THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART ONE


1989


I
Wednesday, November 10th
9 p.m.

The thin light of the waning moon filtered through the rolling fog. Snow swept down the front of the Rocky Mountains, the tiny crystals dancing atop the crisp, frigid breeze. Frost glittered on the tips of the pine needles that surrounded him along the winding, snow-dusted path, shedding more light than the early November night sky itself in the thick of the dense woods. Pines, spruces, and barren aspen were packed tightly together, their trunks nearly touching, branches bouncing gently, the flakes slowly piling atop one another on the ever-whitening foliage. It was a winter night in Colorado like most others this time of year: every inhalation bringing with it a stab of bitterly cold air that threatened to seize the chest; a plume of steam that dampened the face with every exhalation.
    And then there was the silence…
    It was the sound of absolute solitude; so quiet it almost stung the eardrums from the lack of audible noise. The wind, which gusted every so often, spoke with mute voice, his own footsteps muffled within the accumulating snow. Were it not for the sound of his own breathing within his head, he was sure he could have heard the snowflakes landing one atop the next, deafening amidst the stillness of the night. Every so often, he could feel the tip of Edgar’s tail swat at his left leg while the dog jogged dutifully in time beside him, never straying more than a few feet from the path, following his nose into the thick underbrush, hoping upon hope, that he might flush something from the thicket worth chasing. At least something that would allow him to give chase. A small bird would dart from beneath the snow-crusted twigs and disappear into the darkness beyond as though it had never existed, but a squirrel would taunt him mercilessly from one tree trunk before racing to the next, staying only a fogged breath ahead of the dog’s snorting nose.
    They made this trek every night about this time, he and Edgar. He always put this off until the very last thing, right before bed, because he knew that one of these days he was actually going to find what he knew he was destined to. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but every fiber of his being, from his flesh straight through into the marrow of his bones, knew that he was indeed going to find something. It was his whole purpose for being here. Maybe it was some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility or some form of cosmic penance, but he knew with every ounce of surety that it was the reason he still drew life from the emptiness. Why else would God or fate—or whatever divine hand tugged at the strings of his marionette existence—have brought him to that house… on that night.
    The path opened up slightly ahead, the thick wall of trees to either side peeled back from the line beaten through the coarse buffalo grass, signaling that they were nearly there. Stars sparkled overhead, but only momentarily, fading quickly as the clouds rolled in tufts of steam across the sky, spreading wave after wave of white crystals in their wake. But the blackness above was nothing compared to that which lurked behind the trees to either side. That darkness leeched the light from all around, wrenching it back into the shadows that ate it up mercilessly. It was a blackness that was almost tangible, as though it were a living entity that would rush from the underbrush and tear at his legs if he dared to step even an inch from the path. And he knew… within that darkness there was something else, something that he had seen, albeit only on that one occasion, but it had left a scar on his soul. And night after night, he passed through here, only inches from that darkness, whose icy breath he could feel in the hackles on the back of his neck, for no other reason than to show it that he was not afraid. 
    But he knew that the only person he was fooling was himself, and most days, he wasn’t even very good at that anymore.
    Harry Denton had lived nearly all of his days within the shadow of the Rockies, having traded the smell of pine on frost for brine on pollution only long enough to complete his undergraduate studies between walls supposedly more hallowed by the ivy that crept up them. It had been four tediously long years. The speed of life in Colorado was much more relaxed and even-paced than the frantic pace with which Bostonians raced through their lives. They shot like lasers from one point to the next, slowing only long enough to make the effort not to allow your life to impede their own. He had felt like an outsider from the start, never getting the punchline of the joke, before finally resigning to the fact that he really wasn’t sure he wanted to.
    It had been a triumphant day when he had returned to Colorado to enter medical school. He could remember vividly pulling the Chrysler over on the shoulder of the road and sitting atop its hood in the midst of a dust storm. Dirt and debris scratched at his face like sandpaper while he just stared at that bright green sign that stated everything so simply: “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.”
    “It’s all right, Edgar,” Harry said, patting the yellow lab on the ribs with his gloved hand. But he knew the dog could feel it too.
    The faint whistle of the wind drifted down the path from ahead of them; the formerly gently bending branches beginning to sway more violently. Still, they pressed forward. The snow, which had once fallen straight downward, was now coming at angles, forcing Harry to wince his eyes to shield them from the small shards of ice, tucking his chin to his chest and peering up from beneath his frozen brow. Edgar no longer darted between the path and the edge of the thicket, his mood no longer playful. He stayed even with Harry; his body maintaining a slim one-inch gap, constantly glancing up at his master, a timid whine creeping from his panting jaws every so often.
    They were close now. Once they reached this point, Harry had to make a conscious decision each and every night: was he going to continue and traverse the last quarter mile or was he going to turn around and scurry back home? He knew that if he continued down the path, he was going to have to relive that night. But it wasn’t the fear of seeing the horror again, playing like a movie in his mind. Nothing as tame as that. No, it was the fear that tonight might be the night that he had been dreading, preparing for; the night where once again he found himself face to face with…
    He stopped dead in his tracks.
    Something was definitely wrong. He could feel it in the base of his spine; taste it on the howling wind.
    His frozen breath frosted the stubble on his face as he stood at the end of the path. To either side the trees just seemed to fearfully stop, the path opening up into a sloping, snow-drenched meadow. The tips of the untended wild grasses danced atop the mat of white, the walls of snow blowing first one way, and then the next at the whimsical shifting of the wind.
    Edgar whined beside him, pleading up to him with those large brown eyes.
    Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, and he unconsciously wiped the runoff from beneath his frozen, brick-red nose with the back of his gloved hand. His eyes fixed intently straight ahead, his breath suddenly seizing within his aging chest. Slowly, his lips parted and his lower jaw dropped slack. He could hear his pulse in his temples, throbbing rhythmically with the gusting wind.
    Harry looked down at Edgar, resting his open palm atop the dog’s head, a thin strand of his lightly graying bangs falling in front of his eye.
    Nodding gently in unspoken communication with the retriever, he once again steadied his gaze straight ahead and took a long, deep breath, closing his eyes while it swirled coldly within his lungs. Calmly, he peeled open his eyes and allowed the air in his chest to creep past his pursed lips. He stared straight ahead.
    The slope in front of him, leading down into that still meadow, was steep, with only a few saplings creeping from the cracking soil. This was generally as far as he came, just close enough so that he could see the house, just give a quick glance to verify that everything was as it should be, and then scamper home as quickly as his legs would take him. He was certain now that tonight would not be that easy.
    A thin paved road ran from the foothills to the west toward the plains in the east, cutting through the valley at the base of the hill right in front of him. Just past the other side of the road, a small, white house sat amidst a cluster of trees that threatened to consume it, their branches wrapping the old wooden bungalow within their bare limbs. The decaying white paint peeled in layers from the pale wood beneath, betraying the years of abandonment that had begun its slow road to dissolution.
    Biting the inside of his lip, Harry started with a lurch, forcing himself forward, his unblinking eyes still fixed on the house. Each breath came increasingly quickly, his chest shuddering, bordering on the verge of hyperventilation. Stumbling down the hill, he fought with his trembling legs, urging them onward with nothing more than the meek resolution of his feeble will, akin to an inmate’s final stroll down death row en route to his execution. 
    Thoughts came in jumbles, fragmenting within his reeling mind. He was unable to even begin to comprehend them. It was all that he could do to keep himself moving forward. If there were anybody else who could do this task, he would have more than willingly stepped aside and allowed them to do so. But this was his curse, his cross to bear… and his alone.
    Stumbling up the shoulder of the road from the bottom of the hill, he gingerly planted that first step atop the asphalt, shuffling his feet slowly across the ice-covered surface. The wind raced down the road, shoving him with what felt like human hands from his right, trying mercilessly to knock him to the ground, to break him. 
    Harry eased from the street onto the stone walkway leading up to the covered front porch of the house and stared, unbelievingly, straight ahead, his breath catching in his tight lungs. Thick roots from the mighty maples encircling the dilapidated house jut forth from the frozen earth, protruding from the long, untended lawn like fingers. The walkway in front of him was layered with several inches of snow, uninterrupted as far as he could see to either side. Bare branches rattled atop the roof of the house, scraping like fingernails on a chalkboard from side to side, bending to the will of the wind. 
    Inching forward, he shuddered his way to the pair of wooden steps leading up to the porch. Grabbing hold of the thin, ratty railing tightly with both hands, he urged himself up the crumbling steps and onto warped wooden planks, bowing in attempt to pry their own rusted nails from the supports. The brass lockbox he had placed on the doorknob himself nearly two decades ago, rested on the porch between his feet, the solid metal loop that wrapped around the doorknob snapped right down the middle. He just stared down at it, fearing what he might see if he looked up.
    Reaching down with trembling fingers, he gripped the useless piece of brass tightly in his right hand and shoved it deep into the outer pocket of his dark blue parka. His lower lip squirmed against his upper, fists clenching at his sides, pumping and releasing several times before wrapping themselves into one final knot. A shot of pain ripped through his mouth at the beckoning of the frozen teeth that ground fiercely atop one another, tearing a sliver from the inside of his lower lip in the process. His breath shot like a bull from his nose while he summoned his failing courage, and with one quick motion he lifted his head and stared directly through the open front door and into the darkened house. 
    His mind raced back to that night in 1972, the night that would forever change his life. It was still remarkably vivid in his mind; the smell of the heavily falling snow dampening the freshly shed aspen leaves still resonating in his senses. And more than anything, he could feel the full pangs of the terror, lashing out at him from deep within his chest, threatening to suck the air out of his lungs.
    Professional life for Harry had begun with the most noble of intentions. Like his father before him, he had been drawn into the field of medicine, not by the promise of the largely bloated paychecks, but by the desire to help people. Trite though that may sound, in his case it had been true. There had been those wonderfully long summer days in the small mountain town where he had grown up, riding in the passenger seat next to his father, pipe jutting from his stone jaw, driving down those washboard-riddled country roads. At first, it had seemed like a never-ending series of house calls, but the older he got, and the more he began to understand the intricacies of the profession, the more he became completely in awe of his father. The man had dedicated his life to the betterment of those around him, taking payment in whatever form the patients were able to provide. Be it the tough and stringy meat from their mountain grazing herds of cattle or the often awkwardly designed hand-made garments that Harry had ended up wearing to school to considerable discomfiture. There was even a short period when he had been embarrassed by his father, by the fact that all he seemed to do was work, yet they still lived a mere notch above poverty in that trailer in the middle of the woods. But that had all changed in one single instant after he had witnessed his father climb through the shredded metal of a wicked traffic accident and pull a horribly mangled, blood-drenched man from the wreckage. The man’s eyes had rolled back beneath his crimson-soaked brow, his limp and swelling tongue parting his lips. He looked beyond dead; nothing more than a slab of meat that his father leaned over like a hungry scavenger. But there had been magic in his father’s hands. His old man had stopped the bleeding from the gusher beneath the man’s armpit and seemingly brought him back to life right there on that dirt crossroads in the middle of nowhere without the help of a dozen nurses and surgeons. It was at that precise moment that he knew there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be just like his father.
He had raced through his undergraduate studies and graduated at the top of his class in medical school. It had been a rough road; sacrificing his personal life for the sake of his professional. First dates had been few and far between, and there had been only a handful of seconds. But it had never felt as though he had given anything up because his heart had always been in it, at least until he was off on his own.
It wasn’t until the end of his residency that he got to see the true face of modern medicine, the business of it. And it was enough to turn his stomach. Patients in need of treatment were being turned away because they couldn’t afford to pay. Others were being shipped across town, regardless of the consequences, to the community wards. He had been there at the start of what would become managed care, as doctors and their practices, hospitals, and patients alike were being bought and sold on the open market. Profits were being placed ahead of patient welfare. 
The bottom line was filling the morgue.
After finishing his tenure in the emergency room, the thought of negotiating his private practice with the financial powers that be was more than he could stomach. His own father had been forced to close the doors of his practice, and managed care had, in all senses of the word, killed him. The now old man’s practice had crumbled in a matter of years and he sat alone in a folding chair in the wild grasses in front of the trailer staring off into the woods, while Harry’s mother had slowly died from abandonment in that desolate double-wide in the middle of nowhere.
Being a doctor was supposed to be noble. To be able to help give life, to save life, was a gift bordering on the divine. It was never meant to be a business; never meant to be proprietary.
And there he found a little loophole, without sacrificing his soul.
He had taken a post working for the state. They had been bowled over receiving an applicant with his credentials. Understandably, the best and the brightest were lured to the private sector by the calling of fame and fortune. Those that somehow couldn’t cut it were the hiring pool which the state had no choice but to fish from for the low paying jobs and the long hours they were forced to demand. 
Harry became a field operative for the State of Colorado Medical Advisory Board. His first salary had been $18,500 in 1972, paltry even for the times, but it had been closer to the job his father had done decades before, and as close as he was going to come to truly helping people without forsaking the Colorado wilderness for some mosquito-infested grass hut on the snake-infested banks of the Amazon.
He followed up on the care of children within the system: in orphanages, foster homes, and recent adoptions, providing care when need be, but mainly ensuring that their health and physiological needs were being met by their state provisions. He treated inmates in prison on a rolling schedule, and helped to oversee worker’s compensation claims in some of the larger meat packing plants in the area. These were the dregs of society, the people that corporate medicine would rather see lying beside the road in a gutter full of blood than on one of their pristine, stainless steel tables being treated by one of their overpriced surgeons. These were Harry’s people.
It wasn’t his initial calling, but it was enough. He could wake up every morning and look himself in the eye. And he knew that he was helping people, especially those who actually needed it.
Then, one bitterly cold morning, on a day not so different from this one, everything had changed.
He could remember tossing the manila envelope with the case information onto the passenger seat of his tan Buick Century and sliding behind the wheel. Watching his breath form a frozen cloud in front of his eyes, staining the inside of the windshield, he had turned the key in the ignition several times before the car had finally come to life. The snow had just begun to spit lazily from the barely clouded sky at that point, just tiny flakes at first, and the wind looked bored, simply kicking them across the frozen roads. Everything from the lawns to the houses, to the faces of those that hurried along the sidewalk and the clouds swelling overhead, was the same bland shade of gray.
He had seen cases like this one a hundred times before. Sure, the details were always different—for the most part anyway—but this one had something that made it relatively unique.
He had turned off of the highway and onto the faded, pink-paved road. Heading back into the foothills, the road narrowed with every passing mile until it was barely wide enough for one car, let alone a second traveling from the opposite direction. Dense pine groves packed in against the road, broken intermittently by the small meadows that drew the deer from the forests for their luscious grasses and small bushes loaded with berries. What had once been a straightaway, had begun to wind and meander through the gently swelling hills, the snow finally beginning to stick to the road.
The encroaching foliage to either side of the road loomed overhead, blocking out much of the daylight that filtered through the increasingly dark clouds, shielding the car from the vicious wind that he could hear howling through the hills all around him. But still the snow fell through; the flakes increasing in size to the point that they almost looked like the corn flakes they used for movie snow in the days of black and white cinema. 
It was a tranquil area, far from the scorched plains to the east from which new houses and apartment complexes sprung as if from the dirt itself. There was a sound there that reminded him of his days back home in the mountains. It was the sound of silence: the audible humming of the wind through the needles of the evergreens, the rustling of the thatch, and the tips of long blades of grass bouncing off one another. All of it muffled by the layer of fresh powder that gently piled atop it.
The road opened up into a large field, the wind freeing itself from the trees and buffeting the right side of the car, threatening to press it from the road into the white field. The heavy flakes hammered the side of his car, sounding like gravel in a windstorm. Steering into the wind, Harry slowed a little as he passed a small white house in the field to his left. Large, barren trees loomed in a ring around it, their branches seeming to grow straight into the shingled roof atop it. Bright red curtains were drawn tightly in each of the windows, and the wood beneath the chipping paint was beginning to show through. There was a small wooden placard in front of the house on the road.
“The Cavenaugh house,” he could remember saying aloud as he passed the small dwelling in the middle of the pasture before heading back into the mass of trees once again.
The road grew steep, and traction became much more treacherous. He wound in a tight spiral higher into the hills, the woods to either side growing darker and darker as the branches became so thick that no snow settled atop the festering, detritus-covered dirt beneath.
Ahead, just above the tops of the snow-dusted canopy, he could see the tall brick towers of the convent. Not only was the building old, but it looked old, like the castles of Europe. As he drew closer he could see that it appeared to be stained, like someone had poured a large cup of coffee over the dark rust colored bricks, allowing it to dry to a faded dark brown. The ambitious undergrowth had crept up the sides of the castle, crawling onto windowsills before covering the lower story glass and stopping about halfway up to the second story windows. Small round windows adorned the third floor just below the gabled roof, peering from behind the brick like small, darkened eyes.
He bent with the road to the right, opening into a dirt parking lot before disappearing back into the woods and heading into the mountains. There had been one other car in the lot, and it had been so buried beneath the snow that he had no clue as to the make and model. If it had moved any time in recent memory there should have been ridges in the snow-covered lot, but there were none. Killing the engine, he stuffed the envelope beneath his left arm and zipped his blue down jacket all the way up to his chin, covering his brown suit and red tie. Flipping up the collar, he threw open the door and stepped out into the snow.
The powder covered the tops of his shoes, the frozen slush beneath crunching under his footfalls. Quickening his pace, he headed for the front door, the stinging wind ripping at his already bright red nose and cheeks, his breath dampening the raised collar of his jacket and the zipper.
A row of evergreen hedges rimmed the front courtyard in a half circle, yellowing patches showing through in parts where the foliage had either been sheared too close or had just plain died. Within, large red slabs of rock were lined side by side; small, sharp weeds protruding through the gaps between them. The entire area was shielded beneath a black iron canopy that allowed the sun through in the summer, but was able to support the weight of the snow in the winter with its grated surface. Rose bushes lined the walk; the buds having long since vanished for the season. A long wooden bench ran the course of the right side of the area, all the way up to the large, solid oak double doors.
Harry grabbed the iron doorknocker and let it drop to the mahogany. He could hear it echo hollowly inside as he scanned the courtyard for any signs of life, but there wasn’t even a single window within his line of vision. He could hear the loud thud of the deadbolt being drawn back against the door, and the knob turning as the door opened inward.
A pleasant woman wearing the black and white habit of a nun stood in the entranceway, a puzzled look on her face. She forced a smile.
“May I help you?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
“Um, yes,” Harry said, unzipping his jacket and pulling out the manila envelope. “My name is Harry Denton. I’m with the state. As is our customary procedure, I’ve been sent out here to check on the group of children that were recently taken into your care.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, looking only slightly relieved. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, tapping the snow from his shoes on the side of the building before stepping inside. 
The foyer was enormous. The ceiling had to have been nearly twenty feet high and arched right in the middle. Highly polished granite slabs formed the flooring, fit together intricately like pieces of a puzzle. Each footstep resonated through the castle as though he had slammed a door. A long hallway stretched to his right, tall wooden doors surrounded by hand crafted woodwork lining it as far as he could see. Portraits covered the stucco walls; gold-framed depictions of various visions of Christ. Chandeliers crafted to look like large candelabras hung from the ceiling every twenty feet, the lone bulb set in the middle casting a dim yellow light in a small circle on the floor beneath the low hanging lamps. The faint light and intriguing shadows gave the whole place a medieval look, as though he had just stepped back in time into sixteenth-century England.
“I’m Sister Catherine,” the woman said, offering a firm handshake, the tendons in her wrists bulging as she squeezed. “If you will please follow me, I will happily take you to the children.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you’ll find that all of their needs are being met satisfactorily,” the Sister stated dryly, as she led him down the hall. The look on her face betrayed her discomfort with the situation.
“I’m sure. It’s not that the state has any doubts as to the standards of care that you are able to provide. We’re just trying to attempt to make sure that no children, here or otherwise, fall through the cracks.”
She glanced back over her shoulder and nodded sullenly.   
“This is quite a piece of real estate you have here,” Harry said, trying to fill the stagnant silence lingering in the heavy air.
“It was originally built in the late nineteenth century by William Ashton Cavenaugh, who grew up as a boy in the small house you passed on your way up here. He made his fortune in coal mined from these very hills. After his daughter fell ill from tuberculosis, he built this castle so that she could be closer to her treatment than the house they had built in downtown Colorado Springs.”
“Her treatment?”
“Of course, as I’m sure you know, doctor…”
“How did you know I was a doctor?” he interrupted.
“Who else would be qualified to inspect the well being of the children?” she said, stopping at the end of the long hall and smiling momentarily, before ascending the polished wooden stairs to the second level.
“You were saying?” Harry offered apologetically.
“Their treatment? In those days, the natural springs of this area were thought to have healing powers. People traveled from all parts of the world for the opportunity to soak their dying loved ones in the springs.”
“So where are the springs around here? I’m familiar with the ones down in Manitou, but I didn’t know that there were any closer than that.”
“There are two private springs about a mile from here,” she said. They rounded the corner and walked down the long second story hallway that looked just like the one below, but the walls had begun to cracks in spots, the plaster patches peeling back as they had tried to cover them on the slowly yellowing walls. “This place actually served as something of a hospital for those who could afford it. There was a full time staff that catered not only to the needs of Mr. Cavenaugh’s dying daughter, but to the degenerating condition of his health, as well.”
“He was sick, too?”
“He did not have tuberculosis, if that is what you are asking, but imagine, if you will, the torment of watching your lone child die slowly over a long period of time, and in an ugly and heart-breaking fashion. It was that from which he suffered.”
“So then, they would just load these people up and take them down to the springs every day so that they could get some sort of therapeutic treatment?”
“People handled sickness much differently in those days then they do now, doctor. Those suffering from tuberculosis were treated as though they had the plague. They were not transported out in the open for everyone to see. They were huddled beneath blankets and shuttled through the catacombs beneath this building, through the very mines that made the Cavenaugh fortune, right to the edge of the springs where the tunnels opened up in the side of a hill. There is quite an intricate system of tunnels that runs beneath this entire area, from here all the way to Manitou Springs to the south.”
“Impressive. So how is it that this land came into your possession?”
“It was willed to our order by Mr. Cavenaugh himself. After his daughter died, he faded very quickly. Having lost his wife during the birth of that child, we believe his loneliness and loss took their toll, and he willed the estate to the church, which designated it as the convent that you see today.”
Sister Catherine opened the furthest door on the right. Even the distilled sunlight from the clouded sky outside the large window in the room stung his eyes after wandering through the dimly lit halls. Tiny particles of dust floated on the thin rays of light in bright contrast to the somber colors of the barren stucco room. Four children, none of them more than a year old lay in small, hand-carved wooden cribs lined up one after the other against the back wall of the room, right beneath the line of large windows, ivy peeking up from the sills. A pair of nuns, dressed identically to Sister Catherine sat in heavy wooden chairs, intently watching the slumbering children.
The oily-looking hardwood floor creaked beneath Harry’s feet as he strode across the room, producing a stethoscope from the interior pocket of his jacket. He stopped at the first crib, the Sister barely steering her gaze from the child long enough to acknowledge his presence. She appeared lost in contemplation, the dull glimmer in her eyes and the crease in her brow betraying some sort of melancholy or sorrow. With a curt nod, he inserted the ends of the scope into his ears and leaned into the crib.
The small girl had deep black hair, barely a half an inch long, and bright red lips. There was a small brown ovular mole above her right eyebrow. A crisp white sheet and thinly knit yellow blanket covered the child’s body, tucking neatly beneath her armpits. Smiling at the sight of the innocent child, she mirrored his expression at whatever images danced through her head. Harry pulled down the blanket and warmed the end of the stethoscope with his hot breath in his cupped hand. Placing it first atop her heart, and then beneath each of her arms along her ribs, he listened intently as the child shifted in her sleep. Nodding to himself, he pulled the blanket down past her tiny toes and performed a visual inspection. She wore a small white cloth diaper, fastened with enormous metal pins right beneath her belly. There was a small plaster cast on her right leg, only her toenails visible through the roughly sealed opening. He rolled her onto her side and listened to her breathing from her back to either side of her spine before rolling her onto her back again and covering her up. 
    “Everything looks good here,” Harry said, turning back to Sister Catherine. “What’s her name?”
    “We’ve decided to call her Madeline.”
    “After the children’s book character?”
    “Yes,” the Sister said, smiling momentarily. 
    Returning her smile, Harry made his way to the next crib, pulling down the blanket and beginning his inspection with the stethoscope. This child was a boy. He had light hair, nearly white, and brows so light they were transparent. He couldn’t have been more than three months old.
    “Generally, my paperwork is quite specific as to the origin of the children within your care,” Harry said, without looking up. “But there’s nothing in my records to indicate how these children arrived with you.”
    Sister Catherine shot a glance across the room to one of the other nuns, who slowly rose, and with the other Sister at her hip, slipped from the room and into the hallway, the heavy door closing with a hollow thud behind them.
    Harry looked quizzically to Sister Catherine, who crept towards him. Tilting his head, he pulled the plugs from his ears and looked over at the Sister before sliding a few feet to the next crib.
    “Due to the nature of their appearance here, and for their own future welfare, we have asked that the details be kept from all paperwork. It is a very sensitive situation, doctor.”
    “How so?” Harry asked as he once again donned the stethoscope and began to inspect the third child, a slumbering dark-haired boy who nearly woke as he pulled down the blanket.
    “What I tell you is for your benefit only, doctor, and is not to be shared with anyone outside of this room. I understand as a doctor that any information about your patients is to be kept beneath a veil of privacy. Am I correct?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Harry said. “I am here to make sure that these children are all right, and for no other reason than that. And, in order for me to treat them properly, any and all unusual circumstances need to be taken into account.”
“All right,” she said, lowering her voice and taking a step closer, her look nothing short of grave. “About two weeks ago, close to midnight on a Saturday night, a young woman—she couldn’t have been more than twenty years old—showed up here at the convent, banging on the door and screaming to be granted admittance. She had one child strapped across her back, two cradled in her left arm against her chest, and the fourth in a basket she carried in her right. She stood barefoot in the snow, her bright red feet chafed and cracking from the crusted snow.
“She kept looking over her shoulder as though she were being followed. Her cheeks were covered with tears; her nightgown torn; frayed and tattered. I ushered her into the dining room and sat her down at the table. After rousing a couple of the other Sisters, we set up the cribs for the children and poured a warm cup of tea for the woman, a pot of water for her to sink her feet into. Her hands trembled and her legs shook as she slowly began to talk… to tell us her story.”
Glancing at Sister Catherine, Harry could see her eyes glaze over, as she became lost in the past. Her lips appeared to tremble from the words. Moving on to the fourth child, he began his inspection as she continued.
“She lived on some sort of commune here in the foothills, some remnant from the sixties in the next valley over. She had been born and raised right there, had grown up wandering these very woods as a child. In all there had been five families living together, raising livestock, making their own clothing; it was a wonder no one had stumbled across them in these past ten years, with the city pushing its boundaries so far to the north.
“Her father was the head of the family unit, a minister of his own religion, something of a devotee to the occult. He believed that unlike the devil of Christianity, who dwells in hell,” she said, toying with her rosary, “that the fallen angel walked the earth in human guise.”
“You know, there is something of a Satanic following in Manitou Springs. Turns out the satanic bible was even written there by Anton LaVey before he moved to San Francisco to begin his church,” Harry said, turning to face her. From the look on her face, he could tell that had been far too much information for her, so he backed out a bit. “You’d be amazed what you learn in an emergency room. I had this guy come in with this big arc he had started to carve right beneath his lower intestines like he was trying to commit hara kiri. This guy said Satan told him to do it, but…”
She just stared coldly at him.
“Please,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “Continue…”
“This young girl told me that her father felt it to be his purpose to help create the spawn of this devil, not the whelp of Satan per se, but a physical perpetuation of the evil. Revelations speaks of the antichrist, doctor, are you familiar?" 
“Somewhat…” he said aloud, hoping this wasn’t going to become a sermon. After all it was already beginning to get a little thick in there.
“The good book speaks of the child of Satan, the physical manifestation of the downcast archangel himself. Now this child is prophesied to bring about the end of the world—”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Harry said, sliding the stethoscope back into the interior pocket of his coat. “This sounds really interesting, but I think you’ve just about lost me here. All four of these children appear to be the picture of good health. The cast you’ve made for that little girl looks a little ragged, but there are no signs of infection. That’s the job that I’ve come here to do.”
“Not a believer,” she said, glancing up at him before lowering her chin and shaking her head.
“I was raised a church going kid,” Harry said, zipping his jacket and producing a pen from the outer pocket and handing it to the sister with the paperwork from the envelope. “Please sign here and here…”
“Now, believe me,” Catherine said, scribbling on the forms. “I found her story quite fantastic as well, almost comical were it not for the fear in her eyes. The thought of a biological farm set up to breed the antichrist was something of a mockery. I was in the process of inspecting her arms for tracks or some other signs of drug use when I found the… cuts.”
Harry turned around and tucked the envelope beneath his armpit.
“What kind of cuts?”
“She had long… tears… in the flesh on her back, jagged rips through the skin. They were deep, but they were old. The edges had already clotted, but the striations of the muscles beneath were still visible within the wounds.”
“I’ve seen a lot of that kind of thing, kids falling out of trees, branches snagging their skin and—”
“In two set of four parallel lines?”
