This story, like many, begins with an unfortunate encounter. Eden Center for Rehabilitation is responsible for countless. Even now, in its neglected state, the federal holding facility still haunts the dreams of the garden's residents who'd been processed there. The ones that'd survived in the woods long enough to find civilization, that is. Most never do.
This group was nothing special; wayward occult-folk who'd gotten overzealous with their magic, or who made the wrong person nervous. Wrong place, wrong time, as the story goes. I've heard it all in my time here in Eden. In the end, it's hard to survive in a world filled with people who are afraid of you.
At the center, they run things by the book. The occults are shuttled in from across the country, handcuffed, and then subjected to ceaseless personal questions in a stainless-steel room. Observed like an insect from behind a bulletproof mirror. After 20 years of operation, you'd think they'd get tired of writing down the same answers.
"I never knew what was wrong with me."
"I don't know anyone else like me."
"I just want to go home."
And they never explain. They know more about you than you've ever known about yourself. Even on your deathbed, giving you closure is against policy.
Dr. Douglas Thornton had been there since I'd been processed. Back when the facility had first opened. I can still see him sometimes, across the table from me in that interview room. He calls himself a researcher, says he's there to help. Maybe he really is trying, but decades have passed and all that'd changed is the darkness of his hair and the wrinkles on his face. It can't be an easy job, being made a reaper, but he's never been as helpless as the people he ushers to the end of their life.
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Handed days worth of rations and cheap, flimsy knives, it never takes long to realize both are worthless after you're led out to the garden. It's a hostile and merciless place for the unprepared. Magic saturates every atom of these woods. It changes things, from the animals, to the air, and the ever-shifting trees. Surviving more than a few days like that is unheard of. The outer ring, where the gate casts out their unwanted, is the worst of it all. A clever audience has gathered there over the years, pacing near the gates and waiting to be handed an easy meal.
Some of our newer scouts found the stragglers while they were out testing the warps. This fresh batch of occult are among the luckiest I've seen in my time here. Two days in the garden alone, being hunted by an aberration when Alex had found them.
They'd lost two, but it would have been more if Alex hadn't gotten to them in time and chased the beast off. I'm not sure how much of the retelling is true— Alex is a boastful one, as you know. Still, they only had scratches and bruises by the time they made it here. The scouts have brought many folks to my bunkhouse, and most in quite the sorry state. It's a delight to have guests who won't start their new life on my operating table.
It'd been a long time since Saint-Rosaire had seen any new faces. Since the Reverend arrived to town with 60 fresh, hungry vampires, all the effort has gone towards keeping them fed. They went through our blood reserve in days, and then the forest shifted, cutting us off from Rome. We haven't had the extra hands to fetch people from the gates in months. I hate to think how many have been lost since then. It turns out I'd missed the company too.
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The newcomers are suspicious of the Reverend and his assistant, lady Rosetta. I can't blame them. While the Reverend is kind, as a man more pious than most of the Saint-Rosaire community, he can be a bit... much. Nobody wants to be told about God's plan when they'd just been ripped from their home. He means well, though, and most people here come to understand that. And Rosetta, well, she's not a friendly type to the most of us. Always something to do, and we're always in the way. I respect her ambition though. Taking care of 60 vampires who can barely stand up takes determination.
But the creature that helps them startles even me. The Prophet has been here as long as we have, at least. Probably as long as the magical field has taken root over Saint-Rosaire. It's not human, although it's closer to one than any of the other fey that roam in and out of town. Tall, and spindly, and it never stops smiling with those gnarly teeth. It's an unsettling sight to behold, to say the least.
It won't speak to anyone but the leader, either. The Reverend, however, has taken a peculiar fondness to it compared to his predecessors. I'll admit, it's been helpful in feeding our starving residents, but always at a cost. Sentimental objects are its favorite. Secrets too, I'm told. If it's given enough of either, it'll reveal the location of nearby deer herds to hunt and bring back to town. Animal blood only buys us a couple of days, and as the condition of these folks gets worse, it's starting to feel like we're paying a debt.
The new survivor's first impression of the Prophet was an unusual one. In an act of desperation, lady Rosetta offered the Prophet her pact item— a special object that tethers a Banshee to the mortal plane. An object granting them their life after death, and by far the most generous offering the Prophet has been given so far. Against everything we know about Banshees, she never should have survived being parted from her pact item. It's inexplicable that she still lives and breathes in spite of it.
I didn't witness the gruesome miracle myself, and for that, I feel fortunate. The look on their faces as the survivors returned to the bunkhouse was worrying, and I'd been sick to my stomach hearing their account. Deer falling from the sky, littering the town square in broken, twitching heaps. Not that I should complain about the Prophet's gift to our community, I just worry that one day it'll ask for more.