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Demonia · The Monster Catcher's Journal

0:56
stitches and the lingering scent of guilt. That's
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what I learned the night I met Demonia. It was
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in the ruins of Hollow Vale courthouse, deep
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in the Redfin district, a place where the walls
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still echo with unfinished verdicts and screams
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that never made it to justice. I was tracking
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strange energy spikes that pulsed like a heartbeat
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underground, or a beak could barely stay calm,
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and my compass spun like it was trapped in a
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lie. Then the air went still, too still. That's
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when the mist bled and thick, red and slow like
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spilled wine. It coiled between broken benches
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and scorched flags, and from the center of it
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all he rose. Demonia. A tall pale glyph with
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two black horns curling from his skull, one of
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them broken at the tip, as if snapped off in
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a fight. His face bore a huge stitch across his
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forehead, and another smaller one on his cheek,
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like he had been sewn back together after a brutal
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death. His neck, wrist, collarbone, waist, and
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ankles were all wrapped in tight black stitches,
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like a patchwork memory. His eyes glowed. with
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crimson fury and two long vampire fangs gleamed
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beneath a solemn bloodstained grin. His cloth
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-simple black shirt and pants were soaked at
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the edges as if they'd never dried. He didn't
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speak, he just appeared and judged. A whisper
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filled my head, not from him, but from the glyph
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light itself. Born from justice, formed an innocent
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blood until truth is found, ammonia hunts. He
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wasn't hurting me, he wasn't hunting me, or hunting
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a lie. And yet, he attacked. Not out of rage,
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out of instinct. I was an intruder in the court,
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where his creator was wrongly condemned. He moved
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like a revenant, dodging the unnatural speed.
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His claws dragged symbols into the floor. They
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weren't runes, they were names. Names of the
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guilty. Names of the corrupt. Names of those
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who framed the man whose blood gave birth to
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pneumonia. I realized then, this wasn't a monster.
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This was vengeance made flesh. But vengeance
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left unchecked becomes its own kind of curse.
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I had to stop him, not to destroy him, but to
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redirect him. I opened my field journal mid -battle.
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Blood on my glove from a scratch he'd given me.
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I dripped my finger on it and wrote one name,
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Stella Ferris, witness to the truth. He stopped,
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looked at the name. His stitched chest rose and
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fell like something long, buried and ad -stirred.
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He approached. I didn't move. He reached out
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a clawed hand and placed it on my journal. That
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was all it took. He let me bind him, not in chains,
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but in promise. Now Dermonia walks with me, beside
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me, a glyph of blood and memory not tamed but
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respected. He only speaks when a lie is nearby,
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and sometimes I catch him whispering old court
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records in his sleep. He's not a villain. He's
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a verdict that never got to land. After the courthouse,
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I needed answers, or at least someone who might
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have a guess that didn't come wrapped in riddles
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and bleeding mist. So I went to the only person
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who could give me that, Professor Orian. I didn't
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expect a warm welcome. I definitely didn't expect
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him to open the door before I even knocked. Coat
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half -buttoned, chalk dust on his sleeves, and
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the permanent scowl already forming beneath his
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star -scattered eyebrows. You've brought another
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one, he barked before I could speak. Behind me,
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Zemonia lingered at the tree line, crimson eyes
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glowing faintly. In the dark, he didn't growl.
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He didn't move. But that didn't stop Orion from
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huffing like I'd brought home a ticking bomb
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wrapped in things and tragedy. I told you, Orion,
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snapped Rip, voice rising. We don't collect cursed
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artifacts like stray pets. You're supposed to
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study them, not bond with them. He's not cursed,
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I said. He had blood on his teeth. He's not eating
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people. Oh, fantastic. Then let me just lower
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the wand and invite him in for a tea. I had to
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physically block the doorway when Orion tried
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to slam it in my face. Professor, listen. He's
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not attacking, he's mourning. His creator was
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framed and executed, in Hollow Vale. This glyph
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formed out of the blood left behind. I saw the
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names he carved into the floor, every single
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one of them corrupt. He's not hunting people,
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he's hunting lies. That made Orion freeze just
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for a moment. He speaks. Only when there's a
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lie nearby." I said, casting a glance back at
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Demonia. Orion scowled even deeper, so I suppose
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he'll be screaming when he walks into this house.
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I didn't laugh, but Orabique let out a wheezing
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chuckle from my shoulder. Finally, after a very
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long sigh, Orion let me in, on the condition
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that Demonia stayed outside in the outer glyph
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circle. Orion spent the whole time pacing like
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he was deciding between yelling at me or writing
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a dissertation about why everything I do is a
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cosmic hazard. Still, after I explained the courthouse,
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the compass spinning, the whispers from the glyph
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light, and the battle, we got what we needed.
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Orion adjusted his glasses fuming, muttering
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to himself, and then slamming a thick rune. burned
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book onto the table. This, he said, stabbing
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a finger at the page, is a category almost no
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one talks about. Mimic glyphs, born from trauma,
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fueled by moral imbalance. They don't serve order
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or chaos. They serve a single memory, a memory
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too wrong to fade. He looked up at me, eyes burning
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like twin eclipses. You realize what you've done,
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Stella Ferris. You didn't... just meet a glyph.
