, I returned to my villa and showered. The warm droplets felt baptismal as they washed away the pain and strife I had experienced in the past week.

Everything about this island was pushing me away. Jacobson may have been right. I had done nothing but make a mess since I got here. I’m no better than the colonizers who stripped the island of its emeralds.

My mind drifted back to the note and Tengi’s markings under the cot in the jail cell. She and I were now tethered through time. For Gengar’s sake, I needed to inform her of the death of her last remaining kin. I had a hunch that the secrets I sought would be found in Jacobson’s office.

After showering, I ate a quick meal and packed my rucksack with a few essential items for my mission. A compass, some food, a topographical map, a flashlight, a machete, and this journal.

I left my villa under the shadow of night. The radiant waxing moon in the cloudless sky guided me along the stone path that encircled the hotel compound.

Banalore is only several hundred miles east of Charleston, so the stars were the same. My lungs filled with the crisp night air, and for a moment, it felt like I was home — save for the absence of the hum of crickets. Eery quiet enveloped me as if the dark forest absorbed all sound and digested it like a black hole.

I returned to the police station at the northwest end of the compound and crept around to Jacobson’s office window, which was stuck shut after years of disuse. Using my pocket knife, I pried under the window sill. The scrape of old paint and rusty hinges made my skin crawl as I opened it.

I heaved myself up and into the darkened office. Landing with a loud thud, I paused momentarily — prone, holding my breathing and praying someone wasn’t about to barge through the door. After several moments of tense silence, I crawled to the “Civilians of Note” cabinet, and luckily, it was unlocked. I ran my fingers across the alphabetically organized files until I found the file labeled: “Gwadar, Tengi.”

I didn’t want to risk my capture by dilly-dallying, so I grabbed the papers and folded them neatly into my pocket. A glow and muffled voices came from the other side of the fogged glass in the hallway. My stomach dropped as the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

Hunched behind the desk, I held my breath as flashlight beams strafed the room’s back wall. Two men spoke Banalorian to one another. From what I could make out, their conversation went:

“I swore I thought I heard something.”

“Oh yeah,” the other mocked. “Maybe it was Bèt Terbang!”

There was the soft smack of flesh on flesh as one punched the other in the arm playfully. They chuckled before closing the door behind them. Without hesitating, I launched myself back through the small window, but my upper body got stuck. My legs dangled back in the office as I contemplated escaping without falling headfirst into the dirt. 

The door creaked open again, and a voice behind me cried, “Bèt Terbang! Bèt Terbang!”

Their guns clicked as I launched myself headlong the rest of the way out the window. Dirt filled my mouth as I landed with a thud. I collected my pack and started running toward the north end of the compound. Claxons blared as I sped along the path, gravel crunching under my feet. Blinding spotlights shone down from the guard towers.

“There it is!” a voice cried.

They were fast approaching, so I had no choice but to turn back and run towards the treeline. I burst through a thicket and into the forest, thorns, and branches tearing at my skin, plunging further, desperately into the blackness. A root caught my foot, and I tumbled down a hill into a shallow ravine. My head thudded against the ground, and after a bright flash of stars, everything went black.

Journal Entry 8
August 29th, 1400

Morning light punctured through the jungle canopy as I woke. Dense, wild vegetation surrounded me. Little mosquitoes buzzed in the breezeless, stuffy air around my head, which throbbed from the bump I had taken last night.

My clothes and backpack were covered in dried mud, but everything was accounted for. I drank a little water and reviewed the file I had stolen the night prior. Please see below for the transcription in its entirety:

Criminal Profile
Gwadar, Tengi
Born: 1972
Status: Missing, presumed dead – 07/20/1991

09/03/1984
Petty thievery – 1 count – DISMISSED

Gwadar was apprehended at the Trethiso Night Market after a brief chase by authorities. She was found with $25 worth of goods, mainly household groceries like kipbam fruit and bread. Upon the victim, grocer Vivienne Prenthido’s request, the suspect was allowed to keep the ill-gotten goods and return home to her family.

01/15/1986 
Minor drug possession – 1 count – DISMISSED
Lewd acts and indecent exposure – 1 count – DISMISSED

Gwadar was apprehended with a male, Johan Nindo (17). The two were caught in the abandoned emerald processing site committing indecent acts. Upon further investigation, cannabis and drug paraphernalia were found among their personal effects. Both individuals spent one night in the local jail before being picked up by their parents. Charges were eventually dropped.

10/24/1987
Terroristic threats with a deadly weapon – 8 counts – CONVICTED
Grievous bodily harm – 5 counts – CONVICTED
Attempted murder – 1 count – CONVICTED

On the morning of October 24th, 1987, the suspect snuck into the Williamsburg Emerald Refinery. It is worth noting that the suspect had been missing the weeks before the infiltration. Due to the ongoing construction efforts, she was undetected until being discovered by security guard Ronald Witherspoon, 68, during his typical rounds. 