Harry began to gnaw on the inside of his lower lip, his brow furrowing.
“I was just about to continue examining her when she jumped up from the table and ran for the door. There was nothing that we could do to stop her. Before any of us were able to follow, she had disappeared into the woods.”
“I’ll go ahead and have social services look into this commune, if there are any other signs of abuse, I guarantee you that they will handle the situation very quickly and decisively. In the meantime, Sister, please continue to take good care of these children. If there is anything that you need from my office or me don’t hesitate to call. That’s why we’re here.”
The Sister stared down at the polished floor, her cross clutched tightly in her right hand, her lips moving as though she was speaking, but no sound came out.
“Good day, Sister,” Harry said, nodding as he slipped past her into the hallway and headed for the stairs.
The two other Sisters who had been in the room when he had arrived were standing right outside of the door, huddled in conversation. They both peered up at him from beneath their habits, glancing only momentarily before heading back into the children’s room.
“Doctor,” Sister Catherine said from behind him. “Please, allow me to see you out.”
“Thank you,” Harry said politely as the two walked in silence down the staircase at the end of the hallway and onto the main floor. 
They stopped at the front door and Harry offered a parting handshake.
“Good luck with those children,” he said. “Believe me, I can imagine how difficult it is to have four children all at once. That’s why my department and social services are here. If there is anything that you need, any kind of help whatsoever, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling curtly.
“I really mean that… here, take one of my cards,” he said pulling a crumpled card from his pocket.
“I appreciate your assistance, doctor, and your offer of help, but I believe we know what we need to do.”
“Well then, Sister,” he said stepping out the open front door and turning to face her. “It was a pleasure meeting you, and best of luck.”
She just nodded and closed the door, the latch sliding audibly into place behind the thick door. 
Shaking his head and smirking to himself, Harry headed across the courtyard, stopping at the edge of the iron overhang to pull his collar up to his ears. The wind blew the immense snowflakes sideways in front of him.
He must have been in there longer than he had originally thought, as his footprints from earlier were already filled, just dimples in the quickly accumulating snow. The forest beyond the road straight ahead had grown almost pitch black as the sun had begun to set behind the white-capped Rockies to the west. Quickening his pace, he stopped in front of his snow-covered car and pulled his hand into his sleeve. With his forearm, he brushed the thick, wet snow from his front windshield before circling the vehicle and doing the same to all of the glass. The back windshield was covered in a thin layer of ice from the wind blowing straight against it, but he figured once the inside of the car warmed up that it would melt in no time.
Pulling the keys from his pocket, he opened the door and climbed into the car. His breath clouded the inside of the windshield as he thrust the key into the ignition and brought the car to life. A dark brown cloud poured from the exhaust pipe as he revved the engine several times before sliding the levers on the dashboard to start the heater. Slipping the car into reverse, the snow crumpled aloud beneath the car’s weight, sounding as though it was driving on Styrofoam. Backing around the other snow-mounded car in the lot, he eased forward, the tires slipping as they fought for traction on the buried dirt lot. Finally, they caught, and he headed out onto the main road.
The bright orange setting sun behind him stained the gray cloud cover an almost reddish color, amplifying through the layer of ice on his back windshield. Flipping the latch on the bottom of his rear view mirror, he pointed it upward to keep the glare from reflecting directly into his eyes. It was only a few moments, however, before the setting sun slipped behind the jagged peaks, and the sky was overwhelmed by darkness.
It was barely half past five, but it appeared as though it were closer to midnight. The only visible light was from the thin beams of his headlamps, which were completely congested from the enormous flakes that danced in front, threatening to block out the light. 
The road was growing slicker with each passing second and he was forced to slow the car down to barely more than a crawl to keep the back end from fishtailing as it had been doing roughly every twenty yards. The road opened into the small straightaway in the middle of the meadow that he recognized from the journey in. The small house set off on the right side of the road caught his eye as there was dim light peering out at him from behind the drawn curtains, flickering light as though from candles.
Focusing back on the road, he tapped the brakes twice, quickly, testing the slickness of the road, wanting to know for sure exactly how his car was going to perform coming into the woods ahead. The last thing that he wanted to do was to wrap his car around some tree in the middle of nowhere in what had to be the worst snowstorm that they had seen yet this season, quite possibly in the last several years, as well.
He couldn’t have been going more than five miles and hour now, hardly rolling down the tractionless country road, but that wasn’t to say that he had more than just the smallest fraction of control over the spinning tires on the ice covered road. It seemed to move with a life of its own out from in front of him as he watched it, darting in and out of the blackened forest that had grown closer and closer to the road. Crusted snow had begun to thicken on the windshield wipers, leaving arcs of frozen water across his view as they scraped back and forth against the clouding windshield. He was going to have no choice but to get out of the car and clean them off if he were to have any chance of…
Two small yellow lights reflected his headlights back at him from the center of the road ahead as a large black shadow appeared directly in front of the car.
Harry tapped the brakes twice in rapid succession before finally pinning the pedal to the ground. The back end slipped out from behind the car as he yanked the wheel into the slide to try to correct it. Buffeting back and forth, the rear end on the right side finally clipped the trunk of a tree, sending the front of the car careening off the side of the road.
 His arms straightened and his fists grew tight on the wheel. Closing his eyes, his teeth clenched tightly together, he waited for the loud thud as he either slammed into the animal that had wandered in his way, or into a tree. The muscles in his back tightened ferociously as the car came to a jerking stop.
Slowly, Harry opened his eyes, his bright white knuckles gently easing their grip from the wheel. He could barely see the front hood of the car through the snow-covered windshield, but could smell the cloud of smoke that he was sure billowed from beneath it. The engine had stalled, but the heater still blew, though little more than the warmed smoke from his motor.
Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand atop his jackhammering heart that he could feel clear through his down parka. He could hear his own breath escaping in rapid spurts. Reaching for the handle of the door, his trembling fingers fumbled with the metal latch for a moment before finally seizing hold, and throwing wide the door. Forcing his shaking legs from the confines of the vehicle, he stepped out into the thickly falling snow.
    The white powder on the side of the road came nearly halfway up his shins, soaking through the bottom of his slacks and into his far-too-thin socks. Shuffling through the snow, he approached the front end, from where the enormous gray cloud poured from the engine, staining the storm-throttled sky an even deeper black. The front bumper appeared undamaged, as the car wasn’t even leaning against a tree. He was sure he must have hit one head on. There appeared to be nothing in front of him that had stopped the car, maybe, he had just gotten lucky and the car had stopped all by itself—
    And then he noticed it.
    A clump of red-stained fur caught beneath the corner of his bright green license plate. Very carefully, a pained wince wrenching his face, Harry knelt and looked beneath the car. 
    Two glazed brown eyes stared right back at him from beneath the vehicle. The nose of the animal was pressed into the ground; jagged shards of bone protruding from the compressed, blood-matted face. The front hooves were braced against the underside of the hood, bent backward behind the large stag’s antlers, which jutted straight up into the undercarriage of the vehicle. Fragments of the shattered antlers littered the crimson-spattered snow around the animal. Some sort of oil or engine fluid ran black down the antler from the hole it had popped in what he hoped was only the oil pan, and down onto the animal’s lifeless face.
    “There was no thud,” he muttered quietly to himself as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
    Trying to force the image of the disfigured and blood drenched animal out of his mind, he trudged through the snow to the trunk of his car, popping it open with the keys he gripped tightly in his hand. Brushing aside a pair of blankets and the briefcase he never seemed to be able to remember to use, he yanked out the heavy metal jack and headed back towards the front of the car. He kicked the thick snow from a patch of earth behind the right front tire. He slid the unit beneath the car and looped the thin metal rod through the hole in the jack. It was a very slow process as he cranked the rod in circles, the jack creaking as it barely raised the car a paltry quarter of an inch at a time.
    The frame of the car groaned as the jack tipped slowly backwards, toward the undercarriage of the vehicle, but still it rose slowly, and with enormous effort. Sweat poked through his snow-drenched forehead, his bangs matting to it. He had to wipe them frequently from his eyes. Slowly it rose, the front right tire ever so gently climbing above the white groundcover. It was as if the jack was starting to wear itself in, and he was able to turn it faster and faster, spinning the rod like a baton in front of him until the bottom of the front tire was nearly half a foot off the ground.
    With a little tap from his toe, he tested the stability of the jack. Nodding his satisfaction, he walked back around to the front of the car and knelt before the hood, bracing his foot against the left front tire. Gripping the stag by the antlers—and it had to be a five or six point rack—he tugged with all of his might, his face turning bright red as he fought with the lifeless corpse. His eyes felt as though they were going to pop right out of his head as he strained against the great weight, alternately yanking and then tugging, as the body finally gave just the slightest bit and slid a few inches. While the progress was at first promising, his next handful of efforts caused no appreciable change in the positioning of the beast as the antlers were lodged somewhere beneath the hood of the car.
    Standing once again, he rubbed the ache in his lower back with his right hand and gasped to try and catch his breath. His lips tightened over his grinding teeth and frustration began to overwhelm him. The snow was falling faster than ever and accumulating at a rate he hadn’t seen since he was a small child with a sled and a smile full of holes. His fists tightened as he endured the onset of a monster headache, his frustration building with each inhalation until finally he couldn’t take it anymore!
    “Damn it!” he shouted, channeling all of his frustrations into a swift kick that landed soundly on the front bumper.
    The Buick made an audible groan, the jack rattling against the frozen ground upon which it was braced. There was a loud metallic scraping noise, as the hood suddenly lurched directly toward him. 
    Frantically throwing himself backward onto the ground, a puff of powder landing coldly on his face, he watched the car lean forward, before coming to a sudden and final halt. The hood dropped as the rod from the jack launched like a rocket from the side of the car, taking a chunk of bark from a tree before bouncing into the underbrush. The deer beneath the car made a sound like a large pop, before a swell of gasses bellowed forth from the body, a wave of blood spilling from the ripped back of the animal and rushing towards Harry like a putrid tidal wave. The warm fluid gushed over his outstretched feet and along his backside, drenching him in the momentary warmth as he leapt to his feet to free himself from the carnage.
    Staring down at his blood-sapped clothing, he wiped his hands on the front of his pants before turning to look pleadingly into the sky. Shaking his head in dismay, he walked back around to the trunk, stepping over the fragmented parts of the jack that littered the side of the road. He pulled a blanket from the trunk and wrapped himself like a pupa.
    Harry looked longingly down the road in both directions, hoping upon hope that there would be a pair of headlights coming his way through the densely packed trunks of the evergreens. Shivering, he shook his head and walked towards the side of the car, once again opening the driver’s side door and clambering in. Jamming the key into the ignition, he tried one last time to start the car, but it didn’t even make an attempt to turn over. The only sound it made was a faint click.
    Throwing the door wide, he hung his feet out the door and stared out into the dark night, trying to figure out what in the hell he was going to do.
    “Why me?” he muttered, climbing out of the car and tugging the blanket tightly over his shoulders.
    Sighing, he plotted his next course of action. He was probably halfway between the convent and the highway, which meant he had a twenty-minute hike—at least—in either direction. With the snow coming down in sheets as it was, there was always the chance that the state patrol had closed the highway and he could stand out there clear until morning before they pushed a plow through and opened the road. That meant easily another hour walk to get back into town, especially in this weather. The only viable option was to head back toward the convent and play upon the mercies of the nuns. Either way, it sounded like it was going to be one tremendously long night. 
    Smiling to spite fate, he rubbed his eyes and began his trek back up the road to the convent. Keeping his head down so that the snow and wind wouldn’t freeze his face, he watched the virgin white powder as each footfall blasted a tuft of flakes into the air around his knees. The night was so quiet that he was certain he could hear the sound of the snowflakes landing on the tips of the needles of the pines all around him, their branches slowly bowing beneath the weight of the wet accumulation. 
    Harry could barely see five feet through the thickly falling snow as the storm clouds covered the sky, not a single star piercing the dense mat. Not even the halo of the moon produced any light as it had been enshrouded in black like the rest of the landscape. 
    In the darkness, each grove of trees looked identical to the last, and he wondered momentarily if it was possible that he was walking in circles. The hike he had estimated to be roughly twenty minutes had already taken close to a half an hour, the heavy snow slowing his movements as though he were trudging through molasses. His legs ached. His throat was parched. All he wanted to do was lie down and chase an ice-cold glass of water with a warm mug of coffee, followed by a serious nap. He could remember playing in the snow for what seemed like days straight as a child without any of the symptoms of the fatigue that now ravished him from the inside out. But couple that with the stress and strain of the current situation and he was just thankful that he hadn’t frozen up and laid down in the back of his car and prayed to make it through the night without freezing.
    Phlegm worked into a knot in the back of his throat, freezing around the edges of his nose as it ran in lines towards his chapped lips. The edges of his ears burned as though singed, and his cheeks had passed the point of pinpricks.
    Stopping momentarily, he squinted his eyes against the large flakes and stared down the road ahead. There was a thin light, like a flickering candle at two hundred yards, fading in and out through the swaying trees ahead of him. Tugging on the top edge of the blanket, he looped it up over his head like a cloak, and with a renewed sense of determination, strode through the eight inches of snow toward the light.
    Harry’s eyes fixed intently on the small ball of light, his footsteps falling faster. Nearly to the point of jogging, he popped out of the cluster of trees and found himself in the wide meadow, the carpet of snow glimmering as though from some light of its own. The light he had been following originated from a dark cluster of trees right in the middle of the pasture, where he remembered the small house to have been.
    The wind raged through the open field, tearing forcefully at the blanket atop him. He clung to the wet and frost-covered cloak; the soaked edges of it clapping like hands behind him. There were no trees to fight the rage of the gale in the middle of the field, which felt as though it was shredding his flesh with its icy breath.
    The wind suddenly kicked up with a force unreckoned with. He had to lean into it to keep from being tossed onto his back. The ferocity of the wind ripping through the valley sounded like screaming… like the pained wails of an infant.
    Harry stopped and cocked his head, placing his ear straight into the wind. It wasn’t the wind that had made that sound! It was separate, riding on the wind. And the screams of that child sounded like nothing he had ever heard before. His heart pounded in his chest and he could almost empathetically feel the pain in those screams.
    Shedding the blanket, he ran towards the small white house, the frigid air slicing at his lungs from the inside, burning in his sinuses. His feet felt as though they each weighed a hundred pounds as he forced them to rise and fall through the thick, wet snow, the wind trying to force him backward.
    As he rapidly approached, he could see shadows through the thin line of light between the closed shades of the window on the side of the house. A car buried in snow save for the windshield and scraped patches on either side window, sat in front of the house, its dark shape casting a long shadow out across where he assumed the road lurked below the snow.
    The screams grew louder, pleading with him from across the field. He was almost to the point of physical exhaustion, but he had no choice but to press on as the screams cried to him, begging for mercy, for some sort of respite… until finally they were silenced, a loud thunk echoing through the night, hitting Harry like a slammed door.
    He stopped, only twenty yards from the house, the bare tips of the branches of the trees encircling it scraping across the roof like fingers trying to peel back the shingles. He surveyed the field. The tire marks behind the car were still fresh as he could see them like dark lines across the shining white surface of the snow, tracing the course back into the wall of trees at the far side of the field. Muffled voices assaulted him on the bitter wind, shadows passing in front of the light in the window.
    And then there was another wail, a hoarse cry like that of a newborn.
    Harry raced towards the front porch, leaping through the snow and onto the wooden steps, ascending them as though on springs. His breath seized in his lungs, freezing like a mass of ice in his heavy chest, and he slid across the ice-covered porch. Weightless, he skated, his shoulder ramming into the front door, knocking it inward. Shards of woods blew into the air as the lock tore through the brittle wood of the trim. His feet caught on the edge of the tile in the entranceway and he careened forward, landing squarely on his chest, his breath exploding from him.
    He looked up, pawing at the slick floor, fighting to regain his feet.
    The room had taken on a red tinge from the handful of candles that flickered in the corners in front of the red velvet curtains. Three dark shapes loomed over him. He struggled to see in the light after coming in from the blinding darkness. Screams filled his ears from close by, ripping at his flesh.
    With as much effort as he could muster, Harry hauled himself to his feet, his eyes scanning the room frantically, trying to focus. All of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, exposing a square, patterned red carpet in the middle of the hardwood floor. There was a small wooden pedestal in the middle of the room, and what looked like a marble birdbath next to it. Atop the pedestal, a baby flopped on a swaddling cloth, his arms and legs fanning the air above him. A dark figure stood above the child, dipping an open palm into the contents of the birdbath, and then tracing a line on the forehead of the screaming child.
    “Get out of here!” a female voice shrieked at him, a hand tightening around his upper arm. 
    Harry whirled, his right arm swinging with a closed fist at the body of whoever held him, striking the soft flesh of the midsection.
    There was a hollow thud as his attacker hit the floor, damp breath gasping for air. Two other figures closed in upon him, their arms outstretched, reaching for him. 
    Lowering his shoulder, he lunged through the other two, knocking them to the ground. The birdbath toppled to the floor, its contents spilling across the polished surface. Steadying himself, he grabbed the child from the pedestal and brought him against his chest, zipping him up beneath his jacket.
    “You have no idea what you’re doing!” one of the women cried as he whirled to face her.
    On the left side of the room, beneath the light of the window that had guided him there, were three small lumps, bodies wrapped from head to toe beneath a thin white cloth. Bloodstains covered the bodies, growing in size with each passing second from the unseen wounds beneath. A tuft of dark hair protruded through the top of the cloth of the largest of the bodies.
    His lower jaw fell and the contents of his stomach rose from his gut and into his chest, his thudding heart fit to burst.
    One of the shapes appeared directly in front of him, this time moving very slowly and deliberately, arms straight at him, palms to the sky.
    “Doctor,” the voice said, more calmly this time. “Please… just hand me the child.”
Her visage came into focus, the white of her habit in stark contrast to the blackness that swelled around them. Her eyes were awash with shadows. He watched her mouth move, trembling.
    “This is a matter of spiritual importance,” she continued. “These children must be destroyed.”
    Harry glanced back at the bodies that littered the couch, and pulled the child beneath his jacket even closer to his chest. It let out a pained wail.
    “You murdered these children,” he gasped, slowly easing backward toward the door.
    “They were the spawn of Satan,” Sister Catherine said evenly. “While they may have looked like nothing more than harmless children to you, doctor, these four contain limitless evil bound beneath human flesh.”
    “You’ve lost your mind!”
    “Like yourself, we were skeptical at first. We found the body of the mother who dropped them off ripped to shreds, her blood covering the ground in a hundred foot radius, her intestines run through the tops of the trees like a Christmas garland.”
    “Stay back,” Harry said, glancing to either side as the other two sisters closed in on him. One of them held a long, thin knife in her closed fist.
    “These four children are impervious to pain. When that little girl broke her ankle, she didn’t even shed a tear, she just continued walking on it even though her bones stuck out from the torn flesh.”
    He could feel the cold air coming in from the door behind him, the wind howling from the blackened night.
    “I heard them screaming—”
    “As we placed holy water on their foreheads to baptize them… to try to save their eternal souls from damnation.”
    Harry stepped out onto the icy porch, still fixed upon the three women who were nearly to the frame of the door now.
    “If you take that child with you, his fate will be your responsibility. The evil he spreads will mean your damnation. Give back the child and save your own soul!”
    Harry placed his right hand over the child’s exposed head, every muscle in his body tensing as he prepared for flight.
    “There is no redemption in hell, doctor. Weigh your decision very carefully, for you have but one chance here.”
    He stared down at the thin blond locks atop the child’s head that filtered through his open fingers. The blood in his veins hammered in his temples as her words echoed in his mind.
    “You’re not going to kill this child!” he shouted, turning and sprinting across the porch. 
    He could hear their footsteps behind him landing on the wooden stoop as he leapt over the steps, the ground rising to meet him too quickly. He stumbled, losing his balance. Rolling onto his left side so as not to crush the child beneath his weight, he absorbed the brunt of the impact, his eyes closing in pain.
    He heard footsteps on the steps coming down to the lawn. 
Forcing his eyes open, he could see the shadow of a figure, kneeling just to the side of the small house, crouching like an animal ready to pounce.
    Leaping to his feet, he staggered away from the house, waiting for his body to find its sense of equilibrium so that he could sprint toward the forest. Behind him, he could hear their anguished voices, calling after him, but there was no way he could even turn to look. He was fixed intently on the line of the trees ahead, and the salvation that lie within. If he could just get to those trees, he could disappear into the undergrowth and there was no way they were going to find him. He had grown up in woods just like these, playing hide and seek, hunting large game. It was his home field. If only he could just make it there…
    The pleading voices behind him turned to screams, not shouting as though trying to be heard, but screams of terror. 
There was no way he was going to turn around until he hit that wall of trees that grew closer with every second. His legs burned from the strain. He had used up the oxygen in his lungs long ago and was urging himself on with pure fear and determination. The snow burned his eyes, falling directly into the open lids, but he managed to keep them open.
    Hurdling the first layers of sage, he leapt into the wall of branches, finally having the courage to glance back as he shoved through the sharp needles of the cluster of spruces.
    There was no one in the field behind him, only the glimmering snow and the line of tracks that he had left. He could still hear the screams riding along the wind from the house, but there was only one shadowed figure, slowly easing up the steps and onto the front porch. It was large—inhumanly large—and not so much walking, as it was floating up onto the porch and into the house.
    The screams intensified, filling the night like sirens, drowning out the whistling wind, before finally fading back into the silence of the night. 
    Harry watched the front of the house; unable to draw his gaze from it as the large shadow finally reappeared on the porch, standing motionless… staring directly at him.
    Whirling, he threw his body through the endless masses of tangled branches. He tucked his head and raised his left arm in front of his face in an attempt to block the rows of razor sharp needles that ripped at the skin on his face, trying frantically to find his way back to the road.
    Breaking through the last row of trees, he burst into the open, stumbling over the edge of the pavement, barely able to keep his balance as he staggered down the center of the road. He could no longer feel any part of his body, the pain had rubbed the nerves raw and he had reached the point where the body wanted to shut down. Every inch of flesh grew increasingly heavy, his inertia petering to nothing more than a limping lurch. His chest would allow no more oxygen to enter, the air within growing stagnant, his vision darkening.
    His car appeared around the next bend, right on the side of the road as he had left it. He had been running for as long as he could, his brain on the verge of shutting down. Without even thinking, he pulled his hand off of the child’s head and shoved it into his pocket, producing the car keys. Stopping beside the door, he yanked it open, his body suddenly wanting to collapse into a heap. Jamming the key into the ignition, he cranked it, pinning his foot straight through the gas pedal and into the floorboard.  
    The engine roared to life immediately, and he threw it into gear, the back end sliding back and forth as the spinning wheels grabbed for traction. With a loud squeal and a sudden jolt the car rocketed forward, racing straight down the center of the road as he drove on nothing more than reflex, trying with all his might to just keep that car in the center of the road.
    It wasn’t until that precise moment that the reality of the situation set in. There was no way that his vehicle should have started, let alone driven him out of those woods. He would have been lucky if the insurance company hadn’t totaled it. The undercarriage of the car had been shredded by the antlers from that buck, draining every ounce of fluid from the engine. There was no way he could have driven the car, yet here he was…
    A flash of light caught his eye and he looked over in time to see a large stag standing motionless at the side of the road, the headlights reflecting in golden orbs from the wide eyes beneath the enormous rack of antlers. The buck watched the car as it raced by. By the time Harry looked up in the rearview mirror, the stag was gone, leaving nothing but the darkness from which he had just escaped.
    The year had been 1972, but still the images were as clear as though it had just happened that morning, burning themselves into the backs of his eyelids so that they were all that he saw every time he closed his eyes. It was what woke him, covered in sweat, every night. It was the first thing he saw in the morning when he arose and the last images to cross his brain as he fell into sleep. And here he was, standing in the entranceway to hell as he had seventeen years prior, staring into the darkness of the house that resonated with all of his fears.
His responsibility.
    The thin rays of moonlight that dripped through the thick, cloud-covered sky filtered into the room from the open door behind him. He stood in the entranceway, his hands trembling, reaching into the darkness in front of him. Slowly, Harry inched into the room, the hardwood floor squeaking beneath his damp boots.
    As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the furniture stacked in piles at the left side of the room, the fabric slashed and torn, the filling pouring through the gaping holes. Plaster fragments, which had fallen in chunks from the walls, littered the floor, adding to the overwhelming stench of dust and stagnation. The red velvet curtains were shredded, hanging in strands from the thick wooden curtain rods above the boarded windows.
    Vandals had completely had their way with the place. There was a pentagram drawn in red spray paint right in the center of the floor, the blood of some cat or other oblivious animal spilled in the center, dried and cracking. Initials and other random messages were spray painted across the walls: everything from “Class of ’86 Rules!” to “Praise Hail Satan.” A pile of smashed beer bottles sat in the corner, the brown glass sparkling in the dim light. 
    The molding around the door in front of him was ripped from the plaster. Stepping over the trim, careful of the nails the jutted upward, he entered the kitchen, the waning light barely following him from the living room. All of the appliances had left years prior, and there was nothing left to show that they had ever been there, save for the small pipes that protruded from the walls, and the cracks along the plaster where the countertops had been. The linoleum had been ripped up, exposing the bare plywood floor, which echoed loudly with his hollow footsteps. Cobwebs hung from one side of the room to the other, bouncing from the stir he created with his movements.
    There were only a few sayings scrawled across the walls in here, but in the darkness, he could only tell that they were there, not what they said. The smell of dampened earth, a cross between ozone and brimstone crept up from the stairs at the back of the kitchen, leading down into the blackness of the cellar.
    There was a small scratching sound, like fingernails trying to claw through wood, coming from the doorway to his right. He heart leapt up in his throat. He fought physically to make his shaking legs carry him through the doorway. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and his head began to pound, throbbing as it bore the pressure of his now overwhelming fear. His breath came in short, loud bursts from his heavy chest.
    Stepping carefully into the room, there was an almost sickening crunch beneath his boot, and then another as he slipped his whole body into the room. Something covered the floor, but in the darkness he couldn’t make it out. Crouching, he set his hand atop whatever it was that carpeted the floor, and recoiled suddenly in pain.
    His left hand trembling, he pulled a handful of small, sharp stickers from his palm. They felt like needles from a cactus or like the stingers from…
    Harry’s jaw dropped and he knelt once again, very carefully pulling a credit card from his wallet and dragging it slowly across the floor, producing a handful of the hollowed out exoskeletons of… bees. Every inch of the floor, from the entranceway through the open closet was covered with a half-inch layer of dead bees. Turning, he scanned the kitchen, but there wasn’t a single carcass on the floor in there, yet this room was carpeted without a single gap.
    In the open closet, he could see a large glass bottle containing a dark fluid on the top shelf, a cork wedged halfway down the long neck of the jug. But there was absolutely nothing else in the room: no furniture, no shredded curtains or debris, just the bees.
    Rising, he turned to face the kitchen, just as the dark shape of a man walked straight through the kitchen in front of him and into the living room.
    Harry’s heart felt as though it was going to burst and he fought to breathe through the onset of panic. Every muscle in his body seized at the exact same moment, twisting him from the inside out, tying knots in his back and neck. His fingernails drew blood in the middle of his palms from his tightly clenched fists. It took every iota of his courage to shuffle his feet into the kitchen so that he could peer around the corner and into the living room. 
    The shape stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the falling snow beyond, his back to Harry. Long, matted hair framed the head and extraordinarily broad shoulders. Long fabric, almost like that of a trenchcoat, fell from the shoulders to an inch above the floor, the edges flapping like a cape from the wind. His hands were open at his sides; the long, thin fingers writhing like worms.
    “I’ve seen you before,” Harry sputtered through his bone-dry mouth. “That night…” 
    The figure slowly turned, his face drenched in the thick shadows. His hair tossed from the whipping wind that screamed through the valley. He stood motionless for what seemed an eternity, and though Harry could not see the man’s eyes, he could feel their stare crawling on his skin. 
    Slowly, the man inched towards Harry. He seemed to glide across the floor. There was no sound from his footfall on the hardwood. Stopping a mere foot from Harry, he cocked his head and slowly extended his arm, taking Harry’s trembling hand within his own.
    Harry could taste the man’s foul, pungent breath, could feel its heat on his face as the man positively towered over him. The man’s skin felt like parchment, dry and stretched taut across his bulging, knobby bones. His blood boiled like fire. It felt as though Harry’s hand was being held directly above a campfire.
    Raising Harry’s hand up past shoulder level, the man leaned forward and kissed it, right in the center of the palm.
    Harry dropped to his knees in pain; his face clenching tightly as tears spurted from his squinting eyes. His teeth bared as he fought back a scream. Gripping his left hand tightly in his right, he breathed as though going into labor, struggling to climb to his feet without using his hands. 
    The man was already through the entranceway and descending the stairs at the edge of the porch. 
    Crawling on the floor, using his right elbow to propel himself, Harry got to the front door and used the wall for leverage to get to his feet. Breathing heavily, his hand curled into a ball against his chest, he shuffled onto the porch, fighting back the swell of unconsciousness that tried to rip free from within, pain and shock threatening to sweep him beneath the dark swell of blackness.
    The man glided across the white field, the snow swirling around him like a cyclone, heading for the edge of the trees.
    “Hey!” Harry shouted through his tightly clenched teeth, but the man didn’t even turn around as he entered the wall of evergreens, disappearing behind the mass of needles.
    Harry fell to his knees on the porch, the searing pain in his hand more than he could bear. Toppling onto his side, Harry’s last conscious image was of the row of foliage where the man had disappeared. A large stag with an enormous rack of antlers walked through the open field, standing at the edge of the tree line, turning to stare directly at him, its gaze lingering. Its eyes glowed beneath the thin moonlight.
    Darkness rose from the depths of his soul and swept Harry beneath a black wave, the snow falling damply atop his unmoving body.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART TWO


