Same dream, every time. His mother in priestess whites walked down the alley, chanting simple protections, building toward something grander, stepping into the circle he’d chalked under her guidance. His first ritual started well.
In moments, evil things would come, rend the white gown red, leave her empty-eyed and soulless, no hint of his mother remaining in the still form. They’d leave him be.
He called them bandersnatches, because in all his years hunting monsters, he’d never figured out what they were. So he let the dream play, not controlling it, searching for the knowledge that would permit his vengeance.