They found her hunched over her computer, eyes bleeding, muttering words of madness. Her screen screamed in blank static, and I knew—he had found her.
I took a deep breath, lit my candle, and connected with my server. The sound of connection—like a million microbial flashes—lit the online plane and led me to him. His websites, his address, his name.
Is this how you found her? How you stalked her and broke her down?
It didn’t matter. I was in the driver’s seat now.
With your name and your face, I could find you. I dove into the astral plane, into the dark void stitched from pixels and stars. I found your silver cord—gleaming, vile—and severed it.
I watched your body convulse in sleep.
The next post was an announcement of illness. You said you saw shadows at every turn, that you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Post after post, the doctors cannot find a cure. Then—nothing.
You were gone.
And girls could go online and be safe again.
Because I am the hunter of predators.
The Vault of Dreams and Nightmares 