II
Thursday, November 11th
3:10 p.m.

Matthew Parker climbed down the two tall stairs of the long yellow school bus and stepped into the nearly foot-deep snow on the shoulder of the road. The flashing red lights from the stop sign on the side of the bus blinked across the white sheet of groundcover in front of him. He could hear the heavy thud of footsteps from behind him, thundering down the stairs of the bus as he quickly began to walk up the steep culdesac, shifting his heavy blue backpack onto his right shoulder, tugging the sleeve of his jacket back over his wrist.
    He turned the black cap with the Atlanta Falcons logo atop his head around, tipping his chin so that the brim shielded his eyes from the enormous flakes of snow that fell straight down. The back of his dark blonde hair was long, falling just over his shoulders in front, his hazel eyes peering up from beneath the lowered brim.
    Muffled voices chatted in excited whispers behind him, causing him to quicken his pace, walking faster to create some sort of separation. There was a whistling in his right ear as an object flew only inches from his head, landing in the snow in front of him and bouncing up the street. Before he knew what it was, there was another, coming straight over his head and landing in the street, bouncing into the air before disappearing beneath the slush. This time he got a good look at it.
    It was a rock.
    His teeth tattered the inside of his lip as his ire rose, his legs threatening to go limp. Shoving his trembling hands into his pockets, he stared straight ahead at the end of the culdesac, eyeing the gap between the houses at the end, where he would slip through onto the street beyond. It was another good half-mile walk to his house, as he rode a bus on a route that was not his own. The constant bullying and torment of the other kids on his bus had made the twenty minute ride so insufferable that he had been forced to find an alternate way to get to school. Sure, at seventeen he was of legal age to drive, but in order to do that, he needed to have permission to drive to school, but that was a concession his parents were unwilling to make since he had been caught skipping class.
    Another rock tagged him squarely in the back, echoing through the street as it hammered the books in the pack.
    “Don’t turn around,” he whispered to himself beneath his breath.
    “Come on, faggot!” a voice shouted from behind him. “What are you going to do about it?”
    Keeping his head down, he walked as fast as his legs would take him to the side of a tan two-story, trudging through the thick snow on the lawn to the short, twin-rail fence at the back of the yard. Scaling it, another rock nailed him in the left shoulder, knocking him face first into snow-covered buffalo grass of the field behind the house. His shoulder stung as though his scapula had cracked, and he was forced to use just his right arm to scramble to his feet. He brushed the cold mat of ice from his face and hurried on, consciously trying to keep himself from running.
    Another rock zinged past his right hip, skipping off the asphalt beneath the accumulation in front of him at the end of the barren, dead-end street. Ahead, there was a deserted intersection. To the left, the steep hill that led up to his house, to the right the large grass field behind the elementary school. Once he made that turn, there was really no reason for them to follow him any longer.
    Their names were John Allen and Devin Larkin, and he knew that they both lived in the block to the right, just across from the field. They had played soccer and basketball together growing up, but apparently Matt was the only one that remembered. They had never been close friends or anything like that, but had always gotten along well enough, at least until the start of last school year, Matt’s junior year.
    It had all started one day, a warm and dry September morning early in the school year. Matt had met his best friend, Scott Ramsey, at the bus stop, which he could remember surprised him considering Scott lived close to a mile away and rode a different bus. They had decided that it was far too nice of a day to spend it in school, and had opted instead to go over to Scott’s dad’s townhouse, as they knew that he would be at work all day. 
    Scott’s parents had divorced years earlier, and he lived with his mom the majority of the time, but he still carried a key to his dad’s place. After spending the better part of the morning hanging out at Safeway, eating chocolate-covered peanuts and sour balls from the bulk bins, they had walked down to the taco place to play some video games in the lobby before heading up to Scott’s dad’s condo.
    They hadn’t even been there that long. He couldn’t remember what they had been watching on TV at the time, but they were only halfway into it, sitting back on the couch smoking cigars and swilling some of his dad’s bourbon, when they heard the key hit the lock. Instinctively, they ran, darting through his father’s bedroom and into the bathroom, crouching in the bottom of the shower stall, the opaque glass door closed tightly. Holding their breath, they could hear the front door swing inward.
    “I know you’re in here!” his dad shouted, slamming the door behind him. “Get out here right now!”
    Matt and Scott stared helplessly at one another, holding their breath tightly for fear of the slightest noise betraying them. Both of their faces had faded to a pale white, their hearts hammering in their ears.
    They could hear the heavy padding of footsteps marching all around the townhouse, and the silencing of the television with a click.
    “We’re as good as caught,” Matt whispered. “We should just get out.”
    “Not yet,” Scott whispered back, his eyes wide.
    It was then that the door to the shower stall flung back, slamming loudly against the wall. Its hinges nearly snapped. A large hand reached right past Matt and grabbed Scott by the front of the shirt, heaving him into the air. Matt dare not even look up.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Scott’s dad bellowed, dragging him out of the bathroom.
    Matt slowly rose from the floor of the ivory-tiled shower and stepped into the bathroom, crossing the floor at a snail’s pace, following the sounds of their voices. He could hear the words, but there was no comprehension within his head. He began to slip into what he liked to call his “quiet place,” deep within his head. It was a world where he could live out his existence without the stress that always seemed to track him down wherever he went. Granted, he brought a large chunk of trouble upon himself through either stupid or thoughtless actions, but there had been so much in his life outside of his direct control that he had found the place early on in his childhood.
    A loud banging at the door shocked him out of his trance, his shoulders jumping as he heard his mother’s voice outside of the door.
    “Matthew Thomas Parker!” she shouted. He could see the expression on her face even though they were separated by solid oak. He had seen it far too many times in recent memory, her lips curled tightly over her front teeth, her blue eyes wild and furious. “Come out here right now!”
    He could hear the front door open as he rounded the corner from the bedroom and into the living room. The muffled voices of his mom talking with Scott’s father filled his ears. He stood out in the open now, watching, horrified, as the two spoke, glancing over their shoulders at he and Scott. 
    Matt never even turned to look at Scott, as he knew exactly what Scott was thinking. 
The conference over, Matt’s mom swept across the room and ushered him through the front door by the shoulder of his shirt, dragging him down the front steps and to her car. Climbing into the gold minivan, he stared straight through the side window from the passenger seat as the onslaught of yelling commenced.
    He’d been caught, what more could he say. The situation seemed fairly self-explanatory. He’d skipped school and gotten busted, end of story. But still, his mother demanded an explanation. Matt knew full well that anything he said would be completely unacceptable as his mom had been forced to leave her classes unattended at school to come and track him down. 
    So he just sat there silently, staring at the passing trees as they drove onto the Air Force Academy grounds, where his public high school was located. They had parked right in front of the school and she had dragged him through the front doors to the attendance office. Throwing wide the door and leading him to the high counter where an older woman with graying hair and thin-rimmed glasses looked down on him from up high.
    “Busted,” the woman said, smirking.
    Matt just shook his head, suppressing the urge to either sock her in the nose or give her the finger.
    The door swung open behind them, and Matt turned to look as his mother checked him in. Scott’s dad ushered Scott through the door, and stepped into line behind Matt’s mother. Matt just looked at Scott, who shrugged his shoulders.
    “Go to class,” Matt’s mom said, walking out the door of the office. “We’ll decide your punishment when you get home.”
    Matt walked out into the hall and waited as Scott’s dad had to make his closing comments as well before ordering him off to class.
    The two walked silently towards the cafeteria as the bell was about to ring to end fifth period, and it was going to be time for their lunch anyway. Walking into the large room, the sun from the wall of glass burned into their eyes. They sat at one of the tables and waited for the room to fill up.
    Neither felt particularly hungry, as they had spent the morning beefing up on junk food. Besides, they had blown their lunch money on the video games and cigars.
    The bell rang. Matt sighed loudly, knowing he might as well just try to enjoy the rest of the school day and make it last as long as possible since he was going to have a very long night once he got home. Kids filled the halls from every direction, many with books beneath their arms as they shuffled off to their next class, having a different lunch hour, while others carried in brown paper sacks or headed toward the line for the food bar.
    That was when his life had irrevocably changed. When his everyday life had turned to an inexhaustible hell.
    And it had all begun so simply.
    Friends had crowded around them, sitting down at the table beside them or hovering over the table to either side.
    “What happened to you guys?” Brian had asked.
    “Got caught ditching school,” Scott answered.
    “Whoa, dude. What happened?”
    They had regaled the group around them with the stories of their morning of decadence right up to the point where they were finally apprehended, hiding on the floor of the shower.
    Over the course of the following week, the story had played off many lips. “Did you hear Matt and Scott got caught skipping school?” turned into “Did you hear Matt and Scott got caught in the shower together?”
    Matt could remember the first time he had heard that particular variation. He had been hiding out in the bathroom in the middle of class, taking his time on a bathroom break. He had been sitting on top of one of the sinks, waiting just a few more minutes before heading back to class to avoid the teacher having a fit. Jim Yates had walked in and faced one of the urinals.
    “So I hear you got caught,” he said, zipping down his zipper.
    “Yeah,” Matt said, consciously looking the other direction.
    Finishing his business, Jim zipped back up his zipper and walked right past Matt.
    “Fucking faggot,” he said, spitting on Matt’s leg.
    The whole thing had come as such a shock; there was no way that he could have ever really been prepared for that to happen. He just sat there, staring at the damp, dark blue patch on his jeans. The world spun around him.
    From there, each day had gotten progressively worse. He would walk down the halls between classes being shoved from all sides by passersby, as they would whisper about him… and those were the kind ones. There were others who would shove him, trip him, knock his books from his arms, staring down at him, calling him a “fucking faggot.” It got to the point where he was no longer able to make eye contact with anyone, staring down at his feet wherever he went. Slouching down in his seat in class to avoid the stares, so as not to see their lips moving as they berated him, quite often in front of the whole class. 
    It was to the point where he couldn’t get any girls at his own school to talk to him, let alone go out on a date. He had actually even had a girlfriend at the time, Tricia, but she dumped him because all of the stress was starting to get to her. Get to her?!
    Matt began walking to class around the outside of the building, even through the snow, so as to encounter as few people as possible. The parking lot monitors cut him some slack, most likely because he had become so meek and pathetic looking, allowing him to sit out in the parking lots smoking between periods.
    And the torment didn’t stay at school. People called his house, day and night, waiting for him to answer, and then shouting “Faggot!” into the phone, or just calling to verbally berate him. It followed him home on the bus. Kids he had known all of his life throwing trash at him, yanking the back of his hair, and his personal favorite, the chant of “Faggot! Faggot!”
    That was why he had begun waking up half an hour earlier to walk to the next bus route. But they were all the same, as was evidenced by this afternoon’s rock episode.
     Life had become insufferable. There was no joy to be found in even the most remote corner of his existence. He lived to sleep, knowing that was the only time when the torment stopped, and fearing every day that he would wake up to find that nothing had changed, as he did every morning.
    He couldn’t comprehend how it had gotten to this point. What could he have done differently?
    And that had been more than a year ago.
    Every day was better than the next.
    There was a sudden, sharp stinging in the back of his head. Matt felt his body become weightless, tumbling forward towards the ground. Red flashed behind his closed eyelids as he slammed into the curb at the base of his hill. His right hand trembling, he opened his eyes and dabbed at the immediate swelling beneath his left eye. It was already puffy and resonated with pain from his cheekbone through his nose. He could feel his eye slowly closing, the swelling pressing the lids together.
    He rubbed the back of his head, from where the rock had struck him right at the base of his skull. His hair was matted damply together. Patting at it, he pulled his hand around to where he could see it, staring at the crimson fluid that covered his fingertips.
    This time, he did look back over his shoulder. John and Devin were standing side by side laughing riotously. Devin made a fake falling down gesture, and the two laughed even harder, if that were even possible.
    Matt just stared at them, his jaw falling slack.
    “What are you going to do about it, Faggot?” John shouted, throwing his arms out to his sides.
    Slowly closing his eyes, Matt turned and began his trek up the steep hill to his house, hoping that they weren’t going to follow him any further. There was something like this every day, maybe not to this extreme, but the emotional havoc had taken its toll. His whole body seemed to function in slow motion, his breathing slow and deliberate, his mind only capable of normal functioning when he was alone in his room, away from the judgmental stares and taunts.
    The laughter faded behind him, but there would always be tomorrow and the day after that… 
    Glancing to his right, he crossed the snow-blown street at the top of the hill and turned down his culdesac. Large, rounded pines lined the sides of the street, the houses hidden from the road behind them. He walked right down the middle of the road. The majority of the houses on the street were owned by older retirees, a well-rounded mixture of those who spent their springs tending to their immaculate gardens surrounded by electric fences to keep the deer out, and those who peered out from behind barely-drawn drapes, watching the world deteriorate around them. Unfortunately, neither type particularly cared for him, the long-haired representation of the irresponsibility of an undisciplined youth. Sure, he got along with his next door neighbors, his retired pediatrician and a nice young family with two kids in elementary school. But the rest merely stared down their noses at him, shuffling back into their houses and slamming the door, somehow amplifying the sound of the engaging deadbolt to let him know where he stood.
    Turning left into his driveway at the end of the circle, he made the first tracks in the pristine snow that had accumulated since they had all left in the morning. His mother taught social studies at the junior high level, his father an engineer for a large computer magnate based out of California. He could remember asking his father what exactly he did for a living, but the technical jargon had twisted his little mind into a knot, and he didn’t want to let on that he didn’t understand. All he knew was his old man seemed to like the job less and less with each passing year. His mother, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy her job most of the time. She was one of those who chose to teach, who felt as though she could make a difference in the lives of those who entered her classroom.
    His father, Greg Parker, was a very analytical man. His mind functioned in logical rhythms, taking him from point A to point B to point C, diagramming itself on a small chalkboard in his brain. He was highly driven, and had an overdeveloped sense of accountability, assuming responsibility for everything around him, regardless of whether or not he had any control over the situation at all. A poster boy for a bygone age, he was a short-haired hunter, full-time provider, and preached education as the cure to the ails of society. Dinner was on the table when he came home at night, and then he went straight up to the computer room to check on his stocks.
    His mother was more nurturing, more emotional. Like his father, she recalled an older era, tending to the house as though it was her sole mission, but at the same time a modern woman, working full-time trying to exert her influence on the world.
    But neither of them were home right now, nor would they be for quite a while.
    Flipping up the small plastic cover on the keypad mounted on the side of the garage door, he typed in his four-digit code and the garage opened right up for him. Ducking his head, he slipped under the rising door and crossed the empty garage to the door leading into the house. He stepped up onto the sole step leading into the family room and pressed the button on the opener, closing the door behind him, and stepped into the house.
    Striding across the family room, he scaled the stairs and turned into the foyer, taking another right, cruising up the stairs, and into his bedroom to the right. Grabbing a piece of paper from inside the desk in his room, he scrawled a quick note:
Mom-
Studying. Don’t disturb.
-Matt.
    Tearing a small piece of tape from the dispenser, he stuck it to the outside of his bedroom door and closed it, locking it from the inside. He tossed his backpack onto the bottom level of his unmade bunk bed. Grabbing onto the rail of the top bunk, he climbed up the side and knelt atop the mattress. Looking at the ceiling, he reached up with both hands and pressed up on the small square opening into the attic, sliding back the small white square of drywall, and ducking his head under the hole. Standing up, he braced his elbows on the wooden rafters and climbed up, sliding the cover back over the hole.
    Small lines of light filtered into the dusty attic from the seams around the vents through the roof, allowing him just enough visibility to find the box of matches he kept right next to the entrance. Sliding back the top of the box, he pulled out one of the light-anywhere matches, striking it with the tip of his thumbnail. It flared brightly, and he touched the flame to the wicks of the numerous candles melted into their holders in all four corners of the room. He blew out the match just as the searing heat of the fire hit his fingertips. A small corner of the attic had been unprofessionally finished. This had been his project over the last summer as he had all sorts of time to work with, what with having no friends or a girlfriend and all. 
    He had dragged the pieces of plywood up there, one at a time, laying them over the ceiling joists. Using old orange- and brown-striped paneling, he paneled the angled ceiling and blocked off a portion of the crawlspace from the rest of the house, making it his own private little room. He had found some foam padding and laid it beneath patchwork remnants of carpet. There was even a small lawn chair in either corner of the room, and a beanbag in the middle. Every available inch of the walls had been covered with posters and pictures cut from magazines of all of his favorite bands, and, of course, the obligatory pictures of bikini-clad women finding some way to get themselves wet. In the center of the room, right next to the bright blue beanbag, was a small stack of hardbound books, tattered strips of paper protruding from a hundred different locations within each tome. 
    Grabbing the closest candle, he carried it with him as he crawled beneath the low lying ceiling to the beanbag, setting it down right next to him on the white shag carpet and grabbing the book from the top of the stack. He stared down at the cover of the book; the black leather cover embossed in gold with a pentagram over the face of a bull. The corners of the cover were bent back, exposing the cardboard beneath, and the pages were yellowed, reeking of age. The title had faded from the cover and the embossing peeled readily back.
    It still had the original press date of 1968 stamped inside the front cover. All of the type was so tiny that he had to strain beside the candlelight to read it. There were old pictures every twenty pages or so, depicting the numerous faces of evil and the acts and rituals involved with those rites. Finding the latest of the numerous bookmarks dangling from the spine, he opened the book and held it close to his face.
    It had been a natural progression for him. Even before his life had begun to fall to shambles around him, he hadn’t been completely sold on his parents’ religion. He had far too many questions that no one could seem to answer without justifying it with the word “faith.” He envied those people who could just buy into the whole thing without doubts. The kind of people who stood around their piano as a family at the end of the night singing praise to Jesus, the kind of people who walked the neighborhood caroling every Christmas. The kind of people who always wore a smile on their faces, their glimmering eyes betraying the innocence captured within. But there was no way that he could be one of those people, the blissfully happy, either unaware of the pain in their lives, or able to rationalize it as the will of God.
    When his ostracision had first begun, he had begged God to help him. He had spent hours every night praying for an end to the ceaseless torment, but whether his pleas had fallen on deaf ears or the maker had chosen not to respond was unimportant. It was the fact that things only got worse. After months of crying out for help and receiving none, he had been forced to seek another option.
    At first, it had been little more than mere curiosity. He drew pictures of a horned monstrosity on his papers during class, and that alone had a small, yet noticeable effect. The weaker of his tormentors, those who hadn’t really yet committed to making it their life’s work to abuse him, backed off nicely, almost fearing him a little. It was such a positive start that rather than hiding out behind the school during lunch time, he had begun going to the library, beginning to read up on the occult. It was only a matter of days before he worked through the small handful of politically correct books at the school, and had to start going to the public library whenever he got a chance.
    The thought of hell no longer scared him. The way he saw it, nothing could possibly be worse than the life he currently led. He learned to hate, learned the power of the darkness, solely out of spite. It was all that he had. The thought that in some way—whether it be today or years down the road—he was going to make each and every one of those sons of bitches who made his life intolerable pay, was the only thing that kept him going. Were it not for his highly developed sense of revenge, he would have committed suicide long ago. It certainly would have saved him a lot of grief.
    But for the same reason that he couldn’t blindly buy into the existence of a God, he hadn’t been able to swallow the Christian concept of a devil either. There was no denying the existence of evil; that was evidenced in everyday life. Nor was there denying the presence of good, as it seemed to surround everyone he knew in some form or fashion… everyone except him. It wasn’t until he had come across this particular book that things had started to make some semblance of sense.
    Within the heavy, yellowing pages of the tome was what he considered to be the recipe for his own salvation. He had given up on trying to fit in with his classmates again, as over the last year it had become apparent that there was nothing he could do to accomplish that. Nothing he could think of had worked. Every guy seemed to want to pound him mercilessly to show their manhood and superiority in front of their buddies, and every girl shied away from him as though he were some sort of leper. 
    He clung tightly to the idea of at least assimilating himself back into everyday life, and while being blocked at every juncture, he had figured that at least he had one friend: Scott. Surely that would be enough to get him through the last year of his high school tenure. At least he had thought that until last week.
    For some reason that he couldn’t seem to grasp, Scott had been forgiven his part in the whole shower story. He had been hounded, just like Matt for a couple of months, but it had just seemed to stop for him one day, as if everyone else at school had gotten together and decided that he was off the hook. Though they had been best friends most of their lives, they had different identities at school. Matt was shuffled from one class to the next with the exact same thirty people. As part of the “talented and gifted” program, he was segregated from the rest of the student body. He was already cordoned off with the other freaks and brainiacs, making it increasingly easy to loathe him from the start. The main problem was that he had never really fit in there either. While he sat in the back of the class daydreaming about getting laid, the rest of his classmates competed to see who could memorize pi to the furthest decimal. They battled for scholarships on a daily basis, dueling with their perfect grade point averages, daring one another to mess up. It was an early encapsulation of corporate executive life, day in and day out, yet even they had to jump on the bandwagon, whispering “faggot” under their breaths, as none of them had the physical prowess to support their accusations.
    Scott, on the other hand, had classes with nearly every other kid in the school. He took grade appropriate classes and regular electives. Granted, Scott was more of an outgoing, get along type guy, but there was no reason for them to have let him off the hook, and singled Matt out. It had been a lot easier when it had been the two of them banished together.
    It was easy for Matt to understand how Scott really didn’t fight to come to his rescue, to change what all of the others thought of him. Knowing what it was like in his everyday life, if he found a way out of this tormented existence, he wouldn’t risk going back either. And he had been fine with the arrangement that they had; Scott just kind of ignored him in the presence of his other friends, Matt’s former friends, but would still hang out with him outside of school. At least until today.
    Instead of going to Calculus second period, Matt had decided to slip out the side door and just sit there beneath the overhang watching the snowflakes accumulating on the rooftops across the street. The parking lot monitors never turned him in, as they figured if the attendance office wasn’t smart enough to catch him, then he deserved to get away with it. He had just lit his cigarette when he heard someone press the handle of the door. Scrambling to his feet, he ducked around the corner, leaning against the small column of gray bricks that separated the recessed entryway from the long, ground level windows of the library.
    Taking one last quick drag off of his cigarette, he dropped it into the snow, holding the smoke in his chest until it grew stale. He could hear their voices distinctly, recognizing each one of them as though it were his own. There was the snapping and clicking of lighters as all three of them lit up at once, obviously having the same idea.
    “So what’s up with you talking to fagboy?” Jeremy asked, his lips pressed tightly around the filter of the smoke. The large, fluffy flakes were skewered atop his spiked brown hair. He always wore a black leather jacket and faded Levi’s; black converse “Chuck’s” duct-taped together, his shoes of choice.
    “Whatever, dude,” Scott said, exhaling loudly. “I’ve known him since I was seven years old. What does it matter to you if I say ‘hey’ to him?”
    “Nothing… if you want to be a freaking queer like that little worm,” Shane popped off, laughing so hard his smoke poured through his nostrils. He was the party guy, the one who kept the beer bong in his car. His eyes were always bloodshot, and he had a permanent little grin, the corners of his lips turned upwards, regardless of the situation. The grease monkey of the crew, he always wore a red, oil-spotted STP hat turned backwards and a flannel shirt, rolled at the cuffs.
    “Why don’t you guys give him a break?” Scott said, shaking his head.
    “Don’t tell me he’s turned you to the dark side,” Jeremy said, finishing with his Darth Vader breathing impression.
    “Whatever, man. You know as well as I do that he’s not gay. He’s just got more than his share of problems right now.”
    “Like being a queer,” Shane said, laughing.
    “I think it’s about time you just gave it a rest.”
    “Or maybe you’re just turning into one of them like him.”
    “Maybe we should just kick your ass right here and now,” Jeremy said, stepping up and blowing smoke right into Scott’s face.
    “So the dude’s gay,” Scott said, backing down. “So what?”
    Matt’s teeth began to grind, tearing at the soft tissue on the inside of his cheeks. His fists clenched at his sides and he wanted nothing more than to whirl around the corner and start swinging.
    “No, he’s a fucking faggot and I want to hear you say it,” Jeremy said.
    “What’s that going to accomplish? You got a thing for semantics?”
    “Only faggots use words like semantics. Say it or I’ll figure you’re queer too.”
    “Okay fine,” Scott said, dropping his smoke to the concrete and stamping it beneath his black high tops. “He’s a fucking faggot.”
    “There,” Shane said, throwing his arm over Scott’s shoulder. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
    Scott just shook his head and shrugged. He opened the door and went back into the building on his way to class.
    “I think the time has come to settle this thing once and for all,” Shane said.
    “I think you’re right.”
    “Perhaps an encounter is warranted.”
    “Scott will never agree to it.”
    “If we set it up as some sort of reconciliation party, I’m sure he’ll go along with it.”
    “Reconciliation party?”
    “Yeah, we meet somewhere, talk for a few minutes and then beat the stuffing out of him.”
    “Show him what we think of faggots in our school. You know what I’m saying?”
    “I hear you. What say we make it happen?”
    “Done deal. When?”
    “No time like the present. Let’s set it up for tomorrow night.”
    There was a pause and Matt could hear them high five each other from around the corner.
    “This is going to be too fun,” Shane said, opening the door. “Should I bring my video camera?”
    “That would be sweet,” Jeremy said, his voice disappearing behind the closing door.
A tear crept from the corner of Matt’s eye as he sat there in the darkened attic.
    A burst of cold air blasted him from the gap around the vent above. He set the book face-down in his lap and closed his eyes, rehearsing the passage he had just read. The cold wind grew and intensified around him, swirling through the dank air. It took on a life of its own. One by one the flames atop the candles blew out, the wind racing faster and faster, whistling in the blackened confines of the attic. Still he pinched his eyelids closed tightly, the howling wind metamorphosing with each lap around the attic. The whistling changed from a high-pitched whir that made the wooden supports around him creak noisily, into something more resembling human voices, tortured and twisting as they finally came to rest in different corners of the room, the unseen figures hiding in the darkness.
    He could feel them all around him, crouching in the pitch black, their eyes fixed intently on him. His fingers trembled with anticipation and his heart pounded so loudly in his chest that it was all that he could hear, until the sound of footsteps, creeping along the plywood floor aroused him from his trance.
    Thrusting his eyelids back, he pawed at the floor, frantically trying to find his matches so that he could re-light the candles and get even the slightest glimpse of what he had been waiting for so long to see. He could feel them, there in the darkness with him; their aging brimstone-soaked breath heavy on the hackles on his neck. Fear welled in his heaving chest. There was the slightest moment of doubt, one fleeting instant where he wondered if what he was about to do was the right thing. It wasn’t like he was selling his soul. That archaic concept was almost amusing. If it had been as easy as signing his name in blood on the dotted line of some contract, he would have done that long ago and lived his life out like a rock star. But as no one had come to his door, offering his or her legal representation in contractual matters, he was going to have to do it the hard way. 
    The box of matches rattled as his fingertips glanced off of it, before he finally gripped the box tightly in his fist and raised it in front of him, sliding back the cover and producing one of the wooden sticks. Pressing the tip of his thumbnail onto the surface, he prepared to snap the white tip, when suddenly, a bright yellow flame burst to life before his very eyes.
    The candle on the floor in front of him sat burning right next to the black leather-bound book, the flame crackling, bouncing higher and higher until it was as long as the candlestick itself. Voices from the corners of the attic filled his ears, whispering words that he couldn’t understand, their speech rhythmic. They repeated the same indecipherable phrase over and over. His eyes scanned the darkened sanctuaries of shadows around him, hoping for the slightest glimpse of the creatures that lurked within, but all he could see was the thick, ever darkening blackness that pulsated from the walls toward the center of the room.  
    He could feel the presence of many different entities, could hear their weight shifting on the plywood beneath the thick carpet pad. 
    The temperature in the room suddenly began to drop, and there was a loud crack that Matt felt as much as he heard. The bridge of his nose began to throb, his eyes watering mercilessly. A thin stream of warm, red fluid spilled from his right nostril, racing over his upper lip and dropping onto the cover of the book in front of him.
    Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Like a dripping faucet, the blood splashed one drop at a time onto the black leather. The yellow light from the candle snapped from one side to the other before fading to a dark shade of crimson, washing the walls with the deep red. The shadows began to writhe in ecstasy. 
    The pooling blood atop the cover slowly began to expand, the running liquid swirling until it matched the shape of the pentagram, hiding the gold embossing beneath the blood. Unable to rip his eyes from it, Matt cocked his head and allowed his jaw to fall slack.
    “Help me,” he whispered, shining tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “Please.”
    “What is it that you want?” a thin, cracking voice said from somewhere in the bleeding darkness around him.
    Matt’s heart stopped in his chest for a moment and he had to force his lungs to start to breathe once again. The hairs on the backs of his arms and neck stood tall, aching dully.    Whetting his lips, his tongue smacked dryly. He peered into every shadow, hoping for a glimpse of whomever, or whatever, had spoken.
    “I need your help,” he said quietly, staring down at his trembling hands as he attempted to steady them on his knees.
    There was no answer, only the sound of the rustling of bodies across the carpeted floor and along the hollow paneled walls.
    “I want them to feel what I feel,” Matt started, the quiver in his voice vanishing as elaborated. “I want them to feel the hell they have put me through. I want them to know what it’s like to wake up every morning wishing that you hadn’t. I want them to… I want them to…”
    “To what?” the voice said, the heat from the creature’s breath right in his ear.
    “I want them all to die.”
    The darkness around him began to press in closer, smothering the light of the flame. There was the scratching of nails on the paneling and the wind kicked up in the crawlspace once again. Warm bodies brushed up against him, racing from one side of the enclosure to the other. Batting his eyes, he struggled to see anything in the darkness.
    Fingernails tore at his clothing, scraping the flesh beneath. Unseen hands grabbed at his face, tugged at his hair. The room filled with swirling bodies, buffeting him from side to side as they raced the room in circles, over and over until…  
    Everything stopped at once. The flame from the candle sprung back out of the wick. The shadows retreated to the corners.
    Matt wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. There was no streak of blood across his flesh. He stared down at the cover of the book, but there was no blood on it either.
    Had he just dreamed up the whole thing? Was it all just some flight of fancy?
    Shaking his head, Matt grabbed the book and tossed it against the wall. Hitting the base of the paneling, it slid beneath and into the pink insulation. He stared into his lap for a moment before finally snapping out of his trance with a long sigh and a chuckle. 
    Grabbing the lip of the drywall to his left, he blew out the candle and started to open the trap door to his bedroom below.
    The shadows came at him with a fury and incomprehensible speed, peeling back his flesh as though it were paper mache. His back arched as he buckled in half, his head slamming onto the ground behind him. Frigid air forced its way down his opened mouth, silencing the screams that welled within. Bucking back and forth, his neck made of rubber, his eyes rolled backward into his head and his arms hung limply at his sides. Finally, his whole body collapsed to the floor with a thud, the air seeping from his lungs like a leaking balloon.
    He lay there for what must have been hours, his mind functioning only in fragmented spurts. A wave of warmth washed through his body from the inside out, resonating at the tips of his fingers and toes. His body felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds. It took considerable effort to rise to a seated position. 
He sat there, a line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth, falling with a small splat onto his jeans.
    There were a thousand voices in his head now, some whispering, some screaming, all of them fighting to be heard. Placing his hands on his ears, Matt tried to settle them, to regain some semblance of order in his shattered mind. A warm sensation pulsed through his veins, electric, throbbing from deep within the core of his being. It rose through his veins, his muscles burning beneath the skin. 
    His shaking hands tugged at the cover to the crawlspace, sliding it back. Leaning over the hole, he fell through, landing in a heap on the mattress of the top bunk bed. Rolling onto his side, he could feel every muscle in his body as they swelled, pressing against the suit of flesh that was suddenly far too tight. His lids pinched tightly shut as his eyeballs threatened to pop out of his head from the pressure. His brains swelled against his skull to the point that he feared that gray matter would begin to seep out of his ears. 
    Pressing his hands tightly against the sides of his head, he bared his teeth against the pain. Flopping from one side to the other, he battled against the intense, searing fire that pumped through his bloodstream. Even the thin air in the room was torturous against his sensitive nerve endings. Tears streamed from his clenched eyes. The voices chattered louder and louder, grinding out his own thoughts within his mind, until all at once… everything stopped.
    Slowly, Matt rolled back his eyelids and stared into the dark room. The clock atop the shelf next to his bed burned bright red. 2:35 a.m. His brow creased as he worked the quick math. He had been in the attic for nearly eleven hours, the time passing as though it had been a mere twenty minutes. Pangs of hunger roared in his stomach as he sat up and dangled his feet over the edge of the bed.
    He could sense the presence of the voices in his head, hiding deep in the recesses of his mind, thundering from one invisible corner to the next. They were quiet all right, but the pressure was still there, burrowing into his cranial tissue. There was an overwhelming sense of warmth, as though from an unseen sun, covering every inch of his body. 
    His heartbeat slowly returned to normal and he rolled onto his stomach, dropping his feet onto the bottom bunk and hopping down to the floor. Pulling back the curtains, he stared out into the night. The cloud-drenched sky appeared a deep gray, muffling the thin glow of the moon. The snow still fell with enormous flakes, burying the row of pines that lined the back yard. Through the small walkway between them, he could see the trampoline hidden beneath close to a foot of powder. There was something else out there as well.
    A long shadow crossed the pristine plain of snow on the lawn. It moved slowly, creeping across the grass until it was out in the open. A large buck stepped into the gap. Turning, it appeared to stare straight up into his bedroom window, its glowing eyes reflecting a bright gold from the vaporous light above. It just stared at him, motionless for a moment, its huge five-point rack silhouetted like matching dead trees against the white-capped hedges. 
    His eyes locked on those of the stag and he felt himself drawn into the deep gaze of the animal. The world around him ceased to exist, at least for the moment. A sense of comfort, of understanding, washed over him as his own voice joined the others within his brain, no longer dominant. His mind was empty of conscious thought. The only sound was the muffled whisperings of all of the voices at once, calling to him from the depths of his skull.  
    Turning back into the night, the stag bounded over the fence and into the field behind his house, disappearing into the masses of scrub oak. 
    Matt could still feel the animal, though, out there in the frigid darkness, calling to him from out of the blackened night.
    Nodding to himself, Matt turned and walked through his bedroom, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. A note that had been attached to his door fell onto the rust-colored carpet. Picking it up, he just stared at it for a moment, the words just jumbles of letters, his mind unable to decipher the writings on it. Dropping it back to the floor, he walked down the hallway and down the stairs onto the main level. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he passed the kitchen and stumbled down the next flight of carpeted stairs into the darkened family room.
    The deep black shapes of the large, fluffy couches crouched in the center of the room. He had to dodge them to get to the garage door. Throwing it back hard enough to bang against the wall, he gripped the side of the door for a moment before stepping down into the garage.
    There wasn’t a conscious thought in his head. He was working purely on instinct now. Whatever had been in there—call it a soul or a mind or whatever you like—was no longer there. He was a hollow shell, unthinking, unfeeling, skulking through the pitch black within the garage.    Sliding past the Bronco and into the third garage, he walked straight to the tall, wooden cabinet next to the workbench. Reaching toward the high shelf above the table, he fumbled past a can of WD- 40, grabbing a small stack of keys on thin rings. Holding the mass of keys in his right hand, he dropped them onto the floor one by one until he found the small set of two identical keys that he wanted, gripping them tightly between his thumb and forefinger and shoving them into the lock on the closet door. With a click, he popped the lock, looped it through the holes, and tossed it onto the concrete floor.
    Opening the hollow wooden door, he reached within, his right hand grasping the well-oiled steel of the barrel of his shotgun. Bringing it to his body, he cradled it beneath his left arm and walked to the back of the garage to another row of closets. Opening the middle one, he pulled out a small metal box. Taking it back to the workbench, he shoved aside the clutter of tools and set it down. Throwing back the lid, he reached inside and pulled out a small rectangular, gray cardboard box. Tearing back the flaps, he pulled out three bright red shotgun shells and headed back towards the inside door.
    He slipped the first two shells into the bottom of the shotgun, and then pressed the small lever beside the trigger guard, and shucked one into the chamber. He crammed the third shell into the gun. Opening the door into the house, he walked straight through the doorway and into the family room, oblivious to the fact that he hadn’t even closed the door.
    Up the stairs he bounded, two at a time, stopping at the top of the stairs to glance out the sliding glass door in the kitchen to the left. But there was nothing out there… nothing but the snow.
    Whirling, he crossed the foyer, turning onto the stairs and bounding up them. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath the plush carpeting. He passed the bathroom, turning down the long hall that led back to his mother and father’s bedroom. He slowed his pace, watching his shadow as it appeared on the bedroom door in front of him. Reaching out, he pushed the door inward. The hinges made a slight whine as he brushed past, standing at the base of the king-sized bed.
    There was no Matt inside of his head now. There was nothing resembling conscious thought. His body was a vessel, coursing with the evil that enveloped every living tissue within. Matt was merely the smallest of the voices in the back of his mind, drowned out by all of the others that now swelled in unison, crying for blood.
    This was not what he wanted… not what he wanted at all.
    His body leapt up onto the bed with both feet, the mattress bouncing beneath him. He raised the stock to his shoulder and fired twice. Brilliant flashes of light pulsated in the darkened room, one, and then another, the deafening report echoing explosively, resonating deep within his brain. 
    Hopping down off the bed, he could feel warm fluids running down his face, the bare skin of his arms. He smiled, the coppery blood dripping over his lips and onto his exposed teeth. Bounding down the hall, he turned into the bathroom, resting the gun beside the opened door. He kicked his shoes against the far wall of the bathroom, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Yanking his shirt over his head, he tossed it onto the floor with a wet slap and began to hop out of his jeans, allowing them to lie in a pile in the middle of the carpeted floor.
    He cranked the knobs on the faucet and the water burst from the showerhead, splattering against the back wall. Shedding his underwear and socks, he hopped into the hot stream of water and began to rinse the thick, red fluids from his body. A small tear appeared for an instant in the corner of his right eye, the hot water washing that tear, and whatever else was left of Matt within that body, down the drain.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART THREE