Gwadar took Witherspoon hostage with a large serrated hunting knife, but before he was incapacitated, he called for radio backup. Within the hour, the facility was surrounded by the newly founded Banalore Terrorist Response Unit (BTRU), and a standoff ensued. After hours of tireless negotiation, the deadlock ended with Gwadar releasing Witherspoon. The BTRU swarmed the facility and sustained multiple stabbing injuries as they struggled with Gwadar but eventually apprehended her alive. The suspect was found with a duffel bag full of dynamite.

Gwadar was questioned but only repeated, “Bèt Terbang Egingo da” (English Translation: “The Beast Will Rise Again”). Ultimately, her co-conspirators were never revealed, but she presumably sought to damage the mining equipment with the dynamite. Gwadar was sentenced to life in prison. She will serve the first three years in the local Banalorian jail while we wait for arrangements made by the United States to transfer her to Guantanamo Bay.

07/20/1990

Gwadar has escaped. During a routine cell inspection, Gwadar claimed extreme stomach pains and requested medical assistance. Guard Michael Smith unlocked the cell, and while he was occupied, Gwadar stole the officer’s gun and keys. She locked Smith, unharmed, into the cell where he was found the following day. The BTRU followed Gwadar’s footsteps, which led into the jungle, but the trail went cold, tracing one click north of the jail near the Rouj Forest. Her tracks appeared to vanish entirely near the spring.

07/20/1991

There have been no sightings of Gwadar. Per police policy, this case is closed, and she is presumed dead.

Scrambling to open my map, I plotted out the site of Rouj Basoa. I can’t believe I had been so stupid to overlook it before. Translating directly to “Red Forest,” Rouj Basoa is infamous in Banalorian history. 

In 1710, as the Germans took ownership of Banalore from the Dutch, Banalorian miners seized the opportunity to begin a strike demanding better working conditions and hazard pay. At the time, they were working round the clock and saw heavy casualties as a result — limbs lost, blindness, and many deaths. They started the strike within the forest, then called “Basoa de Voda Argitzailea” or “Forest of Light Water” because the spring at the center held great spiritual importance to them and was seen as a good omen. 

The strike was broken after thirty days when the military was called in, and a bloodbath ensued. Fifty unarmed men were slaughtered mercilessly. Rumor has it that the spring water ran a red, and the light that reflected off it illuminated the forest with a pinkish hue. Afterward, the workers who were spared returned to work. They dubbed the forest “Rouj Basoa” to commemorate their fallen comrades.

I reckoned it was five miles due north from my location, so I grabbed my pack and made a course for it.

Journal Entry 9
September 3rd

The relatively thin foliage surrounding The Blue Jessamine soon gave way to a dark, foreboding forest. The tree trunks grew thicker, the canopy more opaque, and the sounds of the ocean quieted — replaced by the murmurings of unseen wildlife.

I hacked through the untamed terrain for hours until all daylight had receded. If I had been closer to the coast, there might have been an hour or two of light left, but the thick canopy choked out the scant remaining sunlight. Using my flashlight, I ventured forth. 

Nightfall did nothing to quell the intense heat. The air was heavy and rank, and sweat clung to my body. My mouth turned arid soon after finishing the last drops of my water. 

Upon finally reaching the crystal clear, icy spring, I collapsed to my knees and submerged my whole head inside the flowing pool — drinking plentifully as the cool water coursed over my steaming scalp. Only once I was near drowning, I erupted from the water and gasped the night air. Glittering stars glimpsed through the treetops like little shiny pinpricks in the night sky.

After my short respite, I rose and examined the area. A small memorial at the base of the spring was absent on the map. It was made of unidentifiable, black stone resembling a pile of disembodied hands, clasping and clamoring over one another in a heap, reaching into the sky. At the base was a line of stones of various colors and geometric shapes. I crouched down and examined them.

Each one was engraved with a unique symbol, and they alternated shapes in the pattern of a six-pointed star, circle, square, and triangle before repeating. I admired the intricate handiwork hidden beneath the mats of overgrown vegetation. Under each stone was a family name.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed a single stone missing from the pattern. My machete cleared away some vines and moss, revealing a triangular divot. Beneath it read: “Gwadar.” 

I reached into the covert pocket in the lining of my pants and fished out the stone I had taken from Gengar’s corpse. It slipped perfectly into the divot, and as I pushed gently, it receded back into the stone structure.

The ground shook, and the deafening sound of grinding stones moving deep within the Earth caused birds to flee from nearby trees. The statue of the clasping hands rose from the ground into the night sky, eclipsing the moon. The forest floor beneath the statue opened up, revealing a cavernous maw leading underneath the Earth. 

I shined my flashlight into it, revealing a long spiral staircase. I steeled myself and followed my flashlight beam down into the cavity. As I descended into the murky darkness, my ears popped from the pressure differential until I reached the opening of a wide hallway. It was nearly ten feet across and fifteen feet high.

“Through the green and beneath the cave,” I thought.

As I stepped down from the last stair onto the bedrock, the sound of grinding stones returned, and the spiral staircase receded upwards — stranding me. The scant moonlight was gone. Using my flashlight, I examined my surroundings.

