The Bone-Cross Harvester

The Bone-Cross Harvester

• When the fog thickens over the corpsefields and the moons sink low, the Harvester walks. Its steps are slow, deliberate — a rhythm older than prayer, heavier than sin. The thing’s head is a blackened gourd, split by a grin that burns from within, as though hell itself had taken root behind its hollow eyes.

No one knows from which trench or tomb it first crawled, only that it spares neither side. Men whisper that it hunts the living for the warmth they still possess, and the dead for the silence they offer after. Bullets do nothing; prayers do less. When the night wind carries the sound of rattling bone and the smell of burnt harvest, you’d best stay still and pray you’re mistaken — for the Harvester has no allies, only victims.*

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**Happy Halloween **

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Happy printing, and may your battlefields grow ever darker!