III

Friday, November 12th
6:20 am


    Matt pulled a long sleeved black shirt over his head, forcing his arms all the way through the cuffs. There was a large green lizard, a basilisk, on the center of his shirt. It had a sail-like green casque on its head, back, and tail; a bright red eye set in the center of its face. Grabbing his well-worn Falcons cap from where it hung on the post of his bed, he slipped it over his damp hair, turning it backwards and bending the rim just how he liked it.
    Turning, he stepped out into the hallway, passing the room where his parents still lay lifeless in their bed, their warm fluids cooling as they soaked into the mussed covers. There was no expression on his vacant face, his eyes fixed directly ahead, unblinking. Shuffling along the hall, he eased down the stairs into the entranceway. He stopped at the front door, opening the closet just to the right and pulling a jacket off of the rack, his backpack from the floor. Closing the door, he slid back the deadbolt and opened the front door, stepping out beneath the overhang onto the gray slate-tiled front porch.
    The sun rose behind the thick storm clouds, the snow falling even more heavily than it had been for the last twenty-four hours. The snowplows had been out working all through the night, shoving the amassed accumulation from the roads into high piles at either curb, coating the scraped layer of ice with a thin dusting of sand and gravel. Falling flakes swirled and danced off of the warming roads, a thin layer of fog hanging just beneath the amber glow of the street lamps. 
    There was only the vaguest outline of the mountains straight ahead of him against the slowly lighting sky as he walked down the front stairs and onto the driveway. The flakes battered his face, slamming coldly against his exposed skin, freezing there momentarily before turning to liquid on his fiery-hot flesh.
    He turned right and walked straight down the street toward his bus stop, not the stop he had been using for the last two months, but the one closest to his house, just at the end of the culdesac. 
    He could see them, standing there on the sidewalk, the shapes of their bodies just darkened silhouettes beneath the early morning sky. As he drew near, he could hear their muffled voices trail off as they all turned to watch him approach. Shouldering right up to them, he stared off towards the hill to his left, the rumbling sound of the bus’s engine echoing up from the valley below. They began to talk again, whether directly to him or to each other he couldn’t tell. Their words just floated up above him into the thin air.
    The yellow top of the bus appeared, cresting the hill, a cloud of exhaust swarming from behind and then engulfing them as it rolled to a grinding halt. The stop sign behind the door on the side of the bus swung out with the squeak, the two red, circular lights flashing as the door popped inward.
    Matt clambered right up the steps and past the driver who stared at him momentarily, trying to place his face. He sat down in the first seat to his left, tossing his backpack beside him on the green vinyl. He stared straight ahead, watching the others as they passed him, looking directly into his face, his hollow eyes appearing to see right through them.
    Slowly, the bus began to inch forward, fighting for traction on the icy road, before finally gripping and heading east, turning right down the enormous hill that led out of his neighborhood. There were still two more stops to be made before finally heading off to the school. Matt had receded back into his mind, allowing everything that went on around him to fade into a mere scene that rolled in front of his eyes like a movie, involving him so little that he barely noticed the rest of the world around him.
    Each person to board the bus stared scrutinizingly at him before passing to find a seat. He could hear the voices growing louder and louder, the driver turning up the volume on the radio in an effort to drown them out. Small wads of paper nailed him in the back of the head, bouncing off and falling innocuously to the floor. He didn’t even feel them. He just stared straight ahead through the large front windshield of the bus, watching as the large flakes of snow swirled in front of the large yellow mass of metal that rocketed across the frozen roads. A thin smile traced the course of his lips, his eyes narrowing to slits.
    Today was going to be a good day.
    The ride passed in the blink of an eye, and before he knew it, they had crossed the Air Force Academy and were pulling up in the large parking lot behind the gray brick school. The door opened with a pop and a whine. The driver settled back in the seat and stared out the side window at the other drivers who stood outside of the busses, swilling steaming mugs of coffee in a small circle as they prepared for the return trip back to the school district staging grounds east of town.
    All of the students clambered off the bus, passing Matt as he just sat there, still staring through the now frosted glass. A handful of bookbags slammed against the back of his head, resonating through his skull, but it didn’t faze him in the slightest. His smile widened as he slowly rose, passing the driver who didn’t even look up. Easing down the stairs, he stepped out into the snow. The wind ripped at him from around the bus, whistling between the buildings as he crossed the ice-covered parking lot and headed toward the main doors of the school.
    Hundreds of other kids shoved past him, hurriedly stumbling to their lockers to situate themselves before the first class of the day. Matt just walked straight ahead, the grin etched crisply across his jaw. He could hear the voices of those who passed, taunting him, ridiculing him. The voices came from faces that he knew, as well as from those he didn’t, but the words didn’t even permeate the inner sanctum of his brain. He was impervious to anything they said to him, just turning to glance at them, a blank stare and a twisting smile his only retort.
    The white-tiled floors were slick with brown, slushy footprints. Traction was tedious, but he just pressed on, walking slowly through the dimly-lit halls toward his locker, making eye contact with everyone and no one at the same time.
    He was liberated. Not only could he not hear the words as they were thrown at him from every direction, but he no longer cared. He was of singular focus. Nothing mattered at all. His gaze just crossed them and he willingly accepted the fact that each and every one of these people was going to die. Many of them by his hand. They could snarl and shout and shove all they liked, but it no longer got beneath his skin. The words just bounced off as he entertained the mental visions of their demise, their bodies lying broken and bleeding in the blackness of his mind. 
    And it all starts today.
    His smile widened at that thought. He popped open his locker and shoved his backpack inside, not even bothering to pull anything out or to grab any books. He just slammed the chipping, blue-painted door of the locker closed and headed down the hallway toward the courtyard. Pressing the lever on the door, he walked out onto the cement patio enclosed between the four separate buildings of the school. A cluster of students lingered in the center by a large metal trashcan, smoking and playing hackey sack. Killing time before the first bell that signaled the start of the day. He pressed past vacuous faces as they hurried to their classes; books tucked beneath their arms and cradled to their chests; heads down to keep the swirling snow out of their eyes.
    Matt passed them all without even noticing as he crossed the courtyard, past the one lone deciduous tree that grew from a small patch of dirt in the middle of the concrete, and entered the building at the far end. Bounding down the staircase, he took the first right down a long, darkened hallway, heading straight for the door at the far end. He could see them through the thin, rectangular windows in the doors, huddled off to the side, a cloud of smoke lingering around them in the small cement cove, out of the wind and snow.
    His heart began to pound in anticipation, his pulse thudding in his ears. Widening almost painfully for a moment, he forced his smile to fade and gripped the metal bar on the door. Shoving it with a clank, he opened the door and stepped out into the swirling wind.
    They all turned to stare at him at once. By the surprised looks on their faces as they either tucked their cigarettes behind their backs or tossed them off into the snow, they hadn’t even seen him coming. There were five of them out there, just as he knew there would be. Scott leaned against the wall to his left; finally exhaling the drag that surprise had lodged in his lungs. Shane Corso was to his left, his wide eyes slowly narrowing. He pulled another smoke from his pack to replace the one he had thrown behind the building. 
    Jeremy Willis hovered straight ahead of him, looking him up and down. He produced the cigarette he had been hiding behind his back, cocking his head and clenching his jaw. Brian James and Tim Williams leaned against the wall to Matt’s right in their almost identical, matching black leather jackets, both wearing a look of surprise.
    “Well, well,” Shane said, stepping forward and standing nose to nose with Matt. “If it isn’t the king faggot himself. What are you doing out here, butt pirate? I thought you knew better than to come out here where we straight guys hang. Shouldn’t you be in the bathroom watching guys peeing or something?”
    Matt just looked at him and smiled. In his mind, he could see Shane’s battered body. Blood stained his dark blonde hair, matting it to his dented forehead. His tongue hung limply over the edge of his mouth, his jaggedly broken teeth punching through it as it swelled with the red fluid that ran down his chin and into the collar of his shirt. He could see his own hand, slicing at the flesh on Shane’s face as he grabbed hold of the lip of skin and started to peel…
    “Come on guys,” Scott said, interrupting his thoughts.
    “You standing up for Liberace here,” Shane said, preparing to step even further forward to bump Matt in the chest with his own. “Just because you…”
    He stopped mid-sentence as Jeremy grabbed him by the arm. Shane whirled and fired him a look, and with a slight nod, turned back to Matt with a smirk.
    “You know,” Shane said, taking a step back and throwing his arms out to his sides. “This has gotten a little out of hand. We all used to be friends here. Maybe we should, you know…”
    “Let bygones be bygones,” Jeremy added, stamping the yellowed butt of his smoke beneath his heel. “I’d say it’s been long enough.”
    “What are you talking about?” Brian interrupted. “Dude’s a pillow bit—”
    Shane shot him an icy glare, and his words dropped. He just stared down at his snow-covered hightops.
    “Jeremy’s right,” Shane said, a forced, toothy grin crossing his face beneath his lowered brow. “It’s been long enough.”
    “Can I talk to you guys?” Scott asked quietly. He stared suspiciously at them, a puzzled look etched into his face.
    “Don’t sweat it, Scott,” Shane said, his attempt at a pleasant, reassuring glance looking more like the wild-eyed stare of the deranged.
    “What we need,” Jeremy said, stepping up, “is someplace private, where we can all just sit down and talk this through. I think enough time has passed that we should all just be able to put this behind us and move on.”
    He gave Shane a quick glance, and the two smiled in unison.
    “Really?” Scott said, carefully studying them, attempting to verify their intent.
    “Oh, yeah,” Shane said, nodding. “After all, we’re going to graduate soon and then all go our separate ways. Why not make the last six months as easy on all of us as possible, and why not try to have some fun in the process?”
    “Sounds good,” Matt said, his eyes thinned to slivers, his grin unflinching. “Let’s meet today, get this thing settled once and for all.”
    Immensely pleased with themselves, Shane and Jeremy beamed. Tim and Brian looked at each other, definitely out of the loop on this one, but they were willing to go along with whatever, so they just leaned back against the wall and lit up another smoke.
    The first bell rang painfully above their heads, echoing around them in the small cement cove. Tim and Brian turned and walked around the corner, heading around the buildings on their way to class so that they could finish their smokes along the way.
    “How about we meet at Solstice around eight,” Matt said, staring through Shane and Jeremy, one at a time.
    “That old abandoned house out by the convent? Sounds like a great place to meet,” Shane said, turning to Jeremy. “Sound good to you?”
    “Perfect,” Jeremy said, his grin widening. He nodded slowly. “Perfect.”
    “Eight o’clock then,” Matt said, whirling and opening the door.
    He could see Scott’s reflection in the window in the middle of the door, staring quizzically at the other two. 
    Walking back down the hall, Matt shouldered through the clusters of students lazily lingering outside of their classrooms trying to take advantage of the last three minutes remaining before the start of the school day. Matt just walked by, refusing to acknowledge their presence with a single glance as he turned and ascended the staircase, bursting through the door into the courtyard. He walked straight through the thinning herds of students. There were only a couple of long-haired hoods in the smoking circle, finishing off the last of their butt as they lamented the start of yet another punitive school day.
    Yanking open the door at the end of the yard, he walked straight to his locker and opened it, producing his backpack from within. Slinging it over his shoulder, he strutted straight toward the front doors of the building, tugging the zipper on his black leather jacket down. He turned backward into the door, pressing the bar with his rear end to open it.
    “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Parker?” the principal said, rounding the corner and staring at Matt, his hand on his hip.
    Matt shook his head and popped the door open with a thrust of his hips. He placed three fingers above his right brow and saluted as he ducked out the front door and into the blowing snow, the wind threatening to rip his cap straight off of his head.
    “Matthew Parker,” the principal snapped, following him out the door, his graying hair blowing straight up in the wind, the snow sticking to his thick gray mustache. “You get back here right now!”
    Matt kept on walking, straight through the small, half-circle parking lot in front of the school reserved for the administration’s parking. He stepped up onto the snow-covered sidewalk and strode directly toward the long wall of evergreens close to a hundred yards dead ahead.
    “I’m going to have to call your parents!” the principal raged after him into the storm.
    Matt smiled and shook his head before bounding off the sidewalk and into the thick, uneven buffalo grass buried beneath six inches of snow, which covered his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans. Finding a small break in the line of foliage, he slipped past the sharp needles and onto a thin path that wound through the foothills, rising and falling as it made its way through Woodmen Valley.
    He was getting to know this path like the back of his hand. Whenever things started to get really tough at school, to the point where he could no longer bear the thought of another second within those pale white walls, he just wrote a letter of excuse from his mother and split. He had learned to duplicate her handwriting faultlessly, and those letters had gotten him out of many days, especially recently. And as he had no car and was in the middle of the Air Force Academy, he had been forced to learn his own route home.
    The woods were thick, pines and other evergreens pressing against one another, darkening the floor beneath, save for the small gaps of light that filtered through the canopy where the skeletal aspens broke the thick green of the walls of needles. The Rocky Mountains loomed over the tips of the trees directly to the right, the winding path heading straight up a steep, muddy slope. 
    He recognized this spot. His first time walking this route he had tripped and fallen straight down the hill, the books in his backpack jamming into his ribs from behind as he landed in a twisted pile of humanity at the bottom. Learning from the experience, he had figured out a pattern to the tree trunks, allowing him to brace his feet on one to leap to the other.
    Reaching the crest of the hill, he stared down into the small valley below. There was a stream in the very bottom; the surface all but frozen solid, hiding the thin line of water trickling beneath. He was halfway there now; just one more large hill to surpass and he would be there, in the next valley beyond. It was this spot where the Air Force property met with the private landowners beyond. Cadets used this path to slip off of the Academy at night when they couldn’t secure passes, showing up at high school parties and hitting on everything in a skirt. At first it was more than annoying, these older guys showing up from out of nowhere and stealing their dates and what not. But he could understand the allure. An older, college aged, brawny-type guy had to be awfully appealing to a sixteen or seventeen year old girl whose other options consisted of a bunch of scrawny high school kids who drank Keystone straight from the tap, smoking pot from a crumpled tin can. But he hated them. Half of the girls in his school were wearing engagement rings their senior year, most of them destined for heartbreak after they graduated and found out that their rings were nothing more than a tool used by horny Cadets to get what they wanted.
    Standing atop the jagged formation of rocks on the summit of the hill, Matt stared down into Woodmen Valley. The wind hummed from the mountains above, the snow blowing straight to his left as it raced down the slope. A white, sparkling layer of snow covered the pastures below, the road invisible in the middle. Off to his left, a small cluster of houses sat in the middle of the woods atop the hill, enormous piles of dirt every quarter mile or so as developers dug holes for foundations. Before long, the whole valley would be full of houses.
    At the bottom of the hill, cradled beneath a cluster of trees, an abandoned white house beckoned to him. It was the house that they called “Solstice.” He wasn’t sure who named the house or why, but he speculated that it was the most menacing name some drunken buffoon could come up with on short notice, the only word he knew having to do with witchcraft. The house was said to be filled with evil. Rumors had it a family was hacked to pieces in there, and tunnels ran from the basement all the way to Manitou Springs. Devil worshippers supposedly used those tunnels to drag their sacrifices to and from the convent, which served as their base of operations for the evil they wrought.
    All of those stories amused Matt, as the convent had been purchased by private investors and remodeled. It was now a nursing home, and the furthest thing from evil that he had ever seen. Granted, death was surely no stranger to the old castle, but more in a housekeeper-type role than as the sickle-wielding stalker of darkness.
    Matt bounded down the hill, hitting the meadow at a dead sprint. 
    The muscles in his legs ached from dragging his heavy feet through the thick snow. He hadn’t slept at all since the night before last. He was growing increasingly weary, physically, with each passing second, yet his flesh tingled with anticipation. His heart pounded and his mind raced, already beginning to plan the night that he had waited his entire life for, the night where he would fulfill what he hoped was his destiny.
    Standing in front of the house, he stared at the cracking paint on the exposed wood. One of the windows on the front of the house had been broken and boarded up, but all of the others were still in working order. There was a brand new lock box on the front door, making it impossible to turn the knob, but that really didn’t matter, as he and all of his friends knew how to get in anyway. 
    There was something about the house, almost a life energy, drawing its pulse from the land around it. It resonated darkness. The air about it always seemed a few degrees cooler, the wind not daring to touch its crumbling exterior. There was something inside of it, something that made his hands tremble and his heart begin to pound every time he got near to it.
    He was filled with a brimming sense of longing. All he wanted to do was get in there and set things up the way he wanted them... and then bring on the night. There was someone, something behind the walls, waiting for him, watching him, or perhaps it was the house itself. Either way, he knew that there was something else around him, wishing for the darkness to fall.
    The whole house emanated evil. It was a coppery taste on the tongue, a stagnant smell in the senses, a cold, yet fiery sensation that raised the hackles on the arms and caused the head to ache.
    He was home.
    Wandering around the left side of the house, he kicked at the snow drifted up against the bowing wood, clearing a path to find the small cellar window. Kneeling, he scraped at the ice surrounding the framed glass until he was able to pry up the window. Lowering himself to his belly, he slipped beneath the glass and into the pitch-black basement. He grabbed onto the sill of the window and lowered himself to the dirt floor.
    Thin lines of water ran down the cement walls onto the dampened earth floor. Drops of water echoed through the empty room as they fell from the cracked floorboards into the puddles eroded into the ground. It smelled like a combination of wet moss and mildew, the dust lingering only long enough to form the cobwebs that swayed gently overhead from the ceiling.
    There was an ancient furnace next to a small hot water heater at the base of the stairs ahead. Neither had seen a spark of electricity in more than two decades the way he saw it, and somehow were coated with the dirt from the floor around them. A small circle of black beckoned to him from behind the furnace. It was a small tunnel, rumored to be the one that led straight across town beneath the city. Once, he had crawled inside and shimmied his way about five feet before being overwhelmed by the nearly paralyzing swell of claustrophobia and had been forced to hastily retreat. He always meant to bring a flashlight along, but until today, none of the stops here had really ever been planned.
    Over the course of the last year he had spent a lot of time here, making it almost like a home away from home. No one ever bothered him here, leaving him to sit on the floor and read as much as he wanted, but his favorite past time was just studying the house. Every nook and cranny told a different story, every faded bit of graffiti dating itself. He often tried to picture exactly what was going on at the time of the writings, but every time he did, it was something different.
    Feeling along the wall with his right hand, Matt eased toward the stairs leading up to the floor above. His footfalls echoed hollowly in the dingy room, the steps creaking, threatening to crack into splinters beneath his weight.
    A thin ray of light blinded him from beneath the door to the kitchen as he ascended. Shoving open the door, he stood in the empty room. Piles of plaster lined the baseboards from where they had fallen in chunks from the walls. The wooden joists inside the walls peeked through every few feet, the frayed wiring visible within the recesses of the aging walls. Something moved within tattered gaps, something alive, scurrying through the piles of dust and debris. No one had ever seen them, anything living at all within this house, but they were always there, scraping at the inside of the drywall, powdering its chalky surface.
    Most of the linoleum had been peeled back and scattered throughout the house in small flaps, the plywood floor dusty and dirt-crusted where it had once been. Every footstep banged loudly, echoing back at him from the cellar below. The door to the refrigerator lay on its side, leaned up against the wall, but the rest of the unit was nowhere in sight. The cabinets had all been ripped off of the walls and nothing but a long u-shaped, rusted pipe protruding from the wall betrayed the fact that there had ever been running water. Spray-painted words covered the walls, and Matt was sure that by now he knew what all of them said by heart, so he no longer needed to read them.
    Stepping through the kitchen, he stood at the entranceway to the bedroom to the left. Everyone called this the “bee room,” as every inch of floor was covered with a half-inch thick layer of dead bees. He preferred the term “dead room.” It amused him, at least.
    Without raising his feet, he shuffled into the room, moving the bees in growing piles in front of his wet shoes, careful not to crunch even a single body. Whatever had caused them to die, and in that fashion, the last thing that he wanted to do was to ruin the perfection of it. He cleared a small circle in the center of the room and sat down, Indian style, right in the center. Pulling his backpack from over his shoulder, he set it in his lap and unzipped it. Carefully, he excised each item from the bag, one by one, lining them up side by side as he inspected them, preparing to set everything up just the way that he imagined it for the night.
    Producing a large, sharp, black-handled kitchen knife, he watched the light shine from the finely-honed blade. He brought it in front of his face, his own reflection staring back at him. He laid it on the floor, perfectly perpendicular to his lap, and reached back into the bag. Pulling out a bundle of steak knives bound together with rubber bands, he separated them and set them side by side with the first knife. There was a large wooden mallet, a meat tenderizer, its hitting surfaces covered with jagged metal caps.
    There was a pair of handheld garden shears, the blackened cutting surface practiced and razor sharp. And finally, at the right end of the display, he laid his father’s hunting knife. The handle was crafted out of bone. There was a small picture of an elk whittled into the core, the long blade slightly arched, the back edge serrated with a jagged, ripping edge. It had been handed down through his family for generations, rumored to have been crafted by his great, great grandfather who had been a trapper and skin trader while the country had expanded west. He held it in his hand, turning it over and over, balancing its weight in the center of his palm. A crooked smile raced across his chapped lips.
    Nodding to himself, Matt climbed onto his knees and slid the line of steak knives beneath the bees right in front of him, burying the blades beneath a thin layer of exoskeletons. Even though the bees had been dead for quite some time, as evidenced by the complete lack of innards within their hollow, crunchy corpses, their stingers were still fully intact and functional. They broke off painfully in the backs of his hands while he covered the knives.
    Pulling the rows of stingers from the reddening flesh on his hands, he dropped them to the floor and clambered back to his feet. He bundled up the rest of his tools and cradled them beneath his arm. Turning, he traced his footsteps back out of the room and into the kitchen. 
    On the far wall, there was a large hole in the drywall, exposing the wooden support beams halfway up from the floor. Reaching inside, he deposited the shears within, steadying them in place with the frayed electrical wiring. Smacking the wall to make sure the shears stayed where he had placed them, he whirled and descended into the basement once again. 
    The wooden tenderizing mallet wedged perfectly between the handrail on the stairs and the wall, pinning there so that it wouldn’t fall, but at the same time it would be relatively easy to just grab it and begin hammering. He placed the black-handled knife atop the hot water heater amidst the thick dust and spider webs. Inching across the blackened room, he turned the bone-handled knife over and over in his hands as he pondered the best location. This spot had to be just perfect, as he knew deep within that this knife was destined for something special. It had to be in the right place at the right time for its use, and if it wasn’t, the whole thing could fall apart. 
    There was something calling to him from the pitch black of the back of the room. The darkness moved and writhed as though with a life of its own, drawing him toward its rhythmic enchantment. It called to him without words, urging him forward like the call of a siren, tugging him heedlessly into the blackened abyss, beckoning to him.
    The back right corner of the room was completely shrouded by darkness. Not even a single ray of light penetrated the perfect black. He walked straight into it, closing his eyes as they wouldn’t serve him in the slightest. Holding the blade in his open palms, he pressed into the darkness, waiting for inspiration to strike.
    The overwhelming smell of dampness, like the stagnant, moss-covered surface of a warm water slough in the middle of winter, accosted his nostrils. Further and further he pressed, the air around him growing colder with each subsequent footstep. Surely, he should have run face first into the wall by now…
    Suddenly, he could hear it. The sound was very faint, but his gut told him that it had been there the whole time. A thin, wispy rasping sound crept out of the shadows right in front of him.
    Opening his eyes, he stared as hard as he could into the darkness, but there was nothing to be seen. His legs moved with a will of their own, inching into the corner, before finally stopping. 
    The sound was louder now, right in front of him, the warm, heavy breath of the breather right on his face, the heat dampening his forehead. It was a metallic-sulfur smell, like the scent of the insides of an animal as they spill past the bowels from where it had been gutted; the first, pungent burst of aroma that blasts from the formerly sealed innards. It was that smell that was falling heavily on his face from the damp breath right in front of him.   