The walls were made of black, sheer stone similar to the statue and covered in shallow impacts like it had been carved out long ago using handheld tools. Despite the humid, sulfuric-smelling air and damp walls, a slight breeze blew through. This gave me hope for an exit on the other side. My footsteps echoed off the tunnel walls, blending with water droplets dribbling from crooked stalactites.

My watch was broken during my escape from the hotel, so I had no sense of time as I trudged through the black tunnel. Eventually, I started to tell time by the frequency of my hunger pangs. My flashlight soon died, and I was left in complete darkness. My path had no corners or bends, so I persisted into what felt like oblivion.

The tunnel began to narrow, and panic set in. My feet carried me almost on their own accord, and with every step, the walls grew closer around me. Soon, the pathway was so narrow it could barely accommodate my shoulders.

Thankfully, it ceased narrowing, but the ceiling started to gradually lower as I continued. Soon, I was walking with a hunch and eventually had to crawl through the tunnel. My despair grew as my hands were torn and bloodied after the miles of plodding. A thin layer of salty, slimy water covered the ground, seeping into my wounds and burning my hands. It was more certain with every step that I would die and rot stuck in this damp hole, wrapped in darkness many miles from home.

Then I heard it — a bird call. The chirping was faint yet crisp and clear like dew on a spring morning. I hurried further down the tunnel, and the chirping grew louder and louder. My face thudded directly into a wall as the bird’s call crescendoed. The path was blocked entirely, though the bird continued.

That was when I realized the surface above me was no longer craggy rock but a wooden hatch. I excitedly pushed my back against the thick panels, but it wouldn’t budge. I maneuvered myself onto my back upside down so my feet could thrust upwards against the small door. 

My legs shuddered as I kicked against the solid frame with all my might. After bashing it repeatedly, it started to crack, the wooden panels splitting down the center. A torrent of dirt cracked the boards and poured from the hole, encasing me in wet soil.

I began to suffocate as the Earth buried me. With no other direction to go, I wormed myself through the hole above. Slowly, I progressed by digging upwards, clawing desperately.

Then, I felt fresh air and tiny droplets of water on my hands. I continued until I could heave myself into the open. I hacked, spitting up and swatting clumps of dirt from my eyes. It was drizzling, yet the sun shone brightly. 

As my eyes adjusted to daylight, I held a hand up to block the sunbeams. Against the white backdrop, the silhouettes of two specters stood over me.

“Congratulations on making it through the Nächtlicher Tunnel,” one figure said. Their voice sounded like wind chimes. “We have anxiously awaited your arrival.”

Moments before blacking out, all figures shouted in unison, “Bèt Terbang Egingo da!”

A separate group of cloaked figures carried me into a clay structure and laid me on a soft bed with clean white sheets. Exhaustion pushed me into a deep slumber.

I woke several hours later, surrounded by medical instruments and packets of multi-colored liquids. An IV ran from one of the bright green packs and fed into my right arm. Night had returned outside, and torchlight illuminated the room.

Other than some soreness and light bruising from my ordeal in the tunnel, I felt incredible. Radiating out from my right arm, a calming warmth enveloped me. Whatever was in the green fluid must have been good shit.

A middle-aged Banalorian woman entered the room. She wore a flowing dark blue sleeveless gown with a high-necked collar. Her long black hair draped down to the small of her back, and her eyes were a chilly, steel blue.

“How are you feeling?” She asked. 

I could muster nothing but a stupefied stammer.

“It’s okay; save your energy,” She comforted. “Few survive the trip through the Nächtlicher; I imagine you’ll need some time to recuperate.”

“Nächtlicher?” I asked.

“One of our prophecies foretells that the Nächtmann shall rise from the Garden of the Hallowed Fallen after passing through the Nächlicher tunnel,” she said. She adjusted the IV bag and then continued. “If you believe in that kind of stuff.”

“I’m sorry, I –“

“Please, everything will be revealed soon enough. First, you must rest, though. I will have one of our people bring you some food.”

As she turned to leave, I asked, “Who are you?”

She said, “My name is Tengi Gwadar, high priestess of Terbang Gizartea or ‘The Order of the Beast.'”

Journal entry 10
September 10th

I rested, and over the next week, Tengi told me the truth about the Beast and the island of Banalore. The Beast isn’t a cautionary tale from the ancient Banalorian mythos — it is the center of her people’s belief system. In Tengi’s retelling, The Beast wasn’t a trickster god; instead, it was more Promethean.

The story goes that The Beast was originally a mortal man named Yangmore who lived in the untamed wilderness of Banalore. Life was brutal; many struggled, barely surviving in the harsh terrain. The sun god, Tepethawey, and his sister, the moon goddess Frenestra, ruled over them, cycling the days according to their petulant whim. 

Some days, Tepethawey and Frenestra would grant only an hour of daylight and leave the island in the frigid darkness for the other 23 hours. On other days, it would be the opposite, with every variation in between. This made life under their rule extremely unpredictable, and as a result, society scarcely developed, leaving the Banalorians as savages.

When the people asked Tepethawey and Frenestra for answers, they responded, “This is the natural order of things.”