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You've activated a branch of the archive I thought
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we've sealed." I frowned. That's bad? Oh, cataclysmically
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bad, he said, then paused, and academically thrilling.
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He turned toward the window, where Demonia still
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stood motionless in the rain. They used to call
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these judgment glyphs during the Fractured Wars,
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he muttered, and they only ever appeared. when
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the world was about to confess something terrible.
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I didn't know what that meant, not fully. But
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the way Orion's hands tightened on the edge of
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the table made my stomach twist. Keep him close,
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he said at last. But for the Vels' sake, Stella
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Ferris, don't bring him near the sanctuary, not
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yet. I nodded, but in my gut I already knew Daemonia
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had more work to do, and so did I. I left Orion's
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observatory. with a half -burn map, a warning
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I didn't intend to follow, and a glyph who walked
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like every step pulled at old stitches in time.
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Demonia didn't ask where we were going next.
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He just followed quietly, like vengeance waiting
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for permission. I didn't bring him to my sanctuary,
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not directly, but I also didn't leave him out
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in the cold. There's a place I go when I need
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to think, a half -collapsed train car on the
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edge of the verdant expanse, rusted on the outside
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full of salvaged cushions and memory moss on
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the inside. It smells like iron and lavender,
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safe enough for a monster that doesn't sleep.
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He didn't sit. He stood at the door all night,
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eye scanning the horizon, claws switching whenever
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the wind carried a scent he didn't trust. I watched
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from inside. Filled journal in hand, ink pulling
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into every line I hadn't figured out yet. It
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wasn't until the third hour of silence that he
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spoke one word, a name. Tasselgrave. I sat up
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straight. That name was buried deep. One of the
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corrupted magistrates from Hollow Vale. Official
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records said he'd vanished after the courthouse
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burned. No body, no trial, no justice. I flipped
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through the records I stole. Slash borrowed from
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Orion's archive. There it was. Tasselgrave. Guilty
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of stealing false confessions of destroying lives
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to protect one man's lie. Hmm. Demonia didn't
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need to say anything more. He'd found the next
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thread. We tracked the name to the southern wetlands.
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Ditchmire Hollow. A sunken village that only
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surfaces during low tides and ghost festivals.
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Most believe it's cursed. Locals won't even say
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the name, but if Tasselgrave had gone to ground,
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that's where he would have wrought it. We arrived
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just as the fog curled in, white this time, not
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red, silent waiting. Orabique refused to go further
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than the tree line. Timonia didn't hesitate,
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neither did I. The walk through Ditchmire felt
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like stepping into someone's forgotten confession.
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Every wall leaned the wrong way, doors opened
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into swamps, lanterns flickered even when unlit.
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And at the heart of it all, we found a shack,
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bones hanging from the rafters like chimes. That's
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where the truth uncoiled, but not in the way
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I expected. The glyph light in my journal flared,
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red as we crossed the threshold, and then flickered
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violet. True truths, one twist it. Inside we
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found Tasselgrave, or what was left of him, strung
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from the rafters by living ink. His eyes hollow,
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his mouth sewn shut with red thread that pulsed
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like it had a heartbeat. And painted across the
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back wall, written in clawed letters I recognized
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too well. I lied to escape. I lied to survive.
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Demonia didn't attack. He fell to his knees,
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not in grief. In fury, he had been Forged to
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hunt lies, but this was something worse. A guilty
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man who regretted nothing. And for the first
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time since the courthouse, I saw demonia change.
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His stitched body tensed, and new glyphs formed
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beneath his skin. Names I hadn't seen before,
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names I didn't recognize. The list was growing,
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the web was bigger, and someone... Someone was
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still pulling strings from the dark. I should
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have turned back. I should have dragged ammonia
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out of that shack and burned the place to ash.
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But something in that ink, something in that
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air held me in place. The glyph light was flickering
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wildly now. Not just red or violet, but a shifting
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spectrum I'd never seen before. Like it could
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decide what truth it was reading, or what kind
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of monster it was sensing. Timonia stayed motionless,
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claws sunk deep into the rotting floorboard's
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chest, rising like he was trying to breathe through
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stitched lungs. Then I heard it, a voice, not
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his, not mine. It whispered from behind the walls,
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wet and slow, like ink dripping from a cracked
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quill. It was only the vessel, not the verdict.
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The ink on the wall began to crawl. It slithered,
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coiled, shaped itself into eyes, dozens of them,
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each one blinking in slow, unnatural unison.
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The ink came from the rafter's pulse, tightening
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around the tasselgrave's corpse, as if reacting
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to the presence of judgment. That's when I realized
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tasselgrave hadn't hidden here. He'd been kept.
