Hollowpath Collector

It knew the trail crew before we gave our names. Under the wet coat, copper tags knocked together. Each belonged to someone who had stopped answering. Satchels dragged from its shoulders, full of the things people keep to remain known: ribbons and charms, corners of maps.

It reached for Ellis. His surname came out of the air.

Recognition left the faces around him. Ellis looked unsure even when we shouted. The trail split into six ghost paths with a different Ellis running down each. I tied his wrist to mine and told him about the day we met. Ordinary details. Nothing that would have been stamped on a tag.

An offer to return a token, or a question about your destination, can begin the theft. Any answer supplies a detail. After marking an identity it makes doubles and strips protections belonging to rank or kinship. Sworn names are vulnerable too. It prefers an audience; their forgetting completes the loss. Souls aren't what it takes. Without recognition, the victim may disappear alone.

Private memories spoken aloud can hold a person in place, especially sensory details never recorded. Cut the satchels or return the tags and it turns violent. With its trophies gone, it retreats through fog along a path no living person currently names.