This enraged Yangmore. He felt that just because there was a natural order didn’t mean it had to be that way forever. Over the next 1000 days and 999 nights, he spent whatever precious daylight he was granted fashioning a hundreds of miles-long cord. 

On the 1000th night, he lassoed the moon and climbed up the rope. He strangled Tepethawey and Frenestra to death with the rope and left their corpses tied together, floating opposite one another, orbiting around Banalore. This is why the moon and the sun come in such steady night and day cycles.

Yangmore did not come away unscathed, though. The dark energies emitted when he strangled the gods turned him into a craven creature with alabaster white scales covering its body, thick, dragon-like wings, blood-red eyes, and a long dark green tail like a monkey’s. The most fearsome part of the creature was the three horns growing from its skull, arranged in a triangle.

The regular night and day cycles transformed Banalore from a hostile, rugged wilderness into a civilized society. The people admired, feared, thanked, shunned, worshipped, and banished The Beast. From then on, it kept to the shadows, doling out swift, brutal justice when necessary.

The people of Banalore never forgot how Yangmore, their anti-hero, was dissatisfied with the natural order of things and did what was necessary to transform the world how he saw fit. Banalorian culture was greatly influenced by this ethos. The small island society embraced science and technology wholeheartedly, using it to mold the world in defiance of the natural order. 

Over the next few centuries, as the rest of the civilized world waged wars of religion and vain conquests, Banalore rapidly developed into one of the most advanced societies on Earth. Their technology was cutting-edge, perfecting medicines to treat common maladies and farming techniques that ensured no Banalorian went hungry. This progressive technocracy, coupled with their relative isolationism, led to an unprecedented time of peace.

Faith and fear played a massive part in taming their environment and their culture’s evolution. Still, as their society advanced into modernity, belief in the Beast waned as there was no need for mythological tales against the unknown. 

When Dutch imperialists landed in Banalore in 1657, nobody truly believed in The Beast as corporeal and had become unfamiliar with violence. This is when it has been said that The Beast abandoned Banalore. The average Banalorian hardly knew what a weapon was, let alone how to take up arms against a foreign invader. The Dutch took full advantage of this oversight. 

They tortured, burned, and mutilated the Banalorians until they were a shell of their former selves. The most advanced society on Earth had been reduced to an enslaved colony whose population only lived to mine emeralds. 

Wars of greed raged over the following centuries between the other continents, and as they did, the “ownership” of Banalore changed. From the Dutch to the Germans, then the French to the British, until the United States of America finally held the colony. 

Over the years, their sacred mythos mixed with the dominant interloping cultures. This naturally changed the myth of The Beast. For example, the myth of the Nächtmann and Nächtlicher Tunnel tunnel resulted from the German occupation in the 1700s. Tengi, in her own recounting of the tale, confided that she was unsure how much of the legend of The Beast was the original version.

During the long, violent German occupation of Banalore, The Order of The Beast was created to stop the degradation of their culture and preserve the authentic tale of Yangmore through storytelling. But their focus soon changed, and they began a series of terrorist attacks against their captors disguised as The Beast. 

The idea was that if their mythology became strong enough again in the minds of the colonizers, Yangmore would return and help them reclaim their society from terror and misery. As they learned from their myth, the only way to do this was to take up arms once more and get their hands bloody.

Journal Entry 11
September 14th

The cultists’ compound and main base of operations, Kamatayan Hilkor, sits hidden in a large dormant volcano at the island’s north end named Kamatayan Voliboleng. Living quarters and clerical buildings encircled a large swath of farmland. When viewing the volcano from the inside, its walls sloped in and up conically to the crater. It operated like a giant skylight into their secret fortress, allowing sunshine to enrich their crops.

One day, Tengi and I walked through Heriotza Grafreitur, or “The Garden of the Hallowed Fallen,” in the heart of the farmland. This is where I first emerged from the ground after passing through the tunnel. The vast area was a cross between a botanical garden and a cemetery. Bright flowers, many of which contained medicinal properties, and ripe fruits had overgrown the gravestones that dotted the hilly landscape. 

We paused our walk to sit among some kipbam trees and relax. I removed my shoes and felt the long, fluffy mats of grass grazing against my toes. For a moment, we just soaked in our surroundings. The land was magnificent. The macabre contrast between the elaborately carved headstones and the verdant fruit made it feel like a forgotten paradise.  

“They’re quite excited about you being here now,” Tengi said.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“The other members of The Order. Since they make up a large portion of the island population, it won’t be long before the news of your arrival spreads. I can see the headline now: ‘The Nachtmann has arrived!'” Tengi chuckled. “It should be good for our cause.”

“How are you so sure I’m not?” I asked.

Tengi smiled. “I had always hoped that you’d be… I don’t know — more ghastly?”

“Is that how The Beast appeared when you and Gengar were kids?”

At the mention of Gengar, Tengi looked off into the distance wistfully.

“The man that Gengar and I saw as children in the forest that day was a ruse by The Order of The Beast,” she said. “An ordinary man dressed up used to scare anyone unlucky enough to stumble upon him along the road in the woods.”