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Damonia stood, his jaw tightening. I could see
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the inner war behind his— glowing eyes, the urge
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to rip this place apart, fighting against something
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deeper, something older. I stepped forward, voice
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low. Demonia, what is this? He didn't answer
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me. He answered it. Name it, he growled, each
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syllable shaking the shack, or burn, or burn.
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The voice came out again, this time clearer.
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It didn't echo in the room, it echoed in me.
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The lie keeper does not burn, it stains. Suddenly
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ink burst from the cracks in the walls like a
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tidal wave. I barely raised a barrier in time
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or or a beak cried out From outside the tree
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line exploding with movement the ink didn't just
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It didn't just attack the ink you know it tried
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to rewrite us my vision blurred my limbs felt
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heavy Like they didn't remember being mine, the
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glyph light flared white hot on my chest, and
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Demonia stepped in front of me, absorbed the
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brunt of the corruption. That's when I saw the
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ink trying to rewrite his name, trying to unmake
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him. Demonia roared, not with anger, but defiance,
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and drove his claws into the floor again, covering
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one word that made the entire shack tremble,
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truth. The ink reeled, the eyes blinked out,
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and the whisper went still. The entire swamp
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excelled, then silence. Tasselgrave's body slumped,
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and the thread snapping. The ink drained into
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the soil. It had never been there, but we both
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knew better. Something ancient had taken root
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in Ditchmire. Something that feeds on injustice.
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Yes, but more than that. It reshapes it. I helped
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Jemonia to his feet. His stitches glowed dimly
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now, scarlet fading into faint violet. The names
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etched across his arm had stopped growing for
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now, but I knew what I saw. The Lie Keeper, a
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being that alters memory, warps history, and
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reshapes truth to fit a darker narrative. And
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worse, it knows we're hunting it now. But that
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doesn't matter, because we'll be fine in our
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sanctuary. I can now take... Demonia back to
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my sanctuary, and that's exactly what I did that
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day. I told Professor Orion I wouldn't bring
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him back to the sanctuary in a minute at the
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time. But after Ditchmire, after the Lie Keeper,
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I couldn't leave Demonia out in the wild, not
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when the thing we were chasing could erase truth
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like they were lies on a chalkboard, not when
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his very existence made him a target. So I brought
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him home, not through the front gate, not through
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the sky bridge or the storm mirror. I led him
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in through the river glass cavern, the old tunnel
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beneath the east cliffs. The one no one uses
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anymore, mossy, cracked, still laced with my
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sigil, a path that only answers to my blood.
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As soon as we stepped inside the sanctuary responded.
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Glyphlight trembled along the walls, vines shifted
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and the air grew heavy with old whispers. The
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wards didn't recognize him, not fully, neither
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did the others. Xena was the first to notice.
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She met me at the base of the stairs, arms crossed,
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Ignisora prowling behind her in a sapphire silence.
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That thing is stitched together with curses,
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she snapped, eyes narrowing. And you brought
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him here? He's not a curse, I said, he's a judgment.
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And judgment has claws. Before I could answer,
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Demonia stepped forward, not aggressively, but
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deliberately, his crimson eyes locked with hers.
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He spoke just one sentence. I protect what she
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believes in. Xena didn't flinch, but I saw her
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expression shift just a flicker. Maybe it was
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the way he said it. Maybe it was because in that
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moment she realized the thing at my side wasn't
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just another glyph. He was part of my path now.
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Luna was quieter about it. She waited in the
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garden near the moon lilies eyes on Mirno who
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had already sent something off I didn't try to
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explain myself. I just sat beside her and let
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the silence stretch. She finally broke with a
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sigh You're not just collecting strays anymore
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stelle you're building something I didn't answer
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because I know didn't know what what I was building
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only that I had to I gave Damonia a room, not
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a cell, not a chamber with chains or runes, a
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room, with a view of the northern sky and a shelf
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for my extra -filled journals. I left a black
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candle burning in the corner. He stood there
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for a long time, just watching the candle flicker,
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as if he wasn't used to stillness, as if peace
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made him suspicious. He hadn't spoke much since,
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but I've seen him walk the halls after midnight,
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silent searching for not - Danger, not lies,
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but something more. He brushed his claws along
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the walls sometimes, almost gently, and more
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than once I caught him whispering the names carved
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into his skin softly like a prayer. And just
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last night I woke up to find him sitting outside
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my door, watching, guarding. Judgment, I've learned,
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doesn't sleep, but sometimes it learns to rest.
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And that's all we really need. Sometimes. I mean,
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come on. One night I even woke up to the rustle
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of stitches in the soft creek of my bed sheets.
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Damonia didn't say a word. He just crawled in
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beside me, slow and careful, like someone who'd
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never been allowed warmth. His body was cold,
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stitched, and still, but he didn't need heat.
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Just presence. I didn't move. Didn't speak. I
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just let him rest for once. Judgment wasn't hunting.
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It was healing. And that, my friends, is the
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episode for this week of the Monster Catchers
20:06
Journal podcast. And I will see you next time.
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May the stars of Nimburu shine their beautiful
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light down onto you. See you next time.