     Slowly, he held the knife in his hands even higher, and felt another hand, the skin scratchy like parchment and dried out like leather, grab the handle of the blade. The hand rested there momentarily, the sharp, thick hairs on the back of the knuckles poking into the flesh of Matt’s palms. 
    His breath caught in his chest. The hand quickly ripped the blade from him and tossed it through the air, right past his ear, whistling through the darkness. It landed with a loud thunk, the tip of the blade stabbing into the wall somewhere behind him in the darkened basement. He began to whirl to see where it had struck, but the hand pressed gently against the side of his face, keeping his jaw from turning. Allowing the hand to steady him, Matt just stared directly into the darkness.
    “It will be there when it is needed,” a deep, guttural voice said from right in front of him. That disemboweled animal scent was overwhelming now. He tasted it on his lips as much as smelled it within his nose.
    Then, the hand fell from his face, swallowed up by the darkness surrounding him. The rasping was still audible, but only barely, having merged back into the very walls of the cellar, scraping like a rake across cement. He could feel the presence with him, there in the room, but could no longer tell where it was; he just had to trust that it was all going to work out like he had planned. 
    Nodding to himself, he backed out of the shadows and into the center of the room, where he turned and headed up the stairs. There was only one more thing to do, and then it was down to the waiting game. Bounding up the stairs from the cellar, he breezed through the kitchen and into the main living room, stopping right at the front door. 
    He twisted the deadbolt, but it just spun limply, unable to either engage of disengage as it rested uselessly in the hardwood door. Turning, he surveyed the room, looking for anything he could use to pry at the seal, to wrench the door out of the frame. But there was nothing. The room was completely empty except for the broken bottles and crushed cans, and the ever-increasing piles of dust and cobwebs that stretched across the hollow room like fingers, grabbing at whatever came their way. 
    Kneeling, he reached into the corner and grabbed a bottle cap from its home amidst the dust. Shoving the edge beneath the rounded top of the pin that held the door within the hinges, he pried it up, a quarter of an inch at a time until the pin popped right out, falling to the ground and bouncing off of the wooden floor. He repeated that process, pulling the pins from the other two hinges and allowing them to bounce onto the ground as well.
    Placing the toe of his shoe beneath the base of the door, he grabbed the side, pressing his fingernails into the hard grain, and tugged at it, backing the door out of the hinges barely an eighth of an inch with each groaning effort. He yanked and yanked, his face turning bright red, his hair dampening with sweat, until he finally pulled the now useless slab of wood out of the doorway. There was a loud crack as the wooden doorway snapped by the latch, and the door fell suddenly and quickly inward, the hinges tearing at the flesh of his forearm as the heavy door rocketed toward the ground, slamming like the stomping foot of a giant. Clouds of dust billowed on gusting plumes, filling the air around him, drying out his lungs and forcing him to cough.
    Dabbing at the three stripes of blood just above his right wrist, he stepped out of the main room and onto the front porch, inhaling in delight as the cold, clean air fought back the dust that rattled within his chest. Allowing his lungs to expand and contract with great exaggeration, he crossed the porch and sat down on the snow-blanketed top step. The flakes fell through the holes in the overhang above him, accumulating in small patches on the ice-coated wooden planks. Closing his eyes, he allowed the crisp air to cool his sweating body, chilling him in its freezing embrace.
    He had lost track of time. The sun had long since set, not even the most vague residue of its orange glow above the rocky peaks to the west. Snow burst in sheets from the cloud cover, which choked out even the brightest of stars from the night sky. His breath clung in the air in front of him, steadying itself against his skin before being ripped from him by the gusting wind, carrying it to the east toward the dim glow of the city lights beyond the dense forest. The road was invisible in front of him; the whole area glimmering like water as the wind blew the powder in waves across the ground.
    Matt smiled, allowing his head to loll back on his shoulders, the brim of his hat resting on his back. A cool sense of serenity surrounded him, the air chilling the heated blood within his veins. His heart slowed to an almost mechanical pace, his breath leveling within his chest. Closing his eyes momentarily, he allowed the snowflakes to land atop his closed lids, alighting pleasurably on the sensitive surface of the skin.
    It was time. 
    He could feel it within his entire body, like some sort of vibrating alarm clock, triggering all of his nerves at once. Rising, he stood on the top step of the porch for barely a moment before the twin beams of light shot into the field in front of him from the line of trees. The racing of the car engine was audible over the sound of the swirling wind. 
    Backing slowly across the ice-slickened porch, Matt inched into the entranceway, bracing his right hand against the frame of the door, watching as the black, spray painted Maverick slid to a skidding halt on the front lawn of the house. Another car pulled in beside it: a relatively new blue Escort. The doors opened in unison.
    Three figures, darkened by the night, climbed from the Maverick, their silhouetted forms shifting as the waves of blowing snow slammed them from the west. Two more climbed out of the Escort and joined in with their companions, who made their way across the lawn and onto the steps of the porch, creaking loudly, threatening to snap beneath their weight as they ascended two by two. 
    Matt’s fingers fidgeted against the doorway as they drew closer, his eyes narrowing.  The corners of his lips curled upward in anticipatory delight. His left toe tapped on the wooden floor, faster and faster until, finally, they were only a foot from him in the open doorway.
    “Hey, Matt,” Scott said from the middle of the cluster of flesh, his voice the only thing distinguishing him from the hydra of humanity in the doorway.
    “Please,” Matt said, gesturing inward with his arm. “Come in. Let’s get this show underway.” 
    Jeremy and Shane brushed past him first, their faces heavily grained with concentration. Scott followed on their heels, Tim and Brian filing through last, their heads on swivels as they scanned every inch of the room.
    “You guys been here before?” Matt asked, nodding to Tim and Brian.
    “Naw,” Brian said, still scanning the walls. “This is quite intense though.”
    “No shit,” Tim said, echoing the sentiment as he stared, wide-eyed, at every inch of the tattooed walls and rotting wood.
    “So,” Matt said, walking around Shane and Jeremy, and positioning himself just in front of the opening to the kitchen. “Why don’t you just go ahead and say what you have to say?”
    “All right,” Jeremy said, glancing quickly at Shane before turning back to Matt. “I think you know how we all feel about faggots.”
    “Don’t like them one bit,” Tim said, focusing back on the situation at hand.
    “Thanks,” Jeremy said, shoving Tim back toward the front door. “That was meant to be rhetorical, dumb ass. Just shut your mouth and nod, okay? Think you can do that?”
    Tim just glared and turned to inspect the room behind him.
    “Where was I?” Jeremy said, turning to Shane.
    “The test.”
    “Ah, yes. I remember now. I think you must know how we feel about faggots, Matt, so that’s why we’ve asked you here tonight. We’re going to give you the opportunity to prove that we’re wrong, and get yourself off the hook.”
    “And how am I supposed to do that?” Matt asked, retreating into the kitchen, feeling along the wall with his hand for the hole in the wall where he had stashed the shears.
    “Obviously,” Shane said, stepping up, “We can’t just ask you. You could lie. So we researched the subject extensively, taking all factors into account, and we devised a test.”
    “What are you guys talking about?” Scott interrupted.
    Shane held up his hand to silence Scott.
    “It is a test that will determine conclusively once and for all if you are, indeed, a butt pirate.”
    Jeremy snickered.
    “What are you guys doing?” Scott blurted, shoving past Jeremy to where Shane stood, right at the edge of the kitchen.
    “Sit down, snapper,” Shane said, shoving Scott in the center of the chest.
    Scott grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around so that they faced one another.
    “You said this was going to be straight up,” Scott said through his clenched teeth. “You said we were just going to talk this through and everything was going to be like it was before. You never mentioned anything about a test and you know it.”
    “Jeremy?” Shane said, nodding his head towards Scott.
    Jeremy grabbed Scott from behind, slipping his arms beneath Scott’s armpits and yanking him to the floor, pinning him face first to the dust-crusted floor, his weight atop Scott’s back.
    “Get off me!” Scott shouted, wriggling like a fish beneath Jeremy, who just laughed.
    “Now,” Shane said, looking directly at Matt from beneath his lowered brow. His eyes had narrowed to slits, his mouth widening to a sadistic smile. “Back to the test.”
    “Go ahead,” Matt said, his eyes locking on Shane’s as he crept backwards, his fingers fidgeting in anticipation at the edge of the hole in the wall.
    “Through our intensive research,” Shane uttered, advancing further, “we determined that faggots have certain genetic tendencies that we normal folk don’t. For example, a normal guy wouldn’t take it in the ass. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Shall I continue?”
    Matt glanced to either side of Shane as Brian and Tim fell in beside him, their faces nearly ripped in half by the monkey-like grins that wrenched their faces. Scott still shouted from beneath Jeremy, who stared up into the kitchen, pumping one fist in the air.
    “Please,” Matt whispered, his eyes twinkling. His fingertips rested atop the handles of the shears.
    “Turns out that fags have a lower tolerance to pain, as well. Bet you didn’t know that?”
    Matt shook his head.
    “That’s because you haven’t done the research like we have.”
    “Obviously, I’m not as taken with the subject as you,” Matt stated smugly, smirking.
    Shane’s clenched fist slammed right into the bridge of Matt’s nose, his head snapping sharply backward.
    “Turns out faggots also bleed more profusely than we normal folk,” Shane continued, wiping the blood from the row of knuckles along his right hand onto his jeans.
    Matt looked down at the dust-coated floor as the large droplets of blood from his nose dropped onto the floor, splashing like raindrops as they puddled. The tears welled in his eyes from the intense, searing pain in the bridge of his nose. His eyelids batted uncontrollably to press out the salty tears so that he could get a good look at Shane, the soft, exposed flesh of his neck tantalizingly bared above the collar of his jacket.
    “Dude,” Shane said, turning to the others. “He’s crying. Look at that! He’s crying! Oh, man, that does it. You fail! You are definitely the number one, king faggot.”
    Matt’s reached back up to the wall, his fingers fumbling to find the shears once again.
    Tim’s fist slammed into the side of Matt’s jaw, just as he had found the shears, knocking them from his hand. They tumbled down the inside of the wall, landing with a thud against the baseboards. Whatever lived inside scurried away from the sharp edges.
    Whirling, Matt grabbed at his suddenly throbbing jaw just as Brian slammed into him, clearing him off of the floor and slamming him into the wall, which caved in from the pressure. Dust filled the air and the shattered drywall crumbled in chunks to the floor. His hat fell from his head as Matt tumbled to the ground, slumping over the chalky mess of wall. Batting his eyes, Matt rolled forward onto his hands and knees, crawling painfully across the floor of the kitchen toward the bedroom.
    “Don’t screw me out of my turn,” he heard Jeremy shout, scrambling off of Scott and racing at him in the dark kitchen. 
    One after another, they kicked him, their hard feet slamming into his exposed ribs and stomach. Yet stoill, he crawled across the floor. Blood burst in spurts from his mouth each time one of the blows knocked the air from his lungs, his broken and jagged ribs tearing at the thin, tissue paper-like membranes of his lungs.
    Matt’s eyes fixed on the small clearing in the center of the carpeting of bees that he had made earlier, focusing on the handful of small lumps that lined the edge, knowing that salvation was buried beneath.
    The stingers lanced into the flesh on his hands as he scooted further into the room, kicking feet hammering into him from all sides. The pain resonated from every available inch of flesh, tearing like lightening bolts through the tissue beneath, forcing Matt to retreat into his mind while his body began the initial steps toward shut down. His vision began to narrow, tunneling to the point where all he could see were the small lumps beneath the gold and black carcasses. His whole body grew warm, the pain fading to dull pressure, every vessel pumping blood that felt as though it were boiling.
    Reaching out, Matt placed his fingers right atop the handles of the knives, the blades catching the slight glare from the window. His heart leapt in his chest. Forcing a smile, the blood spilling in lines over his swelling lips, his head lolling as though he were drunk, Matt chuckled in preparation of sliding his hand around the handle.
    Suddenly, he was jerked up from the floor, the blade falling away from his hand as his trembling fingers reached frantically for it. There was pressure across his chest, his collapsed ribcage coming through his skin, the white, fragmented ends jutting forth like small volcanoes, blood flowing in streams from them like lava.
    “Back the fuck off!” Scott shouted as he dragged Matt backward through the kitchen and into the main room. “This is bullshit and you all know it!”
    “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Shane shouted, his chin jutting forth.  “Only one way to find out…”
    “Give it a rest,” Jeremy said, resting his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “We accomplished what we needed to tonight. Just let them go.”
    “No fucking way, man!” Shane shouted, his eyes afire. “There’s no way that they’re leaving until I say so.”
    Shaking off Jeremy’s arm, he stormed toward the front door. Scott and Matt were already down the steps at the end of the porch, and crossing the snow-blanketed lawn to the Escort. Yanking his keys from his pocket, Scott opened the passenger door, and lowered Matt onto the seat, lifting his legs onto the floorboard. Slamming the door, he raced around to the passenger side, throwing wide the door and climbing in. Jamming the key into the ignition, the engine roared to life and Scott slammed the stick into reverse. The tires slid from side to side as they fought for traction before finally catching. With a lurch, the car launched into reverse, sliding across the road. Shoving the gear into drive, the tires screamed as they wore through the ice to the asphalt below.
    “Toss me your keys!” Shane shouted, sprinting toward the Maverick.
    Jeremy just stared at him.
    “Now!” Shane screamed, glaring back as he yanked ferociously on the door handle.
    “Dude…” Jeremy mumbled.
    “Now! Goddamn it! Now!”
    Jeremy fished the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans and tossed them to Shane, who immediately hopped into the car and revved the engine, just as the Escort finally began to move forward on the slick road.
    The Maverick’s headlights burst to life, illuminating the front of the house in two large circles. The car soared backward, fishtailing from side to side before locking into drive and tearing down the icy road after the Escort.
    “Are you all right?” Scott asked, focused intently on the thin lines of light that barely permeated the densely falling snow.
    Matt just groaned. A swell of blood washed over his swollen lower lip, falling onto his already soaked shirt. The trees to either side of the road fell past like two darkened walls, racing straight at them as the road bent and twisted through the sloping hills. The Maverick soared up behind them, hanging right on their bumper moments after they passed though the field and into the forest.
    “Jesus,” Scott whispered, his breath only barely able to slip from his tightening lungs. His heart pounded loudly inside his ears from his hammering temples, his fingers trembling on the wheel. He tried with all his might to see enough of the road in front of him to keep from sliding off into the trees.
    There was nothing visible of the road other than the barely noticeable tracks from where they had driven in, now already filling in with fresh snow. Enormous flakes filled the lights, racing at them like stars in the night sky moving through hyperspace. All Scott could do was just watch the far reaches of the lights and hope he would be able to turn the car in time.
    The lights from the Maverick filled the rear view mirrors, the brights shining painfully in Scott’s eyes as the car swerved from side to side behind them, hoping to gain the advantage on one of the curves.
    Something leapt out into the road in front of them. A large, dark shape, nearly the size of the car, bounded into the middle of the road. It stood there, frozen, its circular eyes glowing gold, reflecting the headlights.
    “Shit!” Scott gasped, his teeth clenching. He tapped the brakes repeatedly, hoping to gain enough traction to stop the car. 
    The front end kicked to the right with a jolt, the Maverick nailing the back left portion of the rear bumper. 
    A scream froze in Scott’s lungs; the air growing stagnant. He fought with the wheel, trying to turn into the skid which was gaining momentum with each passing second. The road disappeared in front of them, replaced by the line of trees that had once been to their side. His arms locked straight out in front of him and his clenched fists clung to the steering wheel for dear life. The tires began to skip off the road as they were now traveling sideways, bouncing toward the shoulder of the road.
    Scott could see the Maverick now; sliding from side to side, racing directly at them, only a few feet from a head on collision. There was a flash of lights as the passenger side tires caught the lip of the shoulder, and the sudden feeling of weightlessness. The Escort went airborne, flipping, tires rising to the night sky.
    Darkened bushes and snow-mounded grass filled their view, tumbling like a barrel, until they appeared to be falling straight down from the sky. Forcing his eyelids shut, Scott threw his arms up in front of his face just as the side of the car slammed into the wall of trees, tearing through the brittle, age-old trunks as though they were made of mere plywood. The sound of shattering wood and shredding metal filled the night, echoing within the shell of the car as it ripped through the first line of trees and into the second. The car windows imploded, showering Scott and Matt with tiny balls of glass, which bounced all over their bodies before being tossed from the rolling vehicle.
    Their wheels landed on the ground once again, the rubber tires bouncing with the impact against the frozen earth, catapulting them back into their flip with even more momentum. The cloud-strangled sky flashed by, over and over, the car rolling through the underbrush as though it didn’t exist. Scrub oak and sage were ripped from the ground by the roots, catching in the warped undercarriage before being tossed straight up in the air.
    The roof of the car crumpled visibly each time the car bounced upon it. The shrubbery opened into a large field, an enormous snow-filled circle right in the middle of the forest. A thin stream, frozen for the season, and buried beneath the even white mat of snow, grabbed at the tires, catching them. The car launched straight into the air one final time before coming to a halt on the roof, right in the middle of the field.
    Scott opened his eyes, frantically scanning the area. He could barely see out of the car as the roof had been lowered nearly to the level of the bottom of the windows. The masses of snow rapidly melted away from the car as it vented heat in all directions, thick black smoke pouring from the engine, the hood buried beneath the snow some ten yards away. 
    Tugging at the buckle of his seat belt, Scott finally snapped it. The belt disengaged and he slumped down on his shoulders, trying to pull his legs down from beneath the crumpled dashboard. He began to hyperventilate, his eyeballs rolling back into his skull as he fought with everything that he could muster to keep them fixed on the shimmering snow outside the thin crack where the window had been.
    From the corner of his eye, he could see Matt, dangling upside down from his restraining harness. The backs of his hands lay limply on the roof of the car, his mouth hanging slack. Blood flowed through his nostrils and over the tip of his rose, dripping like a leaking faucet between his hands. His eyes were closed, and his tongue was pressed out of his mouth just enough to give him the appearance of being dead, but his chest rose and fell just enough to give him away.
    “Matt?” Scott sputtered, using the steering wheel as leverage to tug his legs from the pedals and roll into a ball. “Are you… ugh, all right?”
    The only response was a thin, wheezing sound that bubbled up through his blood-lodged mouth.
    “I’ll get you out of here,” Scott shouted, grabbing Matt by the chin and shaking it a little, trying to snap him back to consciousness.
    Somehow, in those cramped quarters, Scott managed to turn himself around, lying flat on his stomach on the roof of the car. Turning his head sideways, he pressed it through the crumpled window, the tattered metal snagging at his jacket. He slipped his arms through, just past his head, trying to grab onto something out there, anything he could use for leverage to pull himself free of the wreckage.
    There was a loud cracking sound. It emanated from right beneath him and seemed to spread in all directions like an earthquake. The roof of the car sunk into the ground a good half inch.
    His breath caught in his chest, Scott tried to wriggle very slowly, the whole time staring at the carpet of snow at the edge of the meadow, watching as it moved a little bit with each exertion.
    Footsteps tore through the underbrush to his left, but he couldn’t move his head to see who was coming. His shoulders were out of the vehicle now, and if he could just find something to grab onto, he could pull his entire body free.
    “Stop struggling!” a voice shouted, a light crunching sound echoing through the field as the man raced across the snow-crusted field. 
    Cold, gloved hands grabbed Scott’s wrists, pinching tightly. The man, awash in darkness, pulled him from the wreckage. His shoes caught on the crumpled window, but the man gave him one final tug, sliding him out and into the snow.
    “In the car…” Scott wheezed, “…my friend.”
    The man, his black shadow silhouetted against the darkened sky, walked carefully around to the other side of the car, slowly approaching the passenger side door. Scott pushed himself up onto all fours and began to breathe heavily, fighting for the strength to clamber to his feet. Stumbling, he shook the cobwebs from his head, wandering around the hood of the car to where the man knelt by the crumpled window.
    “Get back!” the man shouted, startled by Scott’s approach.
    The ground beneath them gave with a loud crack, falling uneasily beneath their feet.
    Scott fell to his knees, scrambling to the side of the car where the man worked desperately to pry Matt from within.
    “You need to get away from here!” the man yelled, shoving Scott in the middle of his chest, knocking him onto his back atop the snow, which slid beneath the collar of his jacket, packing against the back of his neck. “The weight is too much… any change in pressure and the whole thing is going to give.”
    “What?” Scott said, scooting beside the man and reaching his hand into the vehicle to disengage the latch on the seat belt.
    The man grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him closer so that their faces were only inches apart. He was older, perhaps in his forties, his hair only slightly graying. His eyes were wide and wild, unblinking. Fear wore through his face, his hands trembling as he clutched Scott’s jacket.
    “Below us…” the man said, pausing momentarily to catch his breath. “We’re on a lake.”
    There was another crack and the ground gave another quarter inch.
    Scott’s eyes locked on the man’s, a sudden sense of awareness washing over him. Determination rose in his veins. He broke free of the man’s grip and lay on his belly, reaching up into the car. Sliding further, he craned his head sideways, slipping it into the car. Reaching up with his left arm, he unfastened the seat belt. Matt fell straight down on him, pinning him against the roof of the car beneath his weight.
    The ground beneath them cracked again, this time fragmenting beneath the weight of the car. Scott wrenched his back trying to move out from beneath Matt in an attempt to regain the use of his arms. Through the crack in the metal where the driver’s side window had been, Scott could see the frigid, black waters rising over the roof of the car, spilling directly toward him.
    The sound of a barking dog filled the night.
    Scott felt pressure on his ankles, yanking him backward out of the car. Matt fell off of him, landing on his side with a splash into the rapidly rising water, his body lying limply with the black fluid swelling around him.
    Scott’s grabbed at Matt, trying to latch onto anything. Finally, his fingers slipped through the belt loop of his jeans, closing tightly around the thin, denim strap. 
    The man still had him by the legs and was pulling him backward, out of the car, the metal from the car digging painfully into his lower back. The freezing water soaked through the arms of his jacket, rising nearly to his face as the car slipped further beneath the surface of the ice. 
    The flashing lights on the dashboard reflected from flat surface of the water, filling the interior of the car with light, but only for a moment as the circuits shorted out with a crackle, leaving them in complete darkness. The tugging on his legs was growing more frantic with each passing second and it was all Scott could do to cling to Matt’s pants.
    The water nipped at his chin now, biting through the exposed flesh and into the solid bone beneath. Craning his neck back, he spat furiously as the water rose up over his lips, threatening to fill his lungs.
    Fighting for every inhalation, he coughed out a thin spray of water, yanking as hard as he possibly could on Matt’s jeans, knowing that if they weren’t both out of there really soon that it was going to be all over.
    Taking one last, enormous breath, Scott staved off panic a moment longer while the water rose past his nostrils. The ice-cold water stung his lower eyelid, forcing his to close his eyes. The last thing he could see burned into the back of his mind: it was Matt, his head slumped forward into his lap, the water only inches from swallowing him.
    Scott felt enormous pressure on his ankles, this time ripping him backwards, the metal from the crumpled window shredding through his jacket and into his skin as he careened backward, his head slamming on the metal rim of the window. He barely held onto Matt’s jeans by one outstretched finger, which stung painfully, threatening to pop clean out of the socket. 
    The water stung his eyes and he could barely see anything in the dark, frozen water, only the vague outline of Matt’s unconscious body, and the hole from the window beyond. Leaning his head to the side, he slipped through the opening of the window, his eyes fixed intently on Matt who slowly moved toward the doorway along with him.
    The water rose with each passing second, nearly past the center of the steering wheel, splashing across the bottom of Matt’s chin.
    Scott could feel the man’s hands shuffling for a new grip, preparing for another tug. The water stung his flesh. His head began to throb, and it was all he could do to concentrate on holding onto Matt while the freezing water attempted to shut his body down.
    The tug came as he had expected, yanking him backward through the water. Everything moved in slow motion. He could feel the belt loop on Matt’s pants snap even before he saw it, falling rapidly away from his stretching fingers as he was yanked through the rising water. Matt’s body slumped further into the depths, covering his face as it now filled the car.
    Scott watched in horror, helpless. Matt began to thrash frantically, his eyes popping wide open in terror. His mouth parted to scream, only to be filled with the slushy water. Closing his mouth as quickly as he could, his eyes darted all about the inside of the vehicle, finally latching on Scott’s as he was yanked through the window and out onto the crumbling ice.
    Scott gave one last glance through the crumpled window. He could see Matt reaching for him, his hands trembling, his eyes so wide that it looked as though they might roll out. He was calling to him, his mouth moving as it formed words he couldn’t understand.
    And then the car was gone. 
    The tires were the last to sink beneath the flaccid, barely bubbling black surface, leaving only the lightest stir in the water.
    Scott lunged, trying to dive beneath the frozen lake, but the man yanked him one final time by the legs, pulling him away from the slowly expanding hole in the ice.
    He buried in the snow, tears bursting from the corners of his eyes and screamed into the frozen ground. The image of his drowning friend, pleading with him for help in the dark waters, forever burned into the scars in his mind.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART FOUR


