The Last Shell
A short story
"I need a new vessel. This one is all worn out―my back and knees ache, I can barely move, and I'm losing my hearing," complained Dasan.
"It doesn't work that way," Sakari replied firmly, "you still have things to do in this form."
Dasan knew Sakari was right, but frustration gnawed at him. After 400 years of existence, you'd think he'd get used to the end-of-life phase, but he never did. Every time, he despised it—the weakness, the pain, the helplessness. He hated this vessel even more after nights of indulgence in food, women, and booze. He longed to shed this flabby shell and slip into one with rock-hard abs and a heart that didn’t miss beats.
“Besides,” Sakari continued, “there’s still some mileage left in that meat suit of yours, and we haven’t found the ideal host yet.”
Finding the perfect replacement had become increasingly difficult since the advent of modern forensics. They had to be careful—no mistakes, no drawing attention. Young bodies were preferable, but not too young. The one time they’d taken over an infant had been a nightmare, not just because of the logistical challenges, but also because of the suspicion it raised. Sakari's current youthful appearance was a result of that debacle, from a time when abandoned babies were more common.
Taking over an infant’s body required a caretaker, and Dasan had played that role. Outwardly, he seemed like a devoted single father, but in private, he loathed the constant diaper changes and the relentless tantrums. Relief only came when Sakari reached the age of realization around 10, finally becoming self-sufficient.
Since then, they had become more selective. Instead of infants, they targeted runaways—teens and tweens from broken homes, the ones nobody would miss.
But recently, a new threat had emerged, one even more menacing than the authorities. A modern-day Van Helsing had made it his life’s work to hunt down skinwalkers, like Dasan and Sakari, wendigos, and other cryptids.
Dasan sighed, feeling the weight of centuries bearing down on him. "We can't keep doing this forever, Sakari. The world has changed too much. It's getting harder to stay hidden, to find the right vessels, and now we have that hunter on our trail."
Sakari nodded, his young face betraying a wisdom far beyond his years. "We need to be smarter, more cautious. But we also need to be ready to defend ourselves."
Just as Dasan was about to respond, the door to their hidden hideaway was blasted open, sending splinters of wood and dust into the air. Standing in the doorway, framed by the sunlight, was the hunter. Tall, lean, with a weathered face and piercing eyes that had seen too much, he exuded an aura of relentless determination.
"I’ve finally found you," the hunter said, his voice low and dangerous. "You won’t escape this time."
Dasan and Sakari exchanged a quick glance. They had faced hunters before, but this one was different—more determined, more relentless. They could sense the power radiating from him, a power honed from years of hunting creatures like them.
"We don’t have to do this," Sakari said, stepping forward, trying to reason with the hunter. "We’re not like the others. We don’t kill. We only take what we need to survive."
The hunter’s eyes narrowed. "You think that justifies what you do? You think that makes you any different from the monsters I’ve hunted down? You’re just as dangerous."
Dasan, realizing there was no talking their way out of this, made a quick decision. "Sakari, go. Find a new vessel, somewhere safe. I’ll hold him off."
"No!" Sakari protested, but Dasan was already moving. He summoned the last reserves of his strength, the power that had kept him alive for centuries, and launched himself at the hunter.
The fight was brutal, a clash of supernatural strength and human determination. Dasan knew he couldn’t win, but he didn’t need to. All he had to do was buy Sakari enough time to escape.
As the hunter’s silver-tipped blade plunged into Dasan’s chest, he felt the cold seeping into his bones, but he also felt a strange sense of peace. He had lived too long, been through too much. Maybe it was finally time to let go.
With his last breath, he whispered, "Run, Sakari. Live."
Sakari fled, heart pounding, tears streaming down his young face. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Dasan’s sacrifice would mean nothing if he was caught.
Days turned into weeks as Sakari moved from town to town, constantly on the run, searching for a new vessel, a new place to hide. But he couldn’t shake the memory of Dasan’s final words, the look in his eyes as he gave his life to save him.
Eventually, Sakari found himself in a quiet, forgotten town, far from the hunter’s reach. He chose a vessel—a teenager with a tragic past, someone who wouldn’t be missed—and made the transition. But something was different this time. The process was slower, more painful. Maybe it was the grief weighing him down, or maybe it was the hunter’s blade that had marked him somehow.
In the end, Sakari managed to take over the new body, but he knew he couldn’t keep running forever. The hunter would find him eventually. They always did.
But this time, Sakari was ready. He would continue Dasan’s legacy, but he would do it smarter, more cautiously. He would find others like them, build a network, and make sure that when the hunter came again, he wouldn’t be facing a single skinwalker, but an army.
And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to end the cycle once and for all.