She plucked a nearby yellow flower and deeply inhaled it before offering it to me.

“It was buffoonish. Once I rose to High Priestess, I banned the practice. I couldn’t see what good it would do to scare children in the woods like that.” She sighed. “Although I suppose my brother never went into the woods again. Gengar was always more prone to believing in that kind of nonsense.”

“And you don’t, high priestess?”

“The attack I suffered in the woods that day spurned me to seek out The Order of The Beast,” She said. “But over time, my belief has wavered. The Beast may not be ‘real’ as you hoped, but his spirit means a great deal to my people and my cause.”

“People say the same thing about a mythological figure from my home,” I said. “I remember being just as disappointed when I learned he wasn’t real either.”

“Who?”

“Santa Claus,” I jested. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you his story.”

“I’d like that,” She beamed. “You seem like your strength has returned. Have you given any thought to what we discussed earlier?”

“I must go home.”

“You are free to go as you please,” She said. “The thing I need your assurance on is –“

“– Absolute secrecy, yes, I get it,” I said. “But why? Banalore is a miracle! I was nearly dead, and your medicines brought me back to perfect health in a week. This place is free of nearly all chronic diseases and cancers. Keeping this place a secret is a crime against humanity.”

“The needs of the outside world are not my concern. If we invite them in, they will bring ruin to Banalore.”

“I suppose so,” I mumbled. I picked a kipbam fruit off a nearby tree and bit into it. The sweet juice ran down my chin.

“Miles, what is your true hesitation?”

“It’s just that I have a hard time believing, despite all you said, that under your watch, The Order of the Beast has only killed those who deserved it,” I said. “It’s just not possible! What about my friend Sathid? The Beast killed his neighbor. What did he do to deserve it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if our people were responsible for his death. It was likely one of the mercenaries,” She claimed. “We have never killed a Banalorian during our campaign.”

“What about Gengar?” I fumed. “How do I know he wasn’t killed by The Order?” I rose to leave.

“No,” Tengi said. At this, she started to tear up. “You must know something.” She wrung her hands together nervously and waited, debating whether to speak. 

“Well?”

Finally, she said, “I’m not one for all this superstition and religion. But that poem we planted on you wasn’t just some cynical ploy to get your attention. It’s a direct translation from one of our most sacred religious prophecies. You deciphered it and made it here, through the red forest, under the emerald mines, and reborn through our most sacred burial ground. Even the skeptic in me has to think that this must mean something.”

I said nothing and walked back to the compound with my head swimming.

Journal Entry 12
September 15th

Night fell, but after my conversation with Tengi, sleep eluded me. I took a walk to clear my head. The wind whistled through the arms of the kipbam trees, rattling their leaves. I walked past the barracks of the cultists who slept soundly in their cots. As I approached the High Clergy’s temple, a light shone from the side window, and the silhouettes of a man and a woman argued like a marionette play.

I sidled up to the window and eavesdropped. I made out Tengi’s voice, but the other was low, raspy, and unrecognizable.

“Tengi, I’ve let this go on long enough!” the voice yelled. “He has to die! He knows too much!”

“Please,” Tengi said. “Just wait a little longer.”

“I don’t care what he says. He’ll expose our plans as soon as he leaves. We should have done what I suggested in the beginning and killed him right when he stepped foot on the island,” The other voice snapped. “You’ve already made a deal with one foreigner. Can you afford another?”

“He’s not like you,” she responded. “You’ll get your emeralds once we complete our mission.”

“Listen, I’m just as eager as you are to leave this shit-hole island with my fortune, and that’ll happen much sooner if we murder him,” The grave voice said. “Think about it; in their eyes, he’s the Nächtmann. Killing him will fulfill the prophecy and consolidate our power.”

Tengi responded, “The members of The Order aren’t sure if ‘When the Nächtmann passes, forevermore’ means he has to die or if he can herald in The Second Coming by –“

“– Who gives a shit? The US media will have a field day regardless. A handsome, young, smart white researcher on an assignment to a poor nation gets killed? That death is worth thousands of mercenaries,” he said. “Or would you rather Gengar’s death have been for nothing?”

Holding my breath, I climbed a garbage bin to peek over the window sill and saw him: Jacobson.

“Shut the fuck up!” Tengi cried. “I didn’t know what you’d do to Gengar!”

“Yes, you did,” he snarled. “Gengar knew too much, too, and his death will be in vain if we let this boy escape.”

Tengi bit her lip nervously. 

Panic overcame me, and in my eagerness to hear what they would say next, I stumbled backward off the trash bins, metal crashing all around. As I scrambled to get up, guards encircled me armed with long metal spears. The line of armed cultists parted, and Tengi and Jacobson strode through, the high priestess towering over the short, weasely man. 

Jacobson took a much different shape than I was first introduced to. He was hunched, and his face was twisted and crude.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone about what you’re doing!” I pleaded. “I’ll leave and never come back!”

“Oh, Miles, what have you done?” Tengi sighed.

Jacobson snapped his fingers, and Princent stepped forward with a syringe of orange liquid. I writhed as he jabbed the needle into my neck, and darkness soon enveloped me.