PRESENT DAY

IV
Sunday, November 13th
5 a.m.

    Scott stared at the ceiling, watching the last of the dim moonlight slipping through between the horizontal blinds, filtering through the blue valance, making thin lines of yellow light across the gently spinning ceiling fan. He glanced at the clock for the thousandth time.
    5:02.
    Two minutes had passed since the last time he had looked, each of them feeling like an hour. Flopping over, he pulled the pillow over his head, grimacing against the headache that stung through his skull, resonating like a gong within his brain. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his spine, the tight muscles burning and cramping as he rolled over once again, this time into a ball.
    “One week,” he said aloud, wincing as a solid ache crumpled his stomach.
    He hadn’t slept a wink last night. He’d barely slept at all in the last month for that matter. The project he had started at work—meant to be his coup de grace, the peacock feather in his professional cap—seemed as though it would never be anything remotely resembling on schedule.
    He had inherited his father’s construction company, Premier Construction, when he was twenty-two, fresh out of college. He had never intended to get into his father’s business, especially after securing a degree in psychology. His plan was to finish his masters, which he had only barely begun, and then follow through with a doctorate, becoming a full-fledged psychiatrist. But things changed in a hurry.
    It had been Thanksgiving break, 1994. The four-day vacation had begun on Thursday. The drive down from the University of Colorado medical School in Denver had been tedious at best. The traffic had been stop and go from the time he merged onto the highway clear south to Monument; the drive which should have taken no more than an hour and fifteen minutes taking just over two. He had stopped by his mother’s house first. The plan was to catch lunch with mom and then dinner with dad, just as he had each of the prior ten years since their divorce. But when he had arrived at his mom’s house, he knew that something was wrong.
    His sister’s car was nowhere to be seen, and she lived there, always parking right in front of the house beneath the overhanging branches of the lone pine that pushed up the sidewalk. He could vividly remember walking up to the door, crossing the ice-spotted walkway. He’d clambered up the steps to the front porch, the whole while cradling the warm tray of rolls he had picked up to go with the meal.
    It was that awkward stage where he didn’t know whether to just open the door as he had while he had lived there four years prior, or to ring the doorbell out of respect since he no longer did. He’d paused on the porch, the snow falling lightly from the gray sky, swirling in the confines of the overhung porch. The door had opened inwards before he had resolved the debate, his stepfather, Ray, standing in the doorway, looking morose.
    “Come in… son,” he had said, staring down at his feet.
Ray had only called him son a handful of times in the last decade, the first of which came at his high school graduation, the rest either when he was at the height of his game, earning the Boettcher or making the Dean’s list, or when something was wrong…
    That’s where it all got foggy. He could see visions of his mother slumped over in the light blue Lazy Boy, her feet dangling over the arm as she stared out the window. Toying innocuously with the fronds of the potted fern on the end table next to her, she’d rubbed them back and forth between her fingers. She hadn’t said a single word to him that day. She hadn’t even acknowledged his presence for that matter. 
    The tray of rolls had slipped from his hands, falling to the floor and bursting through the aluminum foil cover, rolling across the thin, white carpet as Ray had told him about his father’s heart attack. His sister, Gina, was already at the hospital, but they had been unable to reach him since he had been stuck on the road.
    Everything got fuzzy from there. He couldn’t remember the drive to the hospital, let alone how he had gotten there. There had been a chunky, red-haired receptionist at the front desk who had sent him to the Emergency Room, through a maze of long white halls. He had rounded the corner in time to see his sister fall to her knees, her face buried in her hands. A white-jacketed doctor set his hand on her shoulder briefly before whirling and heading down the hallway. Scott’s legs had been unable to run, the trembling rising from his ankles and overwhelming his thighs. The hall had seemed to grow longer and longer. His sister seemed so far away, alone on the glossy white floor. The overhead light reflected in long, straight lines as he watched his feet, checking the lines in the tiles to make sure that he was actually moving.
    He had cradled his sister to his chest, feeling her shuddering as she released a series of wails. The burden of strength had fallen squarely on his shoulders. He was the oldest child, the big brother, and it was his job to take care of everyone else around him through this time. All he could remember from there was guiding his sister to her feet and walking her out of the hospital, staring up into the rapidly darkening sky and wondering why.
    His grandparents had flown in from San Antonio and helped make all of the arrangements. His mother had hosted the reception, much to everyone’s surprise. The weekend had passed in a blur, and whether by conscious choice or not, he remembered very little of it. There were a few spotted memories, more like third-party pictures in his mind. There was the image of standing in front of his family and his father’s friends at the funeral, lowering the black, shining casket into the soft, brown earth, tiny flakes fluttering all around him, and then there had been the session with the lawyer.
    Preston Grey, his father’s attorney, had sat them down in his office on the following Monday morning: Scott, his sister, and his mother. His father’s assets were to be equally divided between Scott and his sister, with the exception of his condo, which he left to his ex-wife to sell in order to pay off her own house. Though it had been a long time since his parents had anything even remotely nice to say about one another, they had proven in the end to be more caring than he had ever thought.
    There was one problem, however. Most of his father’s assets—his condo, his rental units, his construction business—had been used to secure a loan, or more accurately, a handful of loans, to finance a development that would have positioned him to be one of the top three construction companies in the city. It was a two hundred acre project: four hundred single-family homes, and three hundred duplexes. Barely a hundred houses had been built, with only fifty more begun. They had just barely broken ground on the townhouses. The commercial development, consisting of a professional office park and a strip mall were barely off of the ground. A Domino’s Pizza had already signed to anchor the strip mall at one side, and 7-11 the other, but the stores in between were nowhere near being leased. 
    Mr. Grey, a friend of his father’s from back in college, had already made calls to several other construction firms in the area, but none of them bid anything even close to fair market value for the remainder of the project. They knew all they had to do was wait for the loans to default, and then they could just buy up the pieces for a fraction of what it had cost his father. It was wrong and it was immoral, but based on the given situation, it was smart business.
    They were left with two options.
    The first was to allow the loans to default, whereupon the bank would seize all assets, burying the business, leaving failure as his father’s sole legacy. Or, they could run the business themselves. Neither was very attractive, but when it came down to it, there really was no choice. His mother was a teacher by trade, as was his stepfather. Neither of them had any experience in construction, nor did they have the time until summer. Ray had offered to help, which had been an amazingly nice gesture, but it had been just that. Gina was still in high school for crying out loud, what could she possibly do?
    Without an ounce of regret, Scott had called the university the next morning, withdrawing from all of his Master’s level courses. Of course, that meant his scholarships would be gone when he tried to go back, and as it was past the deadline for withdrawal, his grades would all go into the books as “incomplete,” rather than as “withdrawal.” He wasn’t exactly sure of the distinction, but from the tone of the registrar’s voice, there definitely was one.
    He had called his father’s foreman; a surprisingly intelligent and articulate fellow named Justin Warren, and had set up a meeting. Justin had proven to be worth his weight in gold. Not only had he shown Scott the ropes, but also he had given countless hours of overtime, without the expectation of pay. He had served as a liaison with the crews, bringing them into Scott’s corner from the start. 
    The development had gotten back on schedule within a month. All of the lots had been sold and the commercial space leased. The bank had been paid back with interest ahead of schedule, and the business recorded record profits for every quarter of the year. 
    Scott had set aside close to half a million dollars for his sister, to pay for her college education and to set her up for life once she was through. He had paid off all of his mother and stepfather’s debt, and had even built himself a house in the process. For his tireless work and dedication, he had rewarded Justin, who had done more for him over the last year than anyone else had for him in his entire life, with twenty-five percent of the company and double his original salary. He was promoted from foreman to managing partner, and given enormous say in the business. It was the least that he could do.
    In all, it had taken close to three years to finally finish the development, but it was beautiful. The contracts were rolling in from every different direction, and they had purchased several large plots of land to the north of town for expansion that had already more than quadrupled in value. 
    Scott knew that wherever he was, he had made his father proud. That was all he ever wanted. 
    With finances well settled, and the business beating down the door, Scott felt that it was just about time to finish what he had started. He re-enrolled at grad school.
    He was going to give the business one last summer of his full attention, and then he was going to just hand the reins over to Justin, feeling completely comfortable with the decision. Sure, he was going to miss it; he could see exactly what had drawn his father into it in the first place. It was a little like playing monopoly with real money, jockeying for position with other companies, dealing with bids and wholesalers, and then standing back like a god, surveying the area that had been nothing more than a pile of dirt before he had laid his hands on it. He was going to miss it, but he had started something that he needed to finish, if only for the personal satisfaction.
    It had been late July, and they had just finished renovating the lower downtown area, a city contract that had brought in millions. He and Justin were scheduled to meet one last time, to determine which of their plots to the north they were going to develop first. It was to be his farewell meeting, and then it was off to school, after a well-deserved, month long vacation.     
    It was a hot, dry night. Late July in Colorado was infamous for hundred degree-days and only the vague memory of anything resembling rain. They had met at the office, which had moved from a single suite on the first floor to the entire top floor of the building. They had constructed a pond, complete with live reeds and cattails in the center of the room. There was a series of benches situated around the water, flanked by bonsai trees. Scott’s office was up a series of stairs, all four walls glass, one overlooking the entire downtown skyline framed against the jagged, blue Rocky Mountains.
    Justin met him there at quarter till eight in the evening in a brand new suit. Every time he saw Justin these days he was wearing a different suit. The two stood for a moment, staring out the window, the orange clouds masking the setting sun as it slipped past the rocky crags. The sky faded from deep blue to an almost black, the stars shining brightly in the cloudless sky. It had been the perfect night. He could vividly remember thinking that. He had stood like Caesar, surveying his kingdom beneath the best that nature had to offer. 
    That is, until his cell phone rang…
    The phone had fallen from his hand, clattering to the floor, the antenna breaking off. He could remember staring at Justin, whose face faded from an enormous mile, to a silent nod as he stared down at the floor. 
    He had sped to the hospital, oblivious to anything going on around him. Car horns filled his ears, but the significance never registered within his mind as he just pinned the gas to the floor, the whole time wondering, over and over, how this could have happened again. It seemed as though he had just done this.
    He had arrived before anyone else, leaving his car parked in the emergency lane in front of the hospital. 
    The doctor had greeted him after only a few moments waiting in the plush, forest green chairs in the waiting area, and had led him to the back of the emergency room. There were several large rooms with doors on all sides, leading from one into the next. They stopped first at room 113; he could remember that number as though it was his own birthdate. 
    Two nurses, clad in powder blue scrubs, stood next to the lone bed in the center, organizing the blood drenched trays to either side of the bed. They wore latex gloves covered in rapidly drying blood. Both had looked up at him when he had walked in, and then immediately down at the floor. Metal arms extended from the side of the bed, halide lights mounted atop their flexible arms. A crimson-soaked sheet covered the raised bed, long tufts of blonde hair protruding from the top portion. 
    The nurses had continued organizing the stained utensils, and throwing the drenched clothing the doctors had shed into the hamper. The doctor beside him had raised the sheet covering the long lump on the bed, revealing his mother’s lifeless corpse. Her face was pale, splatters of blood dried on her cheeks. Her blue forehead was damp, her bangs matted backward. The tubes that had been used to open her airways still lay next to her head on the table. One of the nurses had quickly shuffled off with the saw that had been used to open her chest, and the device used to spread her ribs as soon as he had laid eyes upon them.
    Scott had closed his eyes, identifying her with a curt nod. The doctor had spoken of an accident and a drunk driver who had also not made it off of the table as he had led Scott into the adjoining room where his stepfather lay beneath a similarly stained sheet. The nurses in his room had vanished as soon as Scott had walked in at the request of the doctor, who once again raised the top of the sheet for him to identify the body.
    The rest of the night had passed in a blur, a thick fog convalescing within his mind. He had wandered back to the room where his mother lay, sitting on a stool on the corner of the room with his face buried in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look at her body, trying desperately to remember her as she was, and to shake the image of her dead body, her jaw hanging slack as her tongue began to swell within. Time had passed slowly, yet he had sat there, peering between the tear-soaked gaps in his fingers for more than an hour before one of the nurses finally led him from the room.
    She had guided him to the chairs in the waiting area, offering to allow him to speak with a counselor or the chaplain, but he had refused. He just sat there; staring blankly at the television as a baby wailed to his right, the man next to him cradling his blood drenched arm and grinding his teeth.
    Rising, he pressed his way through the group of people standing around the crying infant and shuffled to the pay phone on the wall. Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he produced his calling card and dialed the numbers into the phone. After an endless series of numbers, he was granted permission to dial his sister’s number at school. She was living off campus at the University of Colorado in Boulder, her address changing as frequently as her major, but he had at least had the foresight to buy her a cell phone.
    She answered on the first ring, stifling a giggle. From the tone of his voice, she could tell that something was wrong as he fumbled to formulate his thoughts into words that he hoped would shield her from some of the immediate pain and shock, but all he could muster was: “Mom and Ray died in a car accident.”
    The following week had been chaotic, but he had it under control. He had just done the same thing far too recently. He had handled all of the arrangements without help, his sister only coming down for a couple of days as she was working an internship at IBM and didn’t want to ask for that much time off. It was obvious that she was overwhelmed by the situation, but she distanced herself from him, and he didn’t really know how to bridge the gap so that he could help her. They had barely spoken over those few days, and just as infrequently since. He kept tabs on her, but it was almost as if he lost his sister and his parents in the same week.
    Perhaps it was the sense of belonging, or more realistically, it was that it was his comfort zone, but he had gone back to work in construction the following week. After canceling his registration at school, he had delved into work with a ferocity. His social life consisted of a beer on the couch over SportsCenter on the way to bed, morning coming before the dawn. Ambition had become the best medicine. Rather than deciding on which of their properties to begin first, they had begun two at the same time, spreading their labor so thin that it was a miracle it held together at all.
    Ulcers arose from nowhere; the roll of Rolaids in his pocket his best friend. Even Justin had been forced to distance himself as Scott had become far too driven to talk to on a normal level. His primary, and singular, focus was on work. He had left no room for anything else. There hadn’t been a date in months, nor was there even the prospect. But both projects stayed right on pace, and finished under budget. They made a fortune, but it was all for naught, as the completion of the work left Scott with an empty, aching wound deep within his soul that only another project could help to fill.
    Justin had chosen an early retirement, selling his quarter of the business back to Scott for enough money to live a lifetime abroad. His foremen feared him, his workers loathed him. He was completely alone in the business, and the stress had begun to take its toll.
    He lay there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he did every night, waiting for the sun to rise so that he could justify getting out of bed. His most recent project, the development of thirty-five acres on the furthest most north point of the city, adjacent to the Air Force Academy boundary, had fallen behind schedule. With the early onset of a fierce winter and the strength of the economy, labor had been thin at best. Finding an experienced builder who was willing to work through the snow was nearly impossible, let alone at anything resembling an affordable rate. The upper echelon development, consisting of one hundred houses on third acre lots, was only half sold. Thirty-two of the houses were inhabited, the rest in various stages of completion. A handful of Realtors were actively trying to push the sales, but without the park being finished, and the lake sitting dry beneath a few feet of snow, it was a challenging task indeed.
    Scott sighed loudly, closing his eyes and raising his arms above him. A wide yawn ripped across his lips. Sitting up, he dangled his legs over the side of the bed, rolling his head on his shoulders, the vertebrae popping dully. He sniffed and climbed from the bed, shuffling into the bathroom where he leaned against the side of the marble sink and peed for what felt like five minutes. Yawning once more, he scuffed across the tile floor and back into the bedroom, stopping at the closet only long enough to grab the matching top to his pajama bottoms. Slipping it over his bare chest, he made his way down the hall, sliding down the long staircase into the foyer. Sunlight spilled through the skylights staggered throughout the twenty-two foot ceiling, reflecting off of the highly buffed Spanish tile in the entryway.
    Rubbing his scruffy jaw, he grabbed the handle to the front door, glancing through the etched glass arches in the middle. Throwing wide the door, the bitter wind raced in to greet him. Shivering, he stepped out onto the porch, standing on the thick “Welcome” mat that was only half-covered by snow.
    Large flakes fell from a partially cloud-filled sky, slowly swirling as they fell straight down, before being ripped away by the gusting wind. Bending over, he grabbed the paper and tucked it beneath his arm, staring across the lawn into the development.
    His had been one of the first houses they had built out there. It had been time for a change, and having the developer living in the neighborhood was always a great selling feature, especially when trying to sell houses in the six to eight hundred thousand dollar range. 
    His house was towards the back of the area, butting up against the green belt of the Air Force property. He could see the outline of three other houses against the darkened sky, their modern design a complete contrast to the pristine environment around them. Evergreen-covered hills rolled all around them, blocking the views of the other houses as well as the sound of the construction as they frantically worked to finish all of the other houses by their deadline.
    The smell of sap from the needles of the pines all around him filled the air, carried upon the crisp winter wind. And for one moment, as the waning moon peered from behind a cluster of clouds, he felt completely at ease. But only for that moment.
    Turning, he walked back into the house, closing the front door behind him. The wave of heat from the furnace was a welcome change against his thinly-covered flesh as he crossed the foyer and through the living room into the kitchen. Climbing onto one of the stools at the breakfast nook, he spread the paper out on the table.
    Tossing aside the first three sections, he went straight to the Real Estate section. Every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday, it was the only section that he ever made it to. His development was featured prominently on the front page, with the logos of every Realtor in the area lined beneath the drawing of the lots. A little “Sold” sign was in the center of every lot that had already been brokered, and he could tell from the picture, even though he already knew, that there were still at least fifteen more that needed to be sold, or at least under contract, within the next week. Or, more accurately within the next six days. The bank expected the return on their investment by the 20th. They really only needed to close on four of the houses to be able to pay the bank, but when it came to doing business, especially business with six or seven zeroes behind it, it was important to prove yourself in every transaction. He had to have the development completely sold if for no other reason than he said he would. In this business, without your word, you were dead in the water.
    The Realtors had set up a “Community Night.” It was an outdoor barbecue set to be some sort of meet your neighbor/ potential neighbor night. It was a grand marketing scheme: have the open houses while the entire neighborhood is in one place enjoying the festivities and the company of their neighbors. They were sure to seal the deal on at least six of them during that three-hour timeframe. 
There were large posters on every lamppost in the neighborhood advertising it: 
“Family Fun Night!
Bring the Kids!
Hamburgers and Hot Dogs!
Meet Your Neighbors!
Saturday the 20th at 3 p.m.
In the Falcon Ridge Commons!”
He had agreed to get the park as close to completion as possible for the event, erecting a large gazebo right by the street, and filling the manmade pond. They planned to cook beneath the gazebo, and freeze the water for ice-skating. They hoped that it would be something out of an old painting: neighbors milling around together as they ate from paper plates, their children skating on the surface of the frozen pond. 
    They planned to block off the street, setting up enormous circus-type tents in the middle of the road if the weather was still bad, and this being Colorado in November, there was really no way of knowing what the weather was going to be like until the time finally came. Their goal was to have lines of picnic tables in the street, but tents would suffice if the weather worked against them. 
    The whole thing seemed a little silly to Scott, but he knew how to get the houses built. He left the selling to those who were qualified to do so, and he would give them one thing, annoyingly bubbly and pleasant as they were, they did know what it took to sell houses. He just hoped they had what it took to clear out the remaining lots in the next week. There was something in his gut, however, telling him that Saturday was going to be a big day indeed, and he had learned to trust his gut.
    Laying down the paper, he stared out the window above the little breakfast nook, past the snow-covered lawn at the line of trees beyond. A large shadow appeared right in front of the wall of pines and spruces, moving slowly out from the mass of needles onto the edge of his property. Its black outline barely stood out against the trees in the dim moonlight, but he could definitely tell that there was something there. It was the size of a horse, creeping along the edge of the lawn.
    Leaning to his right, Scott stretched his arm as far as he could, flicking the patio light with the tip of his middle finger. Settling back into the stool, he peered back out the window. The two spotlights mounted to either side of the patio door, just to the left of where he was sitting, shined in enormous arcs out into the night, their thick, yellow rays creating two intersecting balls of light in the center of the yard. He caught a flash of gold, two small glowing orbs, reflecting from the far edge of the yard.
    The outline of an enormous rack of antlers was framed against the green backdrop, an unusually large equine-type body silhouetted against the trees. It was the size of a horse, but that was where the similarities ended. Its body fur was a deep gray in the thin light, but there was a large lighter patch on the animal’s rear end. He was accustomed to seeing deer in this neighborhood, especially here lately with all of the construction in the neighborhood, but he had never seen one as large as this. And never one this brazen. The deer around there were skittish as a rule, dashing madly into the undergrowth at the first sign of being seen, but this one… it just stood there watching him.
    Rising from the table, Scott rubbed the stubble on his chin, allowing a long yawn to creep from his gaping mouth. He shuffled across the tiled floor to the counter next to the stove, where the coffee maker sat, its empty pot stained in rings from months of use and abuse. Filling the pot with water, he poured it into the hole in the top of the unit and set it back on the small circular heating pad beneath the spout. Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a can of Folger’s, emptying three scoops into the same filter he had used the day before. He closed the lid and pressed the red button. The machine made a sputtering sound before finally starting to assume normal operations.
    Turning, he rolled his neck on his shoulders and walked back over to the eating bar, deciding that today he was going to read the sports section. It was rare that he took the effort to read more than the real estate section, let alone on a Sunday, but today he was going to make a conscious effort just to peek. He missed sitting and relaxing while watching the game, a cold beer in his hand, flipping back and forth to dodge commercials. Maybe it was time that he started making more time for himself. It was the middle of the football season and he had maybe watched a combined total of a half a game since the September start, and the hockey season was just over a month in, and he hadn't even caught a single game.
    Nodding to himself, he made a resolution. He was going to find a way to free up some more time, to spend just a little time each week doing something that he wanted to do. Just a little break in the action where he could lose himself in non-work related competition. Well, once he got through this next week anyway.    
    Something caught his eye. 
    There was something lying on top of his newspaper, something that hadn’t been there before he had gotten up to start brewing the coffee. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be covered with mud.
      His heart began to race in his chest, each breath coming shorter and far more shallowly. Focusing intently on the object, his trembling fingers formed fists at his sides. 
    The paper around the object was darkening, the dampness of the thing soaking into the thin newsprint. It had a black base color, the mud crusted to the surface of it. There was a small button or knob in the middle of the top portion. 
    Scott glanced all around the room, his eyes searching from one corner of the room to the next. He peered out into the brightly-illuminated yard, but there was nothing out there, nothing but the small holes the deer left in the snow as it had passed through the yard on its way through the hills.  
    Glancing to his left, along the floorboards, he could see that the metal bar that locked the sliding glass door was still firmly in place, the locking key that kept the bar from budging engaged. There were no wet tracks on the carpet, no snowy outlines of shoes on the floor. The tile was as dry as it had been when he had walked across it only thirty seconds prior.
    So how had whatever that was gotten onto his eating bar?
    With a sudden revelation, he stared straight up at the ceiling, following it to where it met the wall; bowing outward as it arched away from the house. The glass was all in place, no cracks or openings. It was sealed perfectly, as it had been when he moved in. Taking one step forward, he craned his head around the corner of the kitchen, staring straight down the hallway and into the foyer. There were no footprints on the Spanish tile, and he could tell from the size of the massive deadbolt that it was still engaged.
    His blood coursed increasingly hotter through his veins as he fought the urge to inspect the object on the table. There was no way that it could have found its way onto his table as his house was sealed like a tomb, with a state of the art security system mounted on every surface that remotely resembled an opening. If a door or window had opened, there would already be police at the house. But he could see from the panel on the wall that the two green lights were on, meaning that the system was operational and hadn’t been triggered.
    Closing his eyes, he tried to steady his nerves. His hands clenched at his sides, opening and closing rhythmically in time with his rapid panting. 
    Once again opening his eyes, he leaned over the table and inspected the object. 
    It was an oblong shape, larger at one end than it was at the other. Reaching out carefully, he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up above the paper. Small chunks of mud sloshed off of the surface, landing in small splatters on the newspaper. Turning it over and over, he inspected it closely. It appeared to be a hat.
    Glancing around the room one last time, he walked it over to the sink and turned on the water. Holding it beneath the rapidly warming stream, he scrubbed at the mud with his left hand, chunks falling into little brown piles on the Formica. Small lines of sand ran from the clusters towards the drain, separating into individual grains as they were drawn away from each other.
    It was black and felt as though it was made of canvas. There was a black plastic band along the back with little pegs for adjusting the size. Turning it over, he stared at the front of the hat. The brim was a faded rust color, the thread in the seams peeling back in strands. And right on the front of the hat…
    “My God…” he whispered, the hat falling from his hand beneath the running water.
    Though it had been more than a decade since he had last seen it, he recognized it right away. After all, he had seen it every day of his life practically, prior to then anyway. There was an abstract bird, the Atlanta Falcons logo, the black bird framed by thin white lines, paralleled by red ones. 
    Snatching the hat out of the sink, he turned it over in his hands, looking inside the brim. There was a small, fraying tag peering out of one of the seams. He tugged on it, yanking it free of its stitching.
    “MP,” he read aloud, the tag falling from his suddenly weak grip onto the floor.
    He fell to his knees on the floor, his arms hanging limply at his sides, palms facing the ceiling. His chin rested on his chest, jaw hanging slack. All vital signs seemed to slow at once, the veins in his temples thudding deliberately, echoing in the empty room. Unblinking, he stared down at the tag on the floor, unable to steer his gaze from the small, yellow-stained piece of fabric, its tattered edges jostling beneath the heat that blew down from the vent in the ceiling.
    Without even raising his head, Scott half-slid, half-crawled to the edge of the counter, grabbing the cord to the phone and yanking the entire cordless unit off of the counter. The base unit clattered to the ground, the pager button popping off and sliding across the floor beneath the refrigerator. Picking up the receiver, Scott dialed three buttons, the tone resonating within his skull. Pressing the phone to the side of his head, he backed himself along the floor into the corner of the room, flanked by lines of cabinets.
    “911,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.
    “There’s someone in my house,” Scott whispered, his eyes nervously darting from one side of the room to the other.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART FIVE


Chapters 5 & 6

V
Sunday, November 13th
5:30 am
    Tim Williams lifted his right foot onto the lid of the toilet, pulling the laces tight on his cross-trainers, and tying them into a knot. Switching feet, he laced up the left shoe. Pulling the cuffs of his sweat pants down to the tongues of his shoes, he paused, placing his fingertips on the linoleum floor and stretched his hamstrings. He bounced once and then stood straight up, leaning backward and placing his hands at the base of his back. Slowly, he rolled his head and shoulders back. With a sigh, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
    His light brown hair had thinned slightly at the temples, but was still fairly thick throughout. There was certainly visible wear around his light brown eyes, and thin smile lines to either side of his thin, slightly chapped lips. His pale complexion stood out in rugged contrast to the dark blue, zippered sweat suit top.
    Lifting up the bottom edge of the jacket, he crunched his stomach muscles and stood sideways in front of the mirror, patting the thin layer of skin atop his almost-rippled stomach. With a sly grin, he tugged the top back down and grabbed the pair of gloves off of the counter next to the sink.
    Slipping them on, he walked out of the bathroom into the darkened bedroom. He could barely discern the dark outline of his wife slumbering in the bed, her long, dark hair spread across the white flowered pillowcase. Stopping at the side of the bed, beside the lump in the covers, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She made a muffled grumbling sound and rolled over onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. The sound of her light wheezing filled the air as Tim crept out of the bedroom and into the hallway. 
    Passing his study, the light from the power strip on the floor glowed red. The curtains ruffled lightly as the heater gusted straight up from the floorboards. 
    The next room on his left was completely empty, save for the stacks of boxes right in the middle of the floor. At some point, that was going to be the baby’s room, but until they were actually able to conceive, they weren’t going to set it up as such. And setting it up for anything other than a baby’s room would be an admission of failure. So, that room was going to sit with a small stack of boxes in the center until they were able to make something happen.
    They had only moved into this house about six months ago, after having decided that they were ready to start a family. Tim and Vanessa had been married for close to five years now, having met in college, and married shortly following graduation. The last five years had been devoted entirely to starting their careers. Vanessa had landed a job as an accountant with one of the larger software designers in the area right out of school, and enjoyed the nine to five lifestyle. Tim, on the other hand, found himself in advertising, working for the Gazette. His days began by seven, and he found himself lucky to be home before eight at night. Granted, he had never worked a weekend day, but the weekdays were about enough to kill him; going from one account to the next to the next, setting up appointments, passing out rate cards, wining and dining the big bucks. The way he saw it, they should change his title to “brown noser.” And, unless he started to see more money coming his way, he was going to have to find another job.
    It’s not as though he wasn’t making good money, but when you break it down and factor in the twelve or thirteen hour days, it was suddenly a whole lot more difficult to come up with the energy to make a go of it every day. That was why he initially started these early morning jogs.
    He had found that with each passing morning, he awoke a little more tired than the day before, and after a couple years on the job, he was barely able to wake up and get out of bed at all. Initially, he had figured that jogging five miles in the morning would only wear him down even more, but he had found out quickly that that was not the case. It energized him. He had quit smoking and devoted more time to his physical maintenance, jogging further and further every morning until he reached the five mile mark and basically ran out of time to run before he had to go to work.
    Weekends like today were the best. He was able to jog as long as he wanted, pushing himself harder, knowing that Vanessa would allow him as much time as he wanted, so long as he was home with enough time to shower and change and get them to church by noon. 
    Bouncing down the stairs, his shoes squeaked on the linoleum in the entranceway as he disengaged the deadbolt and unlocked the door. He stepped out onto the porch. Icicles hung from the bottom of the gutter above him, the driveway covered with an untouched layer of white. 
    He grinned to himself as he watched the large flakes swirling about in front of him, piling atop the already thick layer of snow. It was a wonderful feeling making the first footprints in the snow. Maybe that was the kid inside of him, but it always made him smile.
    Taking a few short, deep breaths, he exhaled a long sigh, his breath freezing in front of his face, lingering for a moment before dissipating into the early morning sky. The dim light of the moon peeked through the cloud cover only momentarily, the street in front of him glimmering as he began to jog.
    The snow squished beneath his feet, piling atop the toes of his shoes as he bounded down the center of the street. His nose began to run as the cold nipped at it. Wiping it with the back of his gloved hand, he lowered his head and pulled the hood from his sweatsuit over his already-damp hair.
    Turning left at the end of the street, he made his way up the steep slope of a barren culdesac. There were for sale signs every fifty yards to either side of the road, the faces of various Realtors smiling at him in an attempt to peddle the vacant lots. It was only a matter of time before they all were sold and had houses on them, forcing him to change his route, but until then, he was going to take full advantage of the opportunity.
    Reaching the end of the street, he leapt over the curb and onto the thin path that wound through the forest straight ahead. He knew these woods like the back of his hand—even before he began his morning jogs—having grown up only about four miles from here. Of course, when he was a kid, none of these houses out here existed. It wasn’t until the huge boom in the economy within the last five years that the houses started appearing out of nowhere. It was one thing to say that they were building them way too fast and tearing down what had once been fairly pristine woodland, but on the other hand, he owned one of those houses.
    He had spent a lot of time wandering through these woods with a BB gun as a youngster, bringing down magpies and starlings, leaving them laying on the floor for the coyotes to clean up. There had even been one exciting day when he had come across a rattlesnake. It had been late in the season and the cold fronts had already begun to move through, so the snake was far less than aggressive. He could remember blasting it repeatedly in the head, even lodging one of the steel balls in its gapped mouth so that it couldn’t flick its tongue. But that had grown tedious in a hurry as the snake didn’t ever move, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that he wasn’t doing any real damage.
    Later in his teenage years, he and his buddies had hiked into these hills with tents and cases of beer strapped to their backs, setting up parties that would last the entire weekend. He could remember one trip in particular where they had parked at the end of the closest road and hiked for more than an hour to get to one of the most hidden and inaccessible spots that they knew of. That spot, as it turns out, is now buried beneath the recently paved culdesac he just jogged along.
    Things had sure changed in a hurry, but he knew for a fact that these woods he now darted through would be here for a long time to come. It was part of a large sector of land owned by the folks who ran the nursing home. They had converted this old Catholic convent into a modern, state-of-the-art nursing home sometime about a decade ago, paving the thin dirt paths through the woods to give the residents somewhere decent to walk and exercise. And he took advantage of that each and every morning without exception.
Branches of trees flew past to either side, grabbing at the shoulders of his goretex-coated suit. The snow on the ground was only a couple of inches deep on the path as the majority of the snow piled in the upper reaches of the canopy, filling the needle-covered branches until they looked like puffy clouds. Gravel snapped beneath his padding feet as he wound past the rows of trunks, heading for the nice, cement paths just a quarter of a mile ahead.
    Usually, Tim made two laps around the path that circled the entire acreage of the rest home before returning to the woods once again. There was rarely anyone else out on the paths at this time of the morning—especially in weather like this—so for just a brief moment in time, he felt like the only person on the face of the earth. The only sound was his own heavy breathing, and the birds and small animals darting through the underbrush. It was both his solitude and his sanity. It was his own personal Eden.
    The trees peeled back slightly as he hopped up onto the cement path. There were wooden benches on the inside of the track every hundred yards or so, buried beneath a thick coating of snow. Small lumps in the path ahead betrayed the presence of buried pinecones. Small, three-toed footprints covered the ground from the foraging birds searching for anything to eat.
    His heart pounded in his ears, his breathing even and paced as he ran through a constant cloud of his own breath. The air was still. Trees blocked nearly all of the wind that wrought havoc across the eastern plains, the snow falling straight down in clusters. Dense patches of scrub oak filled the gaps between the tree trunks, pressing all the way up against the path from his right, the bare branches reaching out like bony fingers. Long since dried out berries clung to a handful of the branches, ice cubes forming all around them.
    The sky was still dark, the moon and stars blanketed by the low-lying deep-gray clouds. By the time he finished the first lap, he should be right back where he was right now when the sun began to rise, cresting over the tops of the azure blue, white-capped mountains directly behind him. He always stopped to gaze at the arterial-red sky around the slowly rising orb as it pressed back the blackened sky, every inch of the frosted ground shimmering like white capped waves on a placid sea. 
    His throat began to dry, his tongue clicking from the roof of his mouth. A dull ache filled his lungs, each inhalation of the freezing air tightening his chest incrementally. 
    Slowing to a walk, his footsteps hammering on the concrete and echoing in the silence around him, Tim placed his hands on his hips and leaned his head forward, allowing his pulse to slowly resume its normal pace. The cold air stung his teeth as he breathed with his mouth wide open, forcing oxygen into the deprived areas throughout his body. A gust of steam raced out from beneath his hood when he pulled it from his head, letting it fall onto his back so that he could cool down a little. 
    Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and he prepared to break back into a run. His brow furrowed as something suddenly seemed a little off. He had run this course so many times that he knew everything: every bush, every tree, and every little noise in the forest. But something wasn’t quite right.
    He stopped and looked around, the woods completely silent around him. The only thing he could hear was the snow falling from the branches of the trees into clumps on the ground. There was no rustling in the underbrush, no chirping birds…
    But there were always birds. He could count on that.
    Suddenly, a cold wave of hackles ripped straight up his back, settling at the base of his neck. There was someone, something, out there in the woods with him. He couldn’t see it, but he could tell it was there, watching him from the dark forest, its eyes weighing heavily on him.
    A gust of wind ruffled the pines around him, the piled snow on the branches blowing in wet clouds, filling the air all around him. It was cold, very cold, stabbing through his jogging suit and into his flesh. His eyes scanned the underbrush, looking for any sign of whatever was out there.
    There was nothing but silence.
    “This is stupid,” Tim said, shaking his head. “There’s no one out here.”
    He snorted, mocking his own idiocy. Shaking his head, he brought his arms up to his sides and burst into a fast jog. His heart still pounded in his chest, his head throbbing at the base of his skull from the tension. It was all he could do to just focus on the path as he raced on, watching the line of trees straight ahead.
    The path bent quickly off to the left, disappearing behind a thick blue spruce, giving the appearance of a dead end right in front of him. He knew the turn well. The path opened up to a straightaway, leading down the slight slope to the frozen lake just off the path and past a tall line of reeds to the right.
    His footsteps pounded off the concrete, echoing through the thin, early morning air. Short bursts of steam shot past his lips as he dipped his left shoulder, preparing to make the turn. Rounding the blind bend, his heart leapt in his chest, seizing tightly as it threatened to implode.
    There was someone else on the path, standing directly in front of him.
    “Jesus!” Tim gasped, shocked, placing his right hand on his pounding chest.
    The figure had his back to Tim. A long, tattered brown shroud hung limply from the wide shoulders, cascading down toward the ground, the frayed ends playing gently in the thin breeze. The hood of the cloak was pulled up over the head; the whole body bathed in the shadows cast by what little light filtered through the branches of the trees.
    “I’m sorry,” Tim said to the stranger. “You startled me. It’s not often that I come across anyone out here this early in the morning. Do you live out here? You know, at the…”
    He was trying hard to find the right words. Rest home certainly wasn’t right, nor was old folks home. His mind raced.
    “… Assisted living community?” he finished, pleased with himself.
    But the figure did not turn around. He didn’t move in the slightest.
    “Uh, yeah. It’s been nice talking to you,” Tim said from beneath his lowered brow. He prepared to resume jogging.
    Sliding to his right, he prepared to slip past this person on the thin path, bringing his lightly clenched fists up to either side. He could hear the person’s breathing, more like rasping really. It was a thin, almost wet sound as the air was dragged through the open mouth, rattling within the damp lungs before being released as a cross between a wheeze and a growl. 
    The acrid stench of decay resonated from this person, riding coarsely down the crisp breeze, accosting his senses. It was the smell of death. Tim recognized it from the days spent volunteering at a nursing home during his senior year in high school, trying to pad his references. It was the smell of stagnant urine and crumbling, flaking flesh. It was how they all smelled when the reaper neared, but none of them could tell.
    Wincing and puckering his face, Tim looked down, attempting to dodge the scent without the overtly offensive gesture of covering his nose. His sole goal was to get upwind and leave that smell—that he had hoped never to again whiff—far behind him.
    Something caught his attention. Something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t immediately put his finger on it, but there was something wrong with the pictures he purveyed to his mind. He stared down at the virgin white snow. The swaying treetops cast dancing shadows across the ground. And then, all of a sudden, it just clicked.
    There were no footprints.
    His eyes raced up from the ground to look at the person, who had already turned to face him. Their eyes locked for one brief moment. Every muscle in Tim’s body fought to spring to life at once. His primal instincts ripped through his mind that wanted nothing more than to run away as fast as he could. 
    The last thing that he saw was the dry, yellowed eyes, cracking and peeling, with no visible iris, staring straight through him. A cold, dry hand shot from the man’s side, its crusted flesh seizing him by the neck, killing the scream in his chest. 
 
VI
Sunday, November 13th
8:30am
    The police had been of no help at all. After finally arriving more than an hour and a half after he called, they had seemed almost insulted that he had broken up whatever they had been doing that morning to come out for that. 
    “You called us out here for a hat?” the officer had asked, holding the cap on the tip of his pen.
    “So let me get this straight,” the other had chimed in. “You found this hat in your house, but you’re sure that it’s not yours. Is that what you’re saying?”
    He had tried to argue it the way he saw it, but they couldn’t grasp it. They did the obligatory checking of the house and doors, noting that there were no signs of forced entry and having a private chuckle in front of his security system, glancing back over their shoulders to leer at him every couple of seconds.
    The bottom line was that there were no signs of even the slightest attempt to gain entry into the house and the security system, which was truly top notch, hadn’t been triggered. The fact that the hat had belonged to a friend of his that had died more than a decade earlier appeared to be of little consequence to them as they repeatedly asked him if he had been drinking.
    The officers had seen themselves out, practically slamming the door behind them as they walked towards the car shaking their heads. Scott had sat at the table, hands clasped in his lap, staring straight down at the hat. He hadn’t even looked up in the half-hour since they had left.
    Goosebumps crept up his forearms and onto the backs of his arms. The room felt as though the temperature had dropped ten degrees over the course of the last couple of breaths. The windows slowly frosted over from the inside. Scott finally broke his gaze from the hat and climbed to his feet. He glanced around the kitchen, checking out the thin layer of ice on the windows, his breath coming in plumes from his parted lips. 
    Crossing the floor and turning into the living room, he popped the faceplate off the thermostat and looked at the digital reading. Shaking his head, he pressed the “set/ temp” button again, but it still displayed the exact same thing.
    72 degrees.
    He stared down at his arms again, the hackles still standing at full attention. He blew a long line of steam from his lungs, dissipating into the thin air around him.
    “Damn thing’s broken,” Scott said aloud, slamming the cover shut and walking towards the stairs.
    He ascended to the upper level, turning down the hall and walking toward his bedroom.
    Throwing back the closet door, he stepped inside and yanked a Colorado Avalanche sweater from the closet and tossed it across the room, landing on the bed. Yanking a pair of jeans off of another hanger, he tucked them under his arm and walked to the dresser. Producing a pair of boxers and some socks, he quickly slipped out of his pajamas.
    Sitting down on the corner of the bed in preparation of donning his clothes, the scar on his right forearm caught his attention as though he was seeing it for the first time. It had been so long since he had been forced to think about it that sometimes it just surprised him. There had once been a birthmark there, a round, brown circle that had been removed for aesthetic reasons rather than medical. The scar was close to two inches long, lined with the small pink dots from where the sutures had once pulled the wound tightly shut to help it heal. Granted it was far better than the mark that had preceded it, but it looked almost Frankenstein-like in the dim light. Running a fingertip along the completely desensitized, purplish scar, he could barely remember the days when he had been embarrassed to wear short sleeves because of the unsightly mark. Snapping from his momentary trance, he rubbed his tired eyes. 
Throwing on the underwear and hopping into the jeans, he donned the number nineteen captain’s jersey and sat on the siderail of the waterbed. He tugged on the socks and shoes and hustled out of the bedroom and through the hall.
    Opening the closet by the front door, he grabbed the first jacket he could get his hands on. Throwing his arms into the sleeves of the black leather jacket, he passed beneath the archway of the living room and bounded down the stairs to the left into the family room. The darkened big screen reflected the early morning sun that slipped through the gaps in the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door. 
    He grabbed his car keys from the corner of the marble wet bar and threw back the door to the garage, pressing the opener as he hopped down the two stairs onto the concrete floor. The wind gusted in from beneath the slowly rising panels, tiny flakes of snow scattering around his feet. Stacked cases of Pepsi lined the wall to the left, partially hidden by the boxes that filled half of the garage, stuffed full of the unimportant junk he had never found the energy to unpack.
    Walking around the back of the forest green Grand Cherokee, he slipped up the side of the car and opened the driver’s side door, hopping up into the seat. Thrusting the key into the ignition, he pressed the pedal and brought the car to life, the engine revving loudly as exhaust poured from the back end of the car. Tossing the gear into reverse, he backed out of the garage, closing the door behind him. He stared back at the empty house from the street momentarily before putting it in drive and racing down the white street.
    He wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to find where he was going, but something inside of him told him that he needed to go look. 
    Following the road as it wound out of the subdivision, he passed several clusters of cars parked in front of the model homes, the big “Open House” banners hanging above the garages. He paused at the stop sign on Woodmen Road, and then turned left, heading into the foothills at the base of the cloud covered Rockies. The windshield wipers batted back and forth, pushing the driving snow into thin piles to either side of the glass.    
    His neighborhood fell behind him as he accelerated, the road narrowing to wind up into the increasingly thick forest. He hadn’t been up this far on the road in a long time, but it appeared as though nothing had changed. Trunks passed like cornrows as the car rocketed down the slick road until he finally slowed and stared off the road to his left, intently looking for the gap in the trees that he knew still had to be there.
    He hadn’t thought about that night in a long time. Repression was, indeed, a wonderful thing. It was amazing how the mind had defense mechanisms that could keep painful memories from haunting a man. His parents had tried to set him up with some therapy after the accident, but the psychologist had been far too concerned with his relationship with his mother, and the psychiatrist had wanted nothing more than to prescribe him pills. He had gone through the motions, obligingly attending the minimum number of sessions. Fortunately, his own brain had taken over, pressing the memory into a tiny little box that it hid in the recesses of his mind, only opening it once or twice a year when he made conscious connections with dates or associated memories. But he had never once, since that night, driven back up into these hills.
    He slowed the car, pulling to the side of the road. There was a barren patch directly to his left, on the other side of the road. The scrub oak had grown up around the splintered trunks of the trees, the tops of the new growth of pines barely visible above. The ice-covered lake was barely visible in the field beyond, the powdered snow on the surface glittering beneath the weak light that permeated through the intense cloud cover.
    Scanning the road, he pulled a u- turn, parking on the shoulder, the barren limbs of the scrub oak scraping against the side of the new car. He pulled the keys from the ignition and sat there for a moment, turning them over and over in his hands. A dull ache arose in the back of his head, his heart rate accelerating. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing, rhythmically drawing the air in and blowing it out, trying to soothe his nerves. Sighing, he opened his eyes and stared down the desolate road in front of him, his left hand pulling on the door handle.
    The cold air raced into the car as he climbed out, dropping down into the thick snow. Shaking his keys a couple times, he thrust them back into his pocket and walked around the back of the car to the gap in the trees. He pressed through the rugged brush, the limbs snagging on his clothing as he forced his way through, clambering over the fallen trunks of the dead trees that littered the ground.
    Passing through the last row of brush, he stepped out into the field. If he hadn’t known that there was a lake there, he may never have seen it. There was barely a dimple in the middle of the sea of snow that filled the opening in the trees. Trudging into the meadow, his right foot suddenly sunk a good foot into the snow and he tumbled forward, bracing himself on his right hand. Ice-cold water filled his shoe, instantly soaking into his sock and chilling the blood in his foot.
    An image of car tires bending outward as they caught on the lip of a thin stream, tossing the car into the air, filled his mind. He could hear his own cries echoing in his head, and the metallic crunch of the crumpling car landing on its roof.
    Rapidly shaking his head, he ran his fingers roughly through his snow-covered hair, looking down at his feet for a moment before turning his attention back to the lake in front of him.
    They had never found Matt’s body. The car had been pulled from the water early the following morning, but there had been no one inside. Police had hacked the majority of the ice from the lake and had dredged it for four days. They had even sent divers down there, but they hadn’t come up with so much as an article of clothing.
    The bottom of the lake consisted of a layer of mud atop thin silt, a very sticky, treacherous surface that would allow for anything to sink deep within it. Matt’s body had most likely fallen out of the car when it rolled onto its side before being pressed down into the soft earth. That’s what the cops said anyway. How the ground had stayed soft beneath the ice cold waters of the frozen surface was a mystery to him, however. But the decision provided him closure, and that was all he needed to begin the arduous process of getting on with his life.
    He could hear the gurgling of the river at the far side of the lake as he stared across the sea of ice. Shaking his freezing foot, he began to walk again, moving around the edge of the trees in the nearly circular meadow.
    His heart pounded as he fought with the memories that flooded his head. He could see Matt’s face, his eyes pleading, opening his mouth to cry for help, his lungs filling with that first mouthful of the icy water, the panic wrenching his face. He could see Matt reaching out, his fingers spread wide, trying to grab for him, begging for him to pull him from the car. His face disappeared into the darkness, the car slipping from the ice and disappearing beneath the surface.
    Sniffing, he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and continued his walk around the lake. The running water from the river was much louder now, the rippling waves appearing from out of nowhere right in front of him. Ice had formed in triangular shapes behind the tops of the large boulders that cracked the surface from beneath, small clusters of ice floating down the rough surface. It was an intense shade of blue, flowing thick like molasses from the crystallized water.
    The river was barely twelve feet across, but it looked to be close to five feet deep. It was connected to the lake from somewhere beneath the ground, the water level of the lake being held static by the influx from the water table beneath.
    Loud caws from a group of crows filled the air as Scott rounded the back side of the lake, treading the fifteen foot wide patch of ground the separated the frozen like from the ice-edged river. Lost in his own mind, he walked straight ahead, traversing the flattened buffalo grass beneath the packed snow on his way toward the line of trees ahead. The wind gusted through the open gap, blowing a mist of snow from the dancing branches at the upper canopy of the trees. Ducking his head, he held his hand up in front of his face to attempt to block the onslaught of flakes as he ducked through a thin opening in the trees. Pressing through the bare branches of the scrub oak, he appeared right in the center of a cement path in the middle of the woods.
    The calling of the crows was far louder in the middle of the trees, echoing down the snowy path. Following the calls, Scott walked aimlessly, trying to make some sense of what he had seen that morning. He didn’t know for sure what he expected to find out here after all this time. Surely he knew that he wasn’t going to drive up there and find Matt’s body lying on the bank of the lake, or something completely obvious like that which the cops had somehow missed in their hurry to wrap up the investigation. It was gnawing at him from deep within: how had the hat turned up in his house after all of these years? 
    Whatever the answer may be, and he certainly didn’t have the slightest clue, even more troubling was how had it gotten into his house? He had been sitting right there at the table and had only moved from the paper long enough to start a pot of coffee. He had turned his back for maybe thirty seconds, if that. Who could possibly have skirted his security system and rushed into the kitchen without alerting him and exited before he knew that they were there? No one. And of that fact he was sure. But even more worrisome than that was the question that got to the root of the problem, the reason that he had driven up here and now wandered through the woods. Why?
    There appeared to be close to twenty large-bodied, black birds bouncing along the path in front of him, right at the bend. They cawed and flapped at one another, fighting over what seemed to be chunks of food dangling from their long black beaks. Their glossy feathers glittered as they bobbed their heads, frantically trying to tilt their heads back and swallow their meals whole before another wrenched it from them. What looked to be a long dark shadow covered the ground, all of the crows staying neatly within its confines.
    As he approached, the shadow appeared to take on depth, cutting through the snow. His brow furrowing, Scott could see that the legs of the crows were dyed a deep red, so dark that it bordered on black. The long strands of meat hanging from their battling beaks oozed with the red fluid, tiny droplets flying through the air as they swung the pieces around their heads in an attempt to gulp them down. As he grew closer the shadow took on the same color as the legs of the birds, the snow melting beneath the crimson stain.
    His footsteps padded on the soft snow, startling the birds to flight. They landed in a cluster ten feet back watching him closely as he walked up to where they had been feasting. The red fluid had melted through the snow in a large patch covering the width of the sidewalk and back into the trees beyond. Shreds of flesh and the tattered remains of the insides draped over the bare, bony branches of the scrub oak. It looked as though a large animal had exploded from the inside. The crows couldn’t have brought down whatever this mess had been. They were merely scavenging the remains.
    There were no other tracks surrounding the mess, not even the small canine tracks of the coyotes that wandered these hills. Scott had heard tales of mountain lions in the foothills, even coming into people’s houses while they slept, but all of those reports had been far to the south at the base of Cheyenne Mountain. He had never heard of one in this area, and besides, feline tracks of that size would be unmistakable in the fresh snow.
    Kneeling in front of the red-drenched bushes, he began to inspect the mess, the pungent stench of the festering sludge accosting his senses. Breaking off a small branch, he pried one of the tattered pieces of flesh from the shrub, dangling it in front of his face so that he could try to figure out what kind of animal it had been. But it was strange; every dead animal he had come across, regardless of the state, always had large sections of fur lying about. But there wasn’t a shred of fur anywhere, nor were there any bones to be seen. He couldn’t think of any animal that could eat the bones, or, for that matter, even make the effort to carry them off to its den without dragging the rest of the carcass.
    There was a snap behind him, followed quickly by another, and then the sound of rustling shrubbery. Leaping to his feet, Scott whirled staring into the wall of foliage. A gloved hand appeared, forcing back the barren branches of the oak. A figure, clothed in black, appeared through the criss-crossing limbs, standing there momentarily while he watched Scott from the shadows.
    “Hello?” Scott said, craning his neck to try to get a better glimpse of whoever lurked beyond.
    The figure just stood there, the whites of his eyes almost glowing from the shadows. Scott could feel the stranger’s stare: inspecting him, sizing him up from the tips of his toes through the top of his head. His stomach began to flutter, the nerves in his lower back tingling. The urge to take flight raced up from the back of his mind, just as the figure stepped forth from the bushes.
    It was an older man; his silver hair matted beneath a black stocking cap pulled down over the tops of his red ears. The tip of his nose almost glowed from the cold and he sniffed it constantly. His expressionless, pale face was worn thick with lines, his eyebrows furrowed. A navy blue down jacket covered his torso; his legs swathed with denim.
    “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, looking straight through Scott at the mess of innards strewn across the path.
    “My fault,” Scott said. “I didn’t have any idea that this was private property until I came across this walking path here.”
    “What business do you have back here?” the man glowered.
    “You know, I’m really sorry. You must be from the old folks home out there, and I’m…”
    “Do I look decrepit to you?” the man asked, his face pinching tightly. Scott thought for a second the old man was going to try to start something physical, but suddenly his face lightened, as did his voice. A thin smile crossed his lips. "I’m not that old…”
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
    “I know, I just had to hassle you a little. You probably startled me far more than I did you.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Scott said, shaking his head. He stared down at his shoes, bright red snow crusted over the toes of his sneakers.
    “I hope I didn’t interrupt your breakfast,” he said, nodding.
    “I was just finishing.”
    “The name’s Harry Denton,” the man said, offering his gloved hand. Scott shook the man’s hand, brushing the dampness from his hand onto his pants.
    “Scott Ramsey.”
    “I thought that’s who you were,” the man said, his smile fading. “From what I’ve seen, there aren’t any coincidences in these woods.”
    “What do you mean?” Scott asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
    “I pulled you out of that car in the lake years ago. A little less hair and a few new wrinkles, but your face is still the same.”
    “Really?” Scott said, flabbergasted. “I never had the opportunity to thank you for that.”
    “No thanks needed. You would have done the same.”
    “I don’t know…”
    “You have to give yourself more credit than that,” Harry said, pausing. “What brings you back here today?”
    “I’m not really sure,” Scott said.
    “Like I said, nothing’s coincidental around here.”
    Scott stared at the man as he walked past, inspecting the remains that littered the path.
    “What kind of animal do you think that was?” Scott asked leaning over Harry’s shoulder. “My initial thought was that it might have been a dog or something, but I couldn’t see any bones. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
    Harry turned and faced Scott. All of the color had drained from his face.
    “I have,” he said softly, turning and pressing through the mess into the scrub oak.
    Scott stood there for a moment, watching the man disappear into the foliage as he debated whether or not to head back to his car.
    “Sweet Jesus,” he heard Harry utter.
    Stepping into the undergrowth, he clambered through the thick mass of branches, popping into a tiny clearing beneath the needle-covered limbs of a cluster of pines. Harry was standing at the base of one of the trunks, inspecting the ground. Walking around him, Scott followed Harry’s gaze to the blood-soaked ground.
    A pile of crimson bones rested against the trunk of the tree, stacked neatly. There was no doubt that they were human. A savagely stripped ribcage sat beneath a cracked pelvis; the long bones of the arms and legs laid neatly over the top. The feet rested in the palms of the bloody, cupped hands. All of the flesh had been stripped away, only the severed tendons protruded from their former connections of the hastily-defleshed bones.  
    “My God,” Scott whispered, his stomach twisting in knots. He turned from the pile, staring off into the woods as he drew in several large, slow breaths.
    “God give me the strength,” Harry whispered, staring through the canopy into the cloud cover.
    “That’s a person,” Scott said, turning back to Harry, but unable to steer his attention from the pile of bones from the corner of his eye.
    Harry just nodded.
    “We need to call the police,” Scott said, rational thought finally entering his head.
    “It won’t do any good.”
    Harry walked around the trunk of the tree, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches. He scanned the ground, looking for something, exactly what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew there had to be something. There would be some sort of message, a calling card that had been left for him.
    “Look,” Scott said, following him around the trunk. “Whoever this is… was… was murdered. I’m going to go call the police.”
    “Come here,” Harry said, gesturing with his hand. “Look at this and tell me if there’s anything the police can do.”
    Scott shoved back a thick branch, the soft needles pressing into the skin on his hand as he followed Harry’s voice. Why was he so trusting of this old man? He didn’t know him from Adam. For all he knew it could have been this guy who had slaughtered this person, why else had he been out there?
    Shoving his hands into his pocket, he pulled out his car keys, sliding each of the keys between his fingers, the keychain pressed firmly in the palm of his clenched fist. He stared down at his knuckles; the keys protruding like long, jagged claws. The muscles in his arms tensed in anticipation.
    “Stop right there,” Harry said, his back to Scott. He held out his open hand. “Look at this.”
    Scott peered past Harry. A thin line of blood traced a line through the pristine, untouched white snow, leading to the center of another small clearing. Right in the center of the patch, Scott saw something that would forever be burned into the backs of his eyelids, something that he would see for the rest of his life every time he closed his eyes and settled into the darkness.
    There was a face staring up at him from the ground, the hair matted flat with blood. The eyelids were peeled back, the dark eyes staring up into the upper reaches of the tree. The man’s severed neck had been planted into the snow, and unlike the rest of the bones, the skull was still covered with its original flesh. The mouth hung slightly askew, parted to allow for the swelling tongue. The pale, almost bluish, flesh was littered with spatters of blood like freckles. 
    Scott inched forward, fixed intently on the face.
    “Stay right there!” Harry snapped. His voice lowered slightly and leveled off. “Look at the snow around it. There aren’t any footprints.”
    Scott was barely able to shift his gaze from the head even long enough to note Harry’s observation.
    “For some reason, we were meant to find it like this. Why else would there still be skin on the face?” he said, turning to Scott. “You know who this is, don’t you?”
    “No,” Scott said, snorting, “How the hell should I—”
    “Look very closely.”
    “Listen, there’s no possible way that I—”
    “Look!” Harry shouted, pointing his finger directly at the face.
    Scott stared straight at it, studying the eyes, the line of the cheekbones, the curve of the mouth. And all at once, it felt as though the ground dropped from beneath him, the air in his lungs seizing and growing stale as he fought to draw a single breath. His heart raced and his hands began to tremble at his sides, the keys falling into the snow. He collapsed to his knees, his jaw growing slack as he stared with sudden recognition into the face of an old friend. 
    His hands stung in the snow, the ice ripping into his hot pink flesh. He stared blankly up at Harry, and then back to the ground. 
    “Tim…” he whispered, his gaze creeping back to his friend’s lifeless face.
    “How did you know him?” Harry asked, stepping between Scott and the head.
    “I haven’t seen him in years.”
    “How did you know him?” Harry asked, placing his hands to either side of Scott’s face and raising his head so that their eyes met. “Was he here that night?”
    “What night?”
    “The night that I pulled you from that car.”
    Scott just stared at Harry.
    Harry breathed deeply, trying to collect himself.
    “Was he with you that night?” he asked, very slowly, enunciating every syllable.
    “Yeah,” Scott said, brushing the man’s hands from his face and easing himself to his feet.
    “Listen to me very carefully,” Harry said, his wild blue eyes so wide they looked as though they might pop free from his skull. “It was no accident that I was there when you wrecked that night.”    
    “What do you mean?”
    “He led me to you.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “It would be far too hard to explain, you’re going to have to let me show you.”
    Scott stared at him for a moment, sensing Harry’s anticipation. The thoughts in his head all jumbled together, and the only answer he could muster was a simple nod.
    Harry brushed past him, slipping into the shrubbery. Wrenching his gaze from Tim’s blue-rimmed, swelling eyes, Scott pushed himself to his feet and stumbled through the underbrush after him. The tips of the branches ripped at the skin on his hands and face, but he could hardly even feel it, the shock having numbed his flesh. His eyes could hardly focus on anything as he bumbled through the scrub oak, stumbling onto the path beyond. Harry was already well ahead of him, slipping into the brush on the far side of the path.
    “Wait!” Scott shouted after him, suddenly remembering that his keys were buried somewhere in the snow back by where the head rested.
    Harry turned to look at him as he whirled as scrambled hurriedly back through the undergrowth. Watching his feet, he hurdled the interlaced trunks of the trees, bursting through the final mass of branches and into the thin clearing behind. Following his footprints in the snow, he ducked beneath the low, drooping branch of the pine and scrambled into the small gap where his footprints stopped. He found his hand prints to either side of the large matting of snow where he had knelt, running his fingers along the frozen ground beneath the fresh layer of powder, working in and out of the buried layers of pine needles beneath. His knuckle slamming into his keychain, he bundled it within his palm and hopped back to his feet, his eyes automatically glancing toward the center of the small clearing.
    There was nothing there.
    He could still see the small line of dripped blood across the white surface, droplets scattered to either side, and the red-stained hole in the center where the neck had been inserted… but the head was gone. And there were no other footprints anywhere close to where it had been. Harry’s tracks were still fresh, but he never got closer than three feet from it, and there was nothing else. Not a single print.
    He frantically scoured the area, searching for any sign of whoever had absconded with Tim’s head. Nothing. Not a jostling branch, a broken twig, nothing to betray the direction in which the killer had fled. But he had to be close. Scott had only stepped from the clearing for a few seconds, if that. He had to be close, had to be within his view.
    Scott looked up into the trees, searching for any sign that someone was up there, a trembling, bare branch; falling snow; bark that had been stripped from the trunk as someone had rushed to climb it. Still nothing.
    “What’s taking so long?” Harry asked, creeping up behind him. “Is everything all right?”
    Scott just turned and looked at him, stretching out his arm and pointing his index finger straight toward where the decapitated head had once been.
    Harry wore a stern look of understanding, as though he had already known that it would be gone. Nodding, he grabbed Scott by the sleeve of his coat and urged him back through the scrub oak and onto the path. Looking back one last time, Scott checked to make sure that his eyes hadn’t merely been playing tricks on him, before turning and following Harry.
    The sky darkened overhead as a dark mass of clouds crept over the tops of the Rockies, threatening to spill down the face of the mountains, burying the front range beneath a new, more ominous looking storm.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART SIX


PART VI

Chapters 7 and 8

VII
Sunday, November 13th
Noon
    Scott’s Grand Cherokee slowed in front of the small blue house, the gravel of the driveway rumbling beneath the heavy tires. Harry clambered out of the passenger side door as Scott killed the engine, slowly opening the door and slipping from the seat onto the snow-covered red gravel. He stared at the little bungalow as he eased from behind the door, closing it behind him. It was an older house, and one he had never known even existed. 
    They had opened a small gate in the barbed wire fence at the edge of the road, just barely to the east of the former convent’s property line. Following a long, thin gravel driveway that meandered off into the forest, nearly onto Air Force Academy property, they wound before dipping back down and to the small bungalow.
    The freshly-stained porch ran the entire front of the house, its redwood finish shielded from the falling snow by the long overhang, a steel weathervane with a rooster mounted in the center of the crest. Two windows peered down from above the eve like small, watchful eyes. The roof had been recently repaired, as evidenced by patches of shingle that were far lighter in color than the other darker, bowed shingles that were beginning to peel up. The screen door was folded back against the house, the spring from the recoil device snapped, hanging limply from the doorway.
    Harry ascended the three steps up to the porch and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Scott was still following. Producing a set of keys from within his pocket, he shoved one into the door and opened it wide, stepping into the dark house, leaving the door standing open.
    Scott crept up the steps, the boards creaking beneath his weight as he crossed the porch and stepped into the house, closing the door behind. He was standing in the middle of the living room. There was a small coat rack with brass hooks mounted to the wall beside him. Ornately framed paintings of Colorado landscapes hung along the walls, the room sparsely furnished with the exception of the lone recliner in the center of the room and the television set on a small, wooden cart in the corner of the room. The floor was covered with long, rust-colored shag carpeting, the wear matting the knap in a V shape coming from the kitchen.
    He heard Harry toss his keys onto the kitchen counter. The fridge door opened, bottles rattling against one another, and with a clink, he produced a brown bottle of root beer for each of them, removing the caps with an opener and stepping into the doorway.
    With a nod, Scott took one of the bottles from Harry’s outstretched hand, following him into the kitchen. The newspaper was spread out across the table. A small plate littered with crumbs sat beside an empty glass, a small ring of orange juice in the bottom. There were only two chairs at the table, and one was buried beneath many days worth of newspapers.
    The freshly-cleaned counters shined from the light that slipped through in arcs from behind the thin white shade that covered the window at the back of the kitchen, a door leading into the back yard in the corner of the room. There was a large trash can in the corner of the room, filled to brimming with what appeared to be nothing but root beer bottles and microwave dinners. The linoleum floor was waxed to a high shine, the white and blue pattern of squares faded from years of wear.
    “Follow me,” Harry said, disappearing down the dark hallway to the left with a nod.
    Passing the bathroom to the right, its brick-red shower curtain drawn shut, they reached the end of the hallway. In the room straight ahead he could see the foot of a bed, a blue bedspread folded neatly across the base. There was a wooden chest in the center of the floor, and the closet door at the back of the room stood ajar.
    Ducking into the room to the right, Harry flipped the light switch and walked toward the back wall. Turning, Scott stood in the doorway for a moment, lingering as he stared into the room.
    It was the complete opposite of the rest of the house. Everything else seemed to have an order to it and was nearly immaculate. This room however, was crammed full of everything possible. Newspaper clippings lined the walls, pressed into place with multicolored thumbtacks. They appeared to run chronologically from the left around the room to the right based on the slight yellowing of the newsprint. Stacks of boxes filled the room, all of them labeled by year, stacked in front of the closet so that there was absolutely no way of getting close enough to reach the knob on the door, let alone open it.
    The oldest box that he could see was labeled “1966,” but was buried beneath a stack of others. The more frequently accessed appeared to be ’70 to ’74, and a couple from the eighties and nineties that sat open in the center of the floor. 
    Harry sat down in the armed chair at the heavy, solid oak desk at the back of the room. Stacks of manila folders rested to the left side of the desk, along with a computer; the printer balanced precariously atop the monitor. In the center, there was an ancient tape recorder and an old reel to reel 8mm projector.
    The room reeked of age, like the scent that gusts from the inside of an old library book. The air was still as the boxes blocked access to the window; the curtains pinned behind the weight of the stacks.
    Scott stared around the room, feeling as though he were in the basement archives of a newspaper, or the obsessive den of a psycho. He was suddenly quite uncomfortable.
    “I think maybe I should just go,” he said, the weight of the morning’s events visible in his weary eyes.
    “Please,” Harry said, swiveling to face him in the chair. “You have nothing to fear here. I can completely understand how overwhelming this must all seem. Believe me. I was in your shoes once.”
    “I’m at a pivotal point with my business and I should really be actively overseeing things right now.”
    “Just have a seat on one of those boxes over there, and give me half an hour. If, after that time, you feel you need to go, then more power to you. We part with no hard feelings. But I think… no, I know, that you need to see what I have here.”
    His brow knitting itself tightly across his forehead, Scott shuffled into the room, closing the top of the box, and planted himself atop “1972”.
    Harry grabbed a file from the desk behind him and opened it, pulling out the top page of the stack of papers within.
    “Take a look at this,” he said, handing the page to Scott. “This is what first dragged me into this entire mess. It’s a summary from the State Department of Child Welfare of four children that ended up in the custody of a group of nuns at the convent just down the road from here. At the time, none of the names of the children were made available, just their ages and the condition in which they arrived. It was my job to do a physical inspection of their health and the living conditions.”
    He pulled another piece of paper from the folder and handed it to Scott.
    It was a photocopied page of an original newspaper article. There was a photo of what looked like a castle, the caption identifying it as the Cavenaugh Convent. He perused the article quite rapidly. The main details of the article that jumped from the page were that both the nuns who staffed the castle and the four children recently placed in their care had disappeared. While no foul play was suspected, the circumstances revolving around their disappearance were suspicious the article stated, but failed to elaborate. The last line caught his attention.
    “The last person to have contact with the sisters was Dr. Harry Denton, a physician on staff with the Department of Child Welfare,” he read aloud.
    “Right,” Harry said, intently leaning forward in his chair. “I saw three of these children lying slaughtered on a couch, grabbed the fourth and ran away with him. I got out of there just in time to see someone, something, slip into that little house. I can still hear the screams of those nuns when I lay in my bed at night.”
    “So you think they’re dead?”
    “I know they’re dead.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Of course.”
    “And…”
    “And I went out there with them the following morning just past dawn, and guess what we found?”
    “What?”
    “Absolutely nothing,” Harry said, leaning back and lacing his fingers in his lap. “Let me tell you something, when I was in that house, I remember as clear as day the blood of those children that puddled on the hardwood floor. The arcs of blood dripped down the walls and soaked into the couch where their bodies lay. And I tell you this… I could hear those nuns getting slaughtered, their screams gurgling to a sudden halt.”
    “But when the police got there, they found nothing?”
    “I couldn’t believe it. I led them through the front door of that house and pointed straight into the room, but nothing that I had told them about was there. The floor was dry as a bone and freshly lacquered. The furniture, which had been pushed up against the walls, sat neatly arranged in the center of the room without a single stain.”
    “You keep talking about this house. I thought this was all up at the convent.”
    “The Cavenaugh house.”
    “That little boarded up shack?”
    “The same.”
    “That’s where we were the night of the accident.”
    “I know.”
    “You know?”
    “I walk to that house every night. It’s part of my watch. I saw you kids there. I figured you were just getting into normal trouble, so I thought I’d just watch for a few minutes to make sure that everything was going to be all right. I was just about to leave when I saw him…”
    “Who?”
    “The same person… thing… that I saw walk into that same house and slaughter those nuns so many years prior.”
    “I didn’t see anyone other than the six of us.”
    “I was standing atop the hill on the other side of the road, leaning against the trunk of a tree when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see, but there was nothing there. I could feel him out there with me, though, his cold eyes watching me. I could taste his breath on the wind, feel him in my bones. I had seen him in those woods a handful of times in the interim, a shadow slipping behind a tree, a dark face leering at me from the shadows, but it wasn’t until that moment that I knew that he wanted me to see him.”
    Scott stared closely at him. The whole thing sounded like complete and utter hogwash, but he could tell from the man’s face that he believed every word that came out of his mouth.
    “I heard shouting, and I turned just in time to see two of you kids come running out the front door, one dragging the other. You got into your car and started to back up. It was at that point that I could feel him standing next to me. There was a certain aura of coldness around him; I could feel it straight through the flesh on my arms, aching in the center of my bones. All I could hear was the sound of his breathing, the sound of razors scraping across flesh. My knees were knocking as I turned to look, but I only caught a quick glimpse of his face, his eyes settled into shadow, his cracked lips pressed tightly over his teeth. The skin on his cheeks was dry and flaking, the purple veins right up against the surface of his pale, blue flesh. I flinched as he raised his arm and pointed down toward the road. I followed where his finger pointed just in time to see someone else racing to his car to follow you. I turned back, but he was already gone.”
    “Who’s he?”
    Harry rose from the chair and walked across the room, closing the door. There was a large white sheet of butcher’s paper pinned to the back of the door. Stepping through the mess of boxes, he sat back down in the chair and flipped a switch on the side of the reel to reel, a thin line of white flowing right in front of Scott’s face on the way to the wall.
    “I’d like you to meet LeRoy Trottier,” Harry said, sliding the clip forward on the camera. The film began to feed through. 
    “Who?”
    “Just watch.”
    The scratched and lined, faded color picture appeared on the wall, amidst the crackling of the spinning reel.
    A man sat a table in the center of the screen, his fingers laced before him, his head bowed. Slowly, he raised his eyes and stared into the camera, his dark, deep-set eyes staring right through Scott as he sat in the small, darkened room. His wild, black hair was streaked with lines of gray, as was his long, scraggly beard. He had thick, bushy brows and his forehead was heavily lined. Only the bottom row of teeth was visible beneath the long mustache, crooked and jagged. Slowly, his tongue appeared, licking his lips as he prepared to begin.
    “So you say you’ve seen him with your own eyes,” the man said, smiling, his deep, guttural voice filling the room.
    “Let’s start from the beginning, Mr. Trottier,” Harry said, the old recording stealing years from his voice. “First off, can you please state your name for the camera.”
    He grinned, removing his hands from the table and leaning back in the chair, relacing his fingers behind his head.
    “Leroy Francis Trottier,” he said, cocking his head. “Welcome to the Canyon City Correctional Facility, where friends and good times come together every single day behind bars.”
    He laughed.
    “It’s important that you take this seriously, Mr. Trottier—”
    “Call me LeRoy.”
    “I’d appreciate it if we could keep this interview formal.”
    Smirking, he nodded, placing a hairy, bare foot on the table in front of him.
    “Now Mr. Trottier,” Harry continued, “Would you please state for me why exactly you are in prison.”
    “You already know.”
    “Please, Mr. Trottier, I need you to be cooperative. I can always just use your file.”
    “You need my words. You’ve already read my file. You’re looking for something that’s not in there.”
    “Granted, but I’m also giving you the opportunity to tell things in your own words for posterity.”
    His mouth slowly parted as he ran his tongue over his front teeth, staring down into his lap only momentarily before turning back into the camera and nodding.
    “Okay,” he said, dryly. “Let’s start from the top. My name is LeRoy Francis Trottier and I am serving four consecutive life terms in the Canyon City Correctional Facility for murder. I was convicted in front of a jury of your peers, on four counts of first degree murder for the slayings of my wives and a police officer.”
    “Your wives?”
    He smiled.
    “I initially had four of them, but one ran off during the night, taking my children with her. The other three pretended that they had no knowledge of what happened to the children, but I knew better. They were all in on it. They lied right to my face, so I was forced to try to get the information out of them using what I call ‘special tactics.’”
    “Special tactics?”
    “Yes,” he said, dropping his foot back to the floor and leaning all the way forward, the shackles on his wrists glimmering from the light of the camera. “I took a knife, a long, hand crafted blade with a jagged, serrated edge, and forced it into their lower stomachs, just to the inside of the hip bone. Slowly, I dragged it inward and downward, careful not to nick the intestines. You should have seen the way the blood spilled out from down there, covering their legs and staining the hairs of their privates. I gave them every opportunity to talk, to tell me themselves what they had done with the kids, but damned if the first one didn’t lie to me right from the start, telling me they’d taken them to live with her sister in Montana.”
    “But they didn’t?”
    “She didn’t even have a sister. Can you believe that? I’d have almost believed her if she’d told me they crawled away themselves to join the circus. But no, she had to lie straight to my face. So, I had no choice but to finish the incision and drag her intestines out around the room, draping them over the furniture and around the table. She got to watch for a while, well, until finally she coughed up what looked like a gallon of blood. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she was gone.”
    “So you moved on to the other two?”
    “Hell, they’d been in the room watching me with the first one. They told me right away what happened to them, squealing like little pigs. They cried and cried and told me how sorry they were that they had conspired against me, told me they’d make it up to me any way that I wanted.”
    “But you killed them, too.”
    “Of course. They took my children from me. So I gutted them just for fun.”
    “Jesus…”
    “Listen to me, college boy. My daddy used to say if you’ve got a cow that don’t give milk, it’s called a steak. Same thing applies here. I’ve got three wives who give away my children, knowing that was the only reason that they were brought there in the first place. That means that they’d outlived their usefulness.”
    “I don’t understand why the other two just sat there watching as you tortured the first.”
    “They were shackled to the wall.”
    “Oh.”
    “Look, it’s not like I dated these women for years, taking them to the opera and shit like that. I met these chicks on the streets, junkies, whores, what not. They were more than happy to come back to my place. I took care of them. I made sure they had whatever they needed. They just had to do the one little thing for me in the process, and they could live out their lives like they wanted to.”
    “And that one little thing was to bear your children.”
    He smiled and settled back in the chair, scratching his neck. He stared through the lens.
    “You’ve asked enough questions for now,” LeRoy said. “Now, it’s my turn to ask a few.”
    “If you will please, Mr. Trottier—”
    “If you want me to answer the questions that you’re really looking for the answers to, then you’re going to have to answer mine, or this interview is over. You and I both know that you have no business here. I’ve already been tried and convicted, and since I killed a cop, it’s only a matter of time before I get myself killed in here as well. So if it’s answers that you want, then you just shut your damn mouth and listen!”
    His eyes blazed in their darkened sockets. He leapt to his feet and pointed with both fingers directly into the camera. There was a moment of silence as the camera shook. Slowly, LeRoy collected himself and slunk into his seat, staring off to the left before returning his stare to the screen.
    “I have two simple questions. You answer them both honestly, and I’ll tell you what you came here to find out.”
    He pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his orange jumper suit. Forcing the pack back into the pocket, he produced a pack of matches and lit it, tossing the empty book onto the floor. Dragging deeply, he exhaled a large plume of gray smoke and then rubbed his eyes. He began speaking, his voice low and cracking.
    “I know you’re not a lawyer or a filmmaker. I can see in your eyes that you know a whole lot more than you’re letting on. Judging from your pretty little hands, I would guess that you’ve never had to work an honest day in your life, but you have soft eyes, which means you were never meant to. My money says that you’re here because you’ve seen the children, helped them in some way, but you saw something that isn’t quite sitting right with you. And from the look in your eyes, I can tell… you saw him.”
    Harry sighed from behind the camera.
    “Mr. Trottier,” he said slowly. “Who—”
    “My questions first!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. 
    A guard walked in from the left side of the camera, gripped LeRoy tightly by the shoulders and forced him back down into his chair. Seizing him tightly by the neck, he squeezed, the tendons popping out in his arms as he leaned down and whispered something into LeRoy’s ear.
    LeRoy looked into the camera, and nodded, the guard slinking back into the corner of the room out of view of the camera. 
    “As I was saying,” LeRoy said calmly, glancing back into the corner of the room where the guard leaned against the door, holding his baton across his folded arms. “Tell me, where are the children?”
    “I don’t know.”
    LeRoy looked him up and down, his bottom lip protruding as his dark eyes narrowed.
    “You’re lying to me,” he whispered, leaning forward. “Thing is, I already know what happened to those kids, but for some reason, it’s important that I hear it from your lips. I need you to tell me your part in all of this.”
    “I found three of them dead,” Harry said, his voice trembling. “I ran off with the fourth and turned it in to the county. For close to a week, they were unable to track down the original parents of the child, but by the time they did, well, you obviously know the rest from that end.”
    “So where is my son now?”
    “He was placed with an adoptive family.”
    “Good.”
    “Good?”
    “That’s how it needs to be done.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “My second question. What did he look like?”
    “Who?”
    “You know… him.”
    “I guess I’m not sure who—”
    “Listen,” LeRoy said, focused intently on the camera. “I’ve felt his presence. I’ve tasted his breath in the darkness. I’ve heard him in my house in the middle of the night. I’ve fallen asleep to the screams of my wives as he raped them. But I’ve never seen him. Do you know how I know that you have?”
    “How?”
    “It’s in your eyes. The same emptiness that I recognized in those of my wives after they first saw him. It’s unmistakable. Almost like the light in your eyes burns out.”
    “Those were his children?”
    “My question first.”
    “Are you saying that those children are the spawn of—”
    “My question first!” LeRoy shouted, leaping from the table and slamming both fists down.
    Immediately he looked to the corner to the guard, raising both palms in front of him as he slowly eased back into the chair. His hands shook as he coaxed the guard into remaining in the corner with a look. Turning back to Harry, he lowered his head, looking straight up from beneath his brow.
    “Please?”
    “All right,” Harry started, resetting the camera on his shoulder. “It was very dark and I was about fifty yards away. I saw him first, kneeling beside the house, barely more than a dark shape against the moonlit snow. Then he rose to his feet. He was tall, very tall. He stood straight, you know, his posture. He wore a long cloak or something along those lines, frayed at the end, the tattered edges flowing in the wind. He walked up the front stairs of the house, onto the porch, where he stopped and looked over at me. His face was dark, but I could feel his eyes on me. I could feel him smiling at me even though I couldn’t see a damned thing other than his shape. He turned and walked into the house, and that was when I ran off.”
    LeRoy sat there with his eyes closed, soaking every detail into his mind like a sponge. His lips curled at the corners with a grin and he looked peaceful, if only for the moment.
    “Thank you,” he whispered, inhaling deeply. Rubbing his thumbs together, he slowly opened his lids and stared right into the camera. “Now, I’d answer your question, but I believe you already know the answer.”
    Silence filled the room.
    “Know this,” LeRoy whispered, leaning in close. “That child, wherever he is, will be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. That is his sole purpose.”
    “Time’s up,” the guard said from the corner of the room, once again appearing in the center of the frame. He raised LeRoy to his feet by the back of his shirt, turning him with a shove and leading him out of the room.
    The camera ran on for a moment, filming the empty seat across the table before the screen finally went white.
    “I don’t understand,” Scott said, turning to Harry, who was already rewinding the film through the camera.
    “There’s something else I need to show you,” he said, stopping the film and flipping the switch so that it showed each frame one by one like a slide projector. “Every tenth frame, not so often that you can truly see it while it’s playing, but if you slow it down…”
    Scott turned back to the screen and watched the image of LeRoy as he moved just the smallest fraction from one frame to the next. It was the portion of the interview where he leapt to his feet, his face slowly reddening from one frame to the next until…
    “Holy shit,” Scott whispered.
    This frame was different. It followed the others in their progression, but this one was dramatically different. The skin had disappeared from LeRoy’s face, leaving only the image of his skull; the eyes vanished into the hollow black holes. 
    The next frame was back to normal, as was the next series in the progression, until he finally sat back down in the chair and stared at the camera, the flesh falling from his face to reveal the skull once again. Harry left the projector on that one image.
    “I need to go now,” Scott said, rising from the chair and opening the door, the image of the skeletal LeRoy projected on the back of his coat. He walked out into the hallway.     
    Passing through the kitchen and into the living room, he headed straight toward the front door, throwing it wide and stepping out into the blowing snow. He bounded down the steps and around the car, hopping into the driver’s side door and shoving the key into the ignition. Bringing the Jeep roaring to life, he glanced back at the house. Harry was standing in the doorway, just staring at him. He dropped the car into drive and headed down the gravel driveway.
 