When I awoke, it was still dark, and my clothes had been replaced with a suit made of reeds adorned with fish scales painted white and patches of thick fur. My limbs were bound tightly with thick ropes, and I was spread eagle across a circular stone altar.

With the bit of mobility I possessed, I craned my neck up and saw that I was surrounded by shadowy hooded figures seated in tiered, stone benches like bleachers in a stadium. The glare of the torchlight prevented me from making out their faces, but it was obvious that I was going to be the target of some spectacle they didn’t want to miss.

A bag of crimson liquid fed into my right arm through an IV. It was more vicious and transparent than blood and a warm feeling, similar but significantly different from the green fluid I had been treated with upon my arrival. There was a heavy pressure and uneasiness that was welling up inside me like the onset of an intense acid trip.

Slow, steady drums thumped as the onlooking crowd of shadowed, cloaked figures initiated a deep, rattling hum. I could feel the red liquid working through my veins as two figures rose from the crowd and walked down the steps. The shadowy faces started shifting unnaturally back and forth. The torches changed color, and flashes of little tri-horned, fang-toothed demonic faces manifested in the flames.

The two figures, one towering over the other, approached me. The taller carried a thick wooden staff with an engraved emerald at the tip resembling the Gwadar family stone I had taken from Gengar. The shadows loomed on either end of the altar before removing the hoods of their cloaks.

“Bèt Terbang Egingo da!” Tengi declared.

“Bèt Terbang Egingo da!” The crowd repeated.

“Thank you all for gathering here today on this matter of great importance,” Tengi said. “It is with great sadness that I must report that we have been deceived.”

The crowd gasped and murmured amongst themselves before Tengi slammed the butt of the emerald staff on the ground, silencing them.

“This man, this interloper and colonizer, has committed the greatest sin of all! Impersonation of The Beast!” Jacobson snarled. “For this, he will suffer the ultimate punishment, and his spirit will be cleansed in the Tad von Cin Oldarmeak!”

“It’s pronounced Tod van Cun Öldürmək,” Tengi hissed.

“I mean the Tod van Cun Öldürmək!” Jacobson shouted. “To protect and prepare ourselves for His return, we must diligently punish this cheap imitator with cleansing violence. The ritual will deliver us the truth.”

“Bet Terbang Öldürmək! Bet Terbang Öldürmək!” The crowd hummed.

The drugs coursed through my system, intensifying. Tengi looked down at me, and as she did, her face morphed and contorted into wicked forms, first a bat, then a tiger, then a bear, all with dripping fangs and angry eyes. The world started spinning, and the hooded faces in the crowd soon became some sort of animal or mythical horror. A vampire, a werewolf, and a swamp creature all craning their necks, eagerly waiting to see my death.

The crowd chanted, “Bet Terbang Öldürmək! Bet Terbang Öldürmək! Bet Terbang Öldürmək!”

Jacobson and Tengi gathered the ends of a rope that ran through the triangular altar I laid upon. They nodded to one another and pulled the cord taught. As they drew, a circular saw blade suspended over me slowly lowered from the darkness above, spinning viciously, speed increasing with every pull.

The crowd’s chanting grew louder, as did the whizzing sound of the sawblade descending upon me. The faces of the monsters were even more cartoonish and exaggerated as the potent psychedelic drugs and panic combined into a maelstrom of brain-melting horror.

The whirring blade continued its descent, the air whipping around me furiously as it approached my sternum. I squirmed against my restraints enough to see past the saw above and into the dark sky. A full, bright moon set against the dim blue backdrop and shone like a grim spotlight, illuminating the spectacle of my death.

I thought of home and how my mom and dad were probably sitting out on their patio, having their usual nightcap and holding hands — basking in the same pale moonlight. They’d never know what became of their foolish son who chased monsters in the wild.

Then, a shadow tore across the full moon. At first, I thought it was the drugs causing me to hallucinate again, but this was different. Again, in a flash, a vast silhouette flew across the moon at breakneck speed. When it passed a third time, it nearly overshadowed the moon, and that’s when I finally beheld him — The Beast of Banalore.

Four arms with razor-sharp claws and batlike wings extended from a thick, furry torso. Strong and scaly, its legs had three toes with sharp talons and spurs on the back like a fighting chicken. Its face was smooth, pale, and humanoid, with one immense black eyeball in the center. Multiple rows of fangs, dripping with venom, filled its gaping maw as it plummetted towards me, wings tight against its flank, plunging furiously. It approached the sacrificial altar and extended its wings, halting its descent and causing a gust that extinguished the circle of torches around the altar — shrouding us in darkness.

“What was that?” Jacobson yelled. “Who put out the fucking lights?”

There was commotion in the crowd, and they started to panic. Then I heard its voice in my head. The Beast was speaking to me.

“You!” It growled. “Rise, Bèt Terbang Aftur, my champion, and fulfill your destiny!”

The restraints on my hands and feet loosened, and I rolled off the stone altar. Jacobson kept shouting and panicking — unaware of the danger that lurked about him.

“Jesus, will someone please get another fucking fire going so we can finish the –“

A thick, wet squelch followed by an outpouring of blood filled the air. The Beast had torn into Jacobson’s throat with its teeth and then begun ripping at his face with its fingers. It forced its thumbs into his eye sockets and yanked the eyeballs out of his head — still connected to their optic nerves. The Beast thrashed and stomped, crushing Jacobson’s skull and reducing him to a bloody pulp. After a few pitiful gurgles escaped his open trachea, he fell silent.

  The crowd screamed and fled, but The Beast only hunted for one person. He descended upon Tengi as she ran, tackling her to the ground in the darkness. Though the lights had been extinguished, their eyes had adjusted so they could now see each other in the pale moonlight. His hands gripped her throat tightly. She did not fight back as the Beast continued his assault.

Tengi only smiled and gasped, “I knew it was you, my lord.”

The Beast could feel the small bones in her neck snap as her face turned purple and her body went limp. The Beast departed the scene, and I passed out, exhausted and confused by the mayhem.

I awoke with the sun blazing on my face, lying once again on the stone altar, arms outstretched. Minor scrapes and cuts covered me, yet I was sure the dried blood covering my body was not mine. Two nearby cult members were dozing off under a nearby tree. They awoke with a start as I approached with a panicked look in their eyes. 

They scrambled up and rushed back to the village, shouting, “He’s awake! The Beast has risen on the day!”

I turned back to the sacrificial altar and saw a dreadful scene. The corpses of Tengi and Jacobson, necks bound with either end of the rope that ran through the center of the altar, were splayed opposite one another on the north and south sides of the stone structure, arms pinnned close to their bodies.

All the cultists, now wearing plain clothes, returned and stared at me silently.

I said, “Please, you must understand I didn’t do this –“

Then, they fell to their knees and bowed before erupting into a chant.

“Hail to The Beast! Hail to The Beast! Hail to The Beast!”

Princent emerged from the crowd and handed me an envelope sealed with the Gwadar family crest. He bowed and fell to one knee.

“The lady said this was for you,” he said. 

I have transcribed the letter below:

“Dear Miles,

If you are reading this by now, I am dead, and the prophecy has been fulfilled. I am sorry I was not more truthful, but fate has bound my hands until now. My hope is that this letter serves as an apology or explanation.

My goal has always been to drive off the invaders of this island and save my people. In my folly, I allied myself with Jacobson and invited evil into my cause. He was supposed to help us drive away the land developers in exchange for our stockpile of emeralds.

His methods grew increasingly savage as he waged a terror campaign against innocent Banalorians — something I had strictly forbidden. He started recruiting members of the order to his cause, claiming it was the ‘Will of The Beast.’ 

I could feel my power slipping away, but as the aggressive development on the island continued, our culture washed away. I clung to the hope that all of the violence would eventually serve the greater good.

After Jacobson killed my brother, I knew I had made a grave mistake that couldn’t be undone. He was trying to wrest control of The Order from me for his nefarious purposes, and it was too late for me to stop him.

Fortunately, this made your destiny clear to me. I knew for sure that your arrival was heralded. You are the second coming of The Beast — destined to cleanse The Order of evil by slaying Jacobson and me. You can start anew now that my people’s faith has been restored.

You are The Beast of Banalore. Bèt Terbang. I know you will find a way to save the island.”

                              –Tengi Gwadar

Journal Entry 13
October 25th

I have spent the last few weeks working with Princent and the elders of The Order of the Beast to devise a solution for Banalore. I was careful to keep Tengi’s letter private. For my plan to work, I had to become The Beast they thought I was.

On the night of the ritual, some witnesses claimed I had transformed before their eyes into a snakelike beast that drained the blood from Tengi and Jacobson. Others saw a massive, fur-covered ape that crushed the skulls of the two. Others said that I hadn’t transformed at all and had butchered them with my bare hands.

The cultists continued arguing for some time. Tensions rose, and I feared they would soon threaten to break out into infighting and violence. I had to break my silence and tell them something to keep the peace. This story became the new legend of The Beast of Banalore.

It went like this: The Beast came to me in a dream and commanded me to seek out the holy land of Banalore. He was furious at the insolence of Tengi and Jacobson for abusing his visage in the name of greed and anointed me as the second coming, Bèt Terbang Aftur. After imbuing my body with his power, I slayed the two. He then commanded me to save Banalore from its imminent destruction by the colonizers.

Using the ancient secrets of Banalorian medicine as a bargaining chip, we will submit a proposal to the US government to make Banalore a world heritage site that warrants preservation and total isolation. We’ll have to permit a few outside researchers into Kamatayan Hilkor, but we will go to great lengths to ensure they never discover the true history of Banalore. Selfishly, my freedom hinges on this point in light of recent events.

The island accepted my proposal with a near-unanimous vote. We will submit it to the government within the week.

To my friends and family back home, I am a young researcher who had a thrilling adventure on an island of fascinating and dangerous natives. I’ll spend my days going on dates, watching sci-fi movies, and working a 9-5 as an advisor to the government on the Banalorians.

But to the people of Banalore, I am the second coming of their ancient religion — a god incarnate.

If I’m candid, both of these portrayals seem wrong. It feels as if somehow I’m lying to everyone at once. Maybe a single truth doesn’t exist under these absurd circumstances. Or perhaps reality is too outlandish or horrific for me to accept.

As much as I wanted to believe in The Beast, his existence now means I’m destined for a life haunted by this creature, hiding in the shadows, enacting his craven will, and manipulating me as his mortal avatar.

Or is it more straightforward? Did I just snap and, under the influence of powerful psychotropic drugs, savage Tengi and Jacobson in a horrendously brutal yet very human way? Am I haunting the world now as a real-life monster deluded beneath a dark haze of psychosis?

No matter the truth, I am sure of one thing: I accomplished my task. I found him.

I found The Beast of Banalore.

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“The Beast of Banalore”

Across the wind and wayward sea,                        Far you’ve come to play with me.

The blood shall pass from hand to back,
Sisters cry and brothers black.

Despair across the land you’ll bring,
’til you pass through the crimson spring.

Through the green and beneath the cave,
underneath where the hallowed wingless wave.

When the Nächtmann passes, forevermore,
Only then will you meet the Beast of Banalore.

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Timeline of Pinckney, Miles on Banalore

Journal Entry 1, August 19th, 2023 – Miles on the ship’s deck.

Journal Entry 2, August 20th – Miles lands on Banalore.

Journal Entry 3, August 21st, 0200 – Miles arrives at his villa and meets with Gengar, the shaman.

Journal Entry 4, August 21st, 1000 – Miles showers, then heads to meet with Gengar again.

Journal Entry 5, August 28th, 0900, Banalorian Jail, Transcription from notes taken on toilet paper while incarcerated. – Miles is in jail awaiting a murder investigation.

Journal Entry 6, August 28th, 1700 – Miles is released from jail and speaks with Jacobson.

Journal Entry 7, August 29th, 1000 – Miles breaks into the police station and then escapes into the jungle.

Journal Entry 8, August 29th, 1400 – Miles reads the file on Tengi and treks through the jungle.

Journal Entry 9, September 3rd – Miles makes it to the cultist’s compound.

Journal Entry 10, September 10th – Miles is told the history of Banalore.

Journal Entry 11, September 14th -Conversation with Tengi.

Journal Entry 12, September 15th -The sacrificial ritual of Bet Terbang Öldürmək.

Journal Entry 13, October 25th -Miles speaks with the village elders and submits his proposal to the government.

Glossary of Terms

Bèt Terbang – “The Beast”
Bèt Terbang Aftur – The second coming of the Beast. Similar to a Christlike figure.
Bèt Terbang Egingo da – “The Beast Will Rise Again.”
Bet Terbang Öldürmək- Sacrificial ritual designed to test and punish anyone pretending to be The
Beast.
The Blue Jessamine – A hotel owned by DeVino Mining Corporation and the first attempt to establish Banalore as a tourist destination. It is located on the southwestern end of the island.
DeVino Mining Corporation – Partially nationalized US jewel mining company.
Frenestra – Moon goddess and sister of Tepethawey who controlled the arrival of the night. Her brother controlled the rising of the day.
Heriotza Grafreitur/Garden of The Hallowed Fallen – Historical burial ground for members of The Order of The Beast. A prophecy says that the second coming of The Beast will rise from the ground after passing through the Nachtlinger Tunnel. The exact spot was lost to history until Miles discovered it again.
Kamatayan Hilkor – The Order of the Beast’s secret base at the center of the dormant volcano
Kamatayan Voliboleng.
Kipbam – A sweet red fruit native to Banalore, and a staple of Banalorian cuisine.
Kipbamissa – Liquor distilled from the kipbam fruit.
Nächtlicher Tunnel – A covert passageway used by The Order of the Beast cultists. As its use waned, a cemetery was laid over its entrance. While the path itself is nearly a thousand years old, it was renamed in the 1800s when the prophecy of the Nächtmann was integrated into Banalorian belief. The entrances to the tunnel have been unknown for hundreds of years, but according to the prophecy, he will find it and pass through it again.
Nächtmann – In some interpretations, this is a worthy mortal sacrifice to The Beast that will allow the second coming to start. Others interpretations read this as a herald of the Beast. This is a more modern part of the mythos that arose during the German occupation in the mid-1800s. Rouj Basoa – “Red Forest,” formerly “Basoa de Voda Argitzailea” or “Forest of Light Water,” was a holy place of the Banalorians until a massacre of striking emerald miners.
Terbang Gizartea/The Order of the Beast – The cult/secret society of Banalore whose mission is to preserve the island’s culture, often through violence.
Tepethawey – Sun god who ruled over Banalore before Yangmore’s violent usurping. He and his sister’s unpredictable and wiley ways were responsible for erratic night/day cycles.
Yangmore – Mortal man who murdered the gods and steadied day and night cycles. In doing so, he was cursed and marked with black magic, turning him into The Beast for eternity.