VIII
Sunday. November 13th
10 p.m.
    Scott stared up at the ceiling in the darkened bedroom, the ceiling fan casting long shadows like arms from the blades. In his mind, he recounted the day’s events starting with the hat he had found in the kitchen. It all seemed surreal, as though he had seen it in a movie. He was distanced from it, somehow. The entire morning was enveloped by some sort of fog, some element that made it all seem as though it had never happened, yet the memories were still there. And they were definitely real.
    After he had left Harry’s little house, he had driven straight down through the hills, focused intently on the road ahead, not even glancing to either side of the road for fear of what he might see. Deciding to spend the rest of the day trying to deal with the everyday aspects of real life, the things that he could control, he had stopped by the model home at the front of the development. 
    There had been a handful of cars parked out front, and he had parked about a half block down the street. He had walked across the street, ascending the front steps of the house and walked right in. He recognized three real estate agents right away, each guiding a couple through the main level. The living room—which had been converted to a sales office, complete with a desk for the agents, and one for the mortgage broker who sat there filling out paperwork with a younger couple, in the center of the room—was nearly shoulder to shoulder with people.
    Passing through, he stopped in the kitchen, peering down the stairs in hopes of finding the senior partner in the agency. But, of course, he wasn’t there, most likely vacationing somewhere in the Caribbean or something. His stress level rising through the roof, Scott had decided to try to sell some himself, following the groups around as they were led through the house, pointing out the small details that no one would ever have noticed. 
    It turns out they had already sold four that morning, so the magic number was down to two. Feeling the smallest bit of relief, he had headed home, settling into the couch to watch the Avalanche take on the Red Wings. The game had gone into double overtime before Yelle had clinched it with a beautiful backhand that slipped past Osgood, right through the Five Hole. It had been incredibly nice, to have lost himself in the game for more than four hours, forgetting, for the most part, about everything that had transpired during the day. But as soon as the goal had hit the net, it had all come flooding back to him, overwhelming him as he sat in the conspicuously silent and empty room.
    He walked to the kitchen, pacing back and forth as he stared at the telephone on top of the counter. There was one way to determine for sure whether this whole episode was real, or if it was all just in his head. He had to call Tim Williams’s wife. Surely, if he were, indeed, dead, then they would at least be looking for him.
    Everything had just seemed so insane. Was it even possible that he had seen what he thought he saw? He had barely slept a wink over the course of the last week, and he knew that it was all-too-possible that his mind was just playing tricks on him. The old man he had run into out in the woods could just as easily have been some crazed, bordering on lunatic, psycho, but there was definitely a part of him that had been sucked in, mesmerized, by the old man’s story.
    Grabbing the phone from the receiver, he stared at the number pad, waiting for the light green glowing numbers to form some sort of pattern in his brain. It had been close to five years since he had called Tim, and he hadn’t actually seen him since the wedding. He had always been far too busy to join the old crew for their Saturday morning golf games, and, truth be told, he wasn’t really a big fan of golf in the first place. 
    Opening the top drawer beneath the counter, he pulled out a phone book, dropping it onto the table with a loud thud that echoed through the kitchen. Thumbing through the pages, he stopped at the long line of Williams, his index finger tracing down the column of first names until he reached Timothy. There were two of them, but only one that actually lived in the city. Rehearsing the number in his head, he dialed, the phone ringing dully in his ear.
    “Hello?” a female voice answered on the other line.
    “Hi. This is Scott Ramsey, I was wondering if Tim was around?”
    “No,” the voice said, an underriding level of hostility coming through loud and clear.
    “Do you know when he might be back?”
    “He’s not coming back.”
    “Oh… um…”
    “Coward just left. He went out for his morning jog, and just never came back. At first, I was really worried. I drove around the neighborhood looking for him, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. It wasn’t until after I called the police that I started looking around in the bedroom. Would you like me to tell you what I found?”
    “That’s all right—”
    “I found an envelope filled with pictures. Pictures of another woman. There was also a stack of love letters. I only read the first two before I started to feel like a complete idiot.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “So do you really think that I care if I ever see him again? I tell you, if I ever see him again, he will rue the day…”
    “You don’t think that something might have happened to him?”
    “I’m hoping, because of he ever shows his face around here again he’ll wish that it had.”
    “Is it possible that—”
    “And the least any of you guys could have done was tell me. Don’t you think that I have a right to know if my husband is fucking some little slut?”
    “I had no idea. I really haven’t talked to Tim in a long—”
    “Well, if you ever do, you tell him that I said I hope he burns in hell.”
She hung up the phone with a crash. 
    Scott just stared down at the phone in his hand as the dialtone resonated through the kitchen. Maybe it was possible that Tim had just taken off, and everything he had seen that morning had been an illusion, but he knew that he was just grasping at straws. But there was something that was puzzling him even more.
    As he lay beneath the swirling ceiling fan, mesmerized by the spinning shadow, he couldn’t help but think about what he had seen at the old man’s house. He was confident that he had understood everything that he had seen, but the question was why. Why had Harry shown him all of that stuff, what bearing did it have on anything at this point? Was the old man trying to say that the devil walked the woods around here?
    The thought was ludicrous: the paranoia of the mentally deranged.
    Rolling from his back onto his side, he cradled the pillow beneath his right arm. The sudden shift alerted him to the pressure in his bladder. Sighing, he clambered out of the bed and across the plush carpeting that pressed up between his toes. His heavy eyes guided him through the darkness to the open bathroom door.
    Dim moonlight filtered in through the window opposite the sink, the lines of light that filed through the horizontal blinds crossing the mirror. Lining up with the toilet, he unsnapped the access hole in his pajama bottoms and stared up at the ceiling as he opened the floodgates. He yawned, his open mouth warping from side to side. Finishing the job, he lowered the lid and flushed, sliding over in front of the sink, his shadow only a black shape in the mirror as it interrupted the lines of light. 
    Running a thin stream of cold water, he shoved his hands beneath it, rubbing them together. Raising his wet hands, he ran them through his hair, finishing by rubbing his eyes.
    He opened his eyes, small particles of water clinging to his long lashes. He glanced into the mirror one last time on his way back to bed.
    He froze, his heart leaping into his throat. There was another shadow in the mirror. 
    The air in his lungs grew stale and he was unable to breathe. Slowly, he turned, his fists clenched at his sides, preparing for whatever might be behind him. His pulse pounded as he raised his eyes, only to find himself staring at the light blue, horizontal blinds that covered the window. 
There was nothing there.          
    He had passed the point of being tired days ago, and maybe this was just his mind’s way of letting him know that it was now officially time to get some sleep. Shaking his head, he shuffled back into the bedroom, his legs still shaking. He was just about to climb onto the bed when he heard something behind him.
    Whirling, he stared at the entertainment center, the blackened screen reflecting the thin light that crept into the bedroom beneath the curtains. The top shelf was lined with spare change, his wallet and keys, and a small lamp, a VCR and DVD player stacked on the shelf beneath. But there was nothing else over there.
    Turning, he climbed onto the bed on all fours, heading toward the pillow.
    The noise came again, this time louder, like the sound of footsteps on floorboards, muffled by a thick layer of carpeting.
    Scott whirled, toppling onto his side on the bed and stared back at the entertainment center. There was a large shadow looming over the bed. He could make out the outline of a man, nearly a full head taller than he was. The shadow lingered for only a moment before dissolving into the darkness, the silhouetted visage dripping into a pool of its own blackened form on the floor.
    His whole body shuddered at once, the overwhelming reaction to the fear ripping through his flesh, crippling him as he lay on his side atop the mess of blankets on the bed. The breath that had been trapped in his lungs escaped in loud gasps, and he fought with his own flesh to make himself move. His wide, unblinking eyes stared at the edge of the bed, waiting for whatever had been there to materialize once again, but there was no movement in the slightest, not even the sparkling motes of dust reflecting from the moonlight that slipped in through the window.
    His trembling hands pried him from the bed, lifting him to his haunches as he inched closer to the edge of the bed. Peering down his nose, he tried to see the floor, to see if there was, indeed, anything there. Rising to his knees, he gazed down at the floor, the light blue carpeting swathed in shadows, but there was nothing tangible there. No swirling pool of darkness as he had expected.
    Climbing off the bed, he walked over to the dresser where he had just shed his clothes before donning his pajamas. Pulling off his nightshirt, he flipped on the light, once again slipping into the jersey he had worn earlier in the day. He tugged off his bottoms and climbed back into his jeans, stepping into the rubber bottomed slippers that lay on the floor, side by side, to the right of the oak dresser. 
    Slowly, he crept through the room, peering deeply into every corner and recess, looking for any clue that might help to rationalize what he had seen. Turning to the left, his eyes still blinded by the sudden burst of light from the overhead fan, he stepped into the darkness in the bathroom, his left hand fidgeting on the wall while his fumbling fingers tried to flip the light switch.
    The line of globe lights mounted into the fixture above the mirror suddenly burst to life, the bright yellow filaments burning brightly as he scanned the room. There was the outline of a human form visible through the opaque glass of the shower stall.
    But as suddenly as they had come on, the lights in the bathroom burnt out with a loud pop, the glass from all four bulbs showering the floor with tiny fragments of glass. His feet crunching on the jagged shards, he inched toward the shower, both trembling hands open in front of him. Latching onto the handle to the shower door, he yanked it open, the magnetic seal popping before the metal rim of the glass door clanged against the bathroom wall.    
    His heart seizing in his chest, he stared into the darkness, preparing to lunge at whoever was in there. But all he could see was his bath towel hanging from the showerhead, the long dark blue cotton looking black against the rich blue marble.
    Warm air traced the back of his neck, sending goosebumps straight down his spine in waves. He could almost taste the stale air is as it warmed his flesh, stale and reeking of carrion. Whirling, he stared straight into the darkened face of a large shadow, two thin slits glowing amber from the pits of blackness in the face.
    Throwing himself backward, he landed on the floor, his lower back slamming into the base of the shower. He stared up at the figure, eyes locked on the thin crescents that glowed in the center of the face.
    “There’s something I want to show you,” the figure said in a deep voice, the words tripping icily over his lips as they cascaded down to the floor where Scott lay, trembling.
    And as soon as it had spoken, the shape was gone, disappearing into the shadows. Scott was left string into the suddenly blinding glare of the light from the bedroom. He sat there for a moment, his body paralyzed from the shudder that passed over every inch of his skin, stabbing sharply into the tissue beneath. Fighting through the onslaught of tremors, Scott scrambled to his feet and dashed into the bedroom, his frantic stare scouring the room for any sign of the apparition that he had seen, but there was nothing but the humming from the fan as it circled overhead.
    The voice played over and over in his head, repeating the lone line that it had uttered to the point that within his brain it sounded as if the voice were all around him in the room, taunting him. There was a familiar intonation in the voice, which sounded as though the words were drawn through a throat full of mud, but he couldn’t quite place it.
     He turned towards the bedroom door, which was still closed tightly. 
There was a loud cracking sound from behind him. Spinning, he faced the wall of windows. The curtains swelled as a gust of wind tossed them into the air from where they had rested against the cold glass. He bounded over the bed, grabbing the shades and yanking them to the side. A long crack splintered across the center of the window, the sound of splitting glass filling the air as the crack continued to widen, the frigid winter wind seeping through the minuscule gap.
Something caught his eye, a dark shape cast against the snow-covered lawn below. He could feel the eyes from the shadow staring up at him from below, their intense stare burning straight through him, searing the backs of his own eyeballs. Their eyes locked in a captured gaze for only the briefest of moments before the shadow turned, slowly crossing the lawn toward the line of trees at the very edge.
Turning, Scott leapt from the bed, darting across the room and bursting through the closed bedroom door. He hit the hall at a full sprint, leaping down the stairs at the end as he turned and sped towards the kitchen. Slapping the pin that held the door brace in place, he pulled out the stopper and unlocked the sliding glass door, throwing it wide. He bounded out onto the deck. He could barely make out the dark form of the shape against the dark outline of the row of trees, the branches barely even bending as the figure passed through.
Leaping down the snow-heaped stairs, the coldness snapping at his exposed ankles and soaking into the cloth slippers, he pounced onto the lawn. His breath burst from his lungs in plumes that trailed behind him as he sprinted across the virgin snow, focusing on the thin gap in the trees where the shape had merged with the shadows. Throwing up his hands in front of his face, he hit the line of trees without even slowing, the needle-fortified branches grabbing at his clothing.
The skin on the backs of his hands peeled back in lines, fresh blood piercing through the cold, red flesh as the hurdled through the thick undergrowth. Feeling a sharp pain crumple the toes on his right foot, his elbows landed in the snow, his face ramming his hands into the snow as the frosty powder filled his ears and covered his forehead and hair. He floundered there for a moment, fighting through the pain and the cold, trying desperately to regain his feet.
His right foot, the toes bloodied and twisted, fished through the snow for the slipper that had fallen from his foot when he had tripped. Finally slipping his bright red foot into the snow-packed shoe, he pushed himself to his feet and stared into the small clearing in front of him. 
The shadow stared at him for the far end of the clearing, watching him for a moment before merging into the wall of branches beyond. The thin moonlight that slipped through the cloud-infested sky made the field in front of him glitter, the carpet of snow uninterrupted by even a single footprint. His eyes scanned the mass of foliage for anything that would betray the fact that there had been something there. But there was nothing. Only the thin wisps of powder that kicked up from the frozen earth, dancing in unison before slamming into the scrub oak, rattling the branches.
Racing through the small meadow, piles of powder kicking up behind his heels, Scott dashed into the next wave of trees, staring down at his feet, his arms covering his forehead, trying not to trip over the twisted trunks of the scrub oak. Only the most ambitious rays of light crept through the dense canopy, the darkness swelling from all sides. The sleeves of his shirt snagged on the barren branches of the brush, the needles from the long, intertwining branches ripping at the bare skin on his forearms.
The frigid night air nipped at his bare skin, his running nose stinging mightily. Slowly his flesh began to numb. His hair, dampened from the falling snow, froze atop his head, the individual strands clumping together as they crystallized. The blood in his feet throbbed, pounding painfully, with each step into the deep snow. But still, his body forced his weary legs to run, his chest burning from the lack of oxygen in the thin, crisp night air.
Bursting through the edge of the forest, he tumbled down a small hill, his body becoming weightless. He slammed down on his right shoulder, his face landing only inches from the freezing water along the icy bank of the river. The stones that littered the bank had torn through the shoulder of his jersey, his lacerated and bloody skin burning like fire, the snow that covered him from head to toe doing little to soothe the screaming wound.
Rising to his knees, he winced back the searing pain and stared down the bank of the river. There was no sign of the shadowy figure. The wall of trees on the far side of the river was unbroken by anything, save the clouds of snow that gusted past, the wind ripping the flakes along the surface of the water. The babbling of the water filled drowned out all other sound but the high-pitched scream of the wind shredding through the branches of the evergreens.
Staggering to his feet, he cupped his right shoulder with his left hand, pulling it free only long enough to inspect the blood that coated the damp surface of his palm before replacing it, cradling his open wound tightly beneath the firm pressure. His mouth hung wide, his lungs fighting through the crisp breeze to attain the oxygen that they desperately needed. His ankles rolled over the stones hidden beneath the snow as he stumbled on, heading upstream toward the mountains.
Every inch of his frozen flesh cried out for warmth, his trembling hands frozen into claws. It was all he could do to force his body to move forward, knowing that his only other option was to slink back home, not sure of the exact direction in which he had run. Contest: I have inscribed copies of both Species and The Legacy (first one in gets their choice) to give away to the first two people to email me at michael@mcbridehorror.com and tell me what they think of The Bloodspawn so far. Really. Now back to your reading… -M
The fierce wind carried with it another sound, a vague, muffled sound that was barely strong enough to draw attention to itself. As he pressed further, straight into the torrential breeze, the sound grew louder, separating itself from the howling of the wind.
It was a voice, a human voice, riding along the flow of air from some hidden location upstream. They were pained, tortured cries, growing more intense with each passing second. 
The bank of the river rose higher to his right, leaving him only a thin line of bank to tread between the wall of rock to his right and the raging waters of the half-frozen river to his left. Echoing through the channel, the cries intensified, filling his ears and the noise congealed, forming unmistakable words.
“Someone help me!” the voice cried into the night.
Scott quickened his pace to a gallop, traversing the rocky bank as quickly as he could without sending himself headfirst into the frozen waters from which he knew he might never be able to crawl free. He placed his right hand on the steep bank, the sandstone crumbling beneath his touch, sending miniature avalanches of sand cascading down about his feet. Long, rugged roots broke from the surface of the bank, jutting forth right in front of his face. He barely saw them in time to duck or swat them away from his face. The voice sounded as though it was right in front of him now.
“Help me, please!” 
He was right upon it now, the wailing coming from all sides. Ground-level branches from the trees atop the bank above draped down, the long, needled branches covering the surface of the bank, only the bottom portion visible above the snow-drifted ground. The muffled voice called to him from some hidden location. His scraped and frozen hands ripped back the branches, the voice sounding clear as day. Holding back the branches with his elbows, he thrust his face close to the bank, exposing a rusted grate built straight into the bank of the river.
The voice funneled through from the cavernous tunnel beyond, the darkness entombed within so thick that it appeared impenetrable. Beneath the wailing voice, he could hear the padding of footsteps: uneven as they splashed through the ice-covered drainage that slid down the middle of the tunnel into the river.
    “Is someone there?” Scott called into the tunnel, his fists wrapping tightly around the grate; his flesh turning a faded color of rust as it flaked off in his grasp.
    “Oh, Jesus!” the voice called. “Please, help me!”
    Scott could see the faint outline of a darkened form limping toward him, barely discernible from the darkness that surrounded it.
    Splish, splash. Splish, splash.
    The man within stumbled on, falling to his knees several times before slowly pushing himself back up to his feet, a little slower each time.
    “What’s happening?” Scott shouted, yanking on the grate, trying to pry it from where it had been drilled into the sandstone. The grate rocked slightly, lines of sand tumbling down the slope from the secure bolts.
    “Get me out of here!” the voice shouted, the figure nearly to the grate.
    Scott scanned the ground, finally grabbing a large rock from the bank and raising it into the air.
    A hand burst through a hole in the grate, lines of blood streaming over the knuckles as it grabbed for him.
    “Stand back!” Scott yelled, slamming the rock down on the top bolt over and over, his fingernails bending back.
    “He’s in here!” the voice screamed, quivering. “You have to hurry!”
    The sound of the rock landing atop the steel bolt echoed through the darkness of the tunnel as he slammed down the stone over and over. There was a loud ping when the bolt snapped, the gate groaning as it settled backwards into the tunnel, it’s rusted metal edge dragging across the sandstone.
    Another hand appeared from the grate, grabbing him by the shirt and tugging him up against the grate. He stared through, into the darkness, the face of the man trapped within only inches from his own. In the dim light, he could only partially make out the features on the man’s face, but that was more than enough for Scott.
    “Brian?” he stuttered.
    “You’ve got to get me out of here!” he said, releasing Scott’s shirt and turning to stare back into the tunnel. 
    Scott fell to his knees, slamming the rock atop the bolt that secured the bottom portion of the grate.
“Stay back!” Brian shouted, pressing his back up against the grate. Scott was helpless but to watch. “I said stay back!”
The bolt was bent, the rusted threads giving slightly with each drop of the rock. Just a few more times and it would break.
“Our Father who art in heaven,” the voice cried as the body slumped to the ground, the scrambling legs trying to propel the body backward through the gate. “Hallowed be Thy name…”
The voice trailed off into a gurgle. A wave of warm fluid splashed through the grate, landing on Scott’s back, soaking into his hair as he slammed the rock down one final time, snapping off the head of the bolt. He whirled, facing the grate before once again wrapping his fists around the cold steel. The ground all around him was stained red, the warm fluid trickling down the back of his neck and along the bare flesh that covered his spine.
A scraping sound echoed through the tunnel as the body was dragged away from the grate, the back of the head bouncing off the rocky surface before slipping into the shallow stream that ran down the center of the floor.
“Brian!” Scott shouted, yanking on the grate.
It gave only slightly with each jerk, the bank crumbling to dust around it before he was finally able to pull it free. He nearly fell onto his back beneath the weight of the grate, but was able to push it to the side at the last minute, stumbling to the right and nearly careening into the river. 
Regaining his balance, he ducked into the passage, the frigid water immediately covering his slippers and biting into his bare flesh beneath. There was absolutely no visibility. The darkness took on a life of its own, swarming around him. He ran, both hands stretched straight out in front of him so as not to run headfirst into a wall. His frozen toes snagged on something, sending him sprawling forward onto the floor, his hands splashing into the three inches of water after cracking through the thin layer of ice that covered it. 
His body landed on something soft, cushioning his fall. It had a warmth to it. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out the outline of a body, lying in the middle of the stream on the ground. The warmth from the chest flowed into his shirt, warming his own frozen skin. He placed his hand atop the body, running it through the thickly flowing blood that covered the chest, the fingertips snagging on the large tatter of flesh that stood out from the wound right in the center. Jagged fragments of bone had torn through the skin from the enormous hole in the sternum, Scott’s probing fingers sinking several inches into the chest cavity of the quickly draining corpse.
Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled forward, catching himself on his hands before finally regaining his balance. He turned, staring down at the corpse of Brian James, the face contorted into the remnants of the last attempt to cry out, only to be silenced by whatever had ripped the enormous chunk free from his ribs.
Wrenching his gaze from the body, Scott stared deep into the heart of the darkness that pulsed down the long tunnel, trying desperately to peel back the shadows to unveil whoever it was that slunk further away from him. There wasn’t a sound, save for the water trickling slowly beneath the thin surface of ice along the floor. He turned to stare out of the tunnel and into the night, to debate one last time whether to run back out into the dim light, or to press on into the tunnel.
Movement caught his attention in front of the hole leading out into the night. The body that lay formerly motionless on the floor was slowly rising into the air, the arms rising out to the sides. The head rested on the shoulder to the right before falling forward, hanging limply against the chest. The flowing blood that raced from the chest of the body spilled past the pants, running over the toes of the shoes and dripping onto the cracked ice set askew atop the water. A groaning sound bellowed from the belly of the body as it hung in midair. The hands hung, palms upward, at the end of the arms, bouncing as the body finally stopped, hanging motionless against the night.
“Help me,” a meek voice sputtered through a mouthful of blood, the crimson fluid flowing over the lower lip and splattering to the floor.
Scott watched in horror, his feet frozen where they stood. Brian shuddered, his whole body convulsing. His eyes rolled back into his head as the unseen hands that held him in the air tore at him from either side. With one swift motion, the body was ripped in two, the insides falling with a sloppy thud to the floor as the shell was tossed to either side, landing in a heap against the base of the walls to either side.
Whirling, Scott raced deeper into the tunnel, his eyes fixed intently on the thickening darkness, his legs churning with a will of their own. He could feel that hot breath of the apparition on the back of his neck as he reached deep down, grasping to find another level to propel him from whatever it was that skulked through the tunnel behind him.
His footsteps echoed through the confines of the shrinking tunnel as his feet hammered on the thin ice, splashing into the frigid water below. He was drenched in the freezing fluid; his slippers soaked through and through, his pants saturated up the leg past the knee. But there was no time to think about that, no time to allow the sensation to cripple his mind. He focused solely on the sound of his heavy exhalations as he urged himself on. His chest, burning from the lack of oxygen, ached immensely, his arms and legs numbed as the muscles pumped over and over, propelling him further into the darkness.
His squinting eyes were useless. There wasn’t even enough light to see his hand right in front of his face, let alone the twenty feet of tunnel in front of him at a full sprint. The smell of the tunnel was getting thicker, the stagnation of mud and whatever lived beneath the still water overwhelming his senses.
    In his mind, he tried to figure out how far he had run, and in what direction, but he didn’t have the slightest clue. He was just beginning to wonder if the tunnel stretched out forever when he slammed face-first into an earthen wall, his loosely-closed fists crumpling into his wrists. His legs drove out from beneath him as he became weightless. There was a loud splash, droplets of the freezing water splattering his face. His back landed squarely on the ground, bolts of pain shooting out into his body from his tailbone.
    Scrambling back to his feet, he nearly cried out in pain, every inch of his flesh screaming for reprieve, but he was able to stifle it, not knowing how close the creature might be to him. Running his hands along the wall, he found a metal framed hole, the hinges bare from where the grate had been ripped of. Measuring the width with his arm, he took a step back. It was barely tall enough for him to crawl through.
    Leaning over, he clutched his back and grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground. One at a time, he turned just slightly, throwing them away from himself to try to determine if there was another way out. One by one, he tossed them, as they ricocheted off of the cavern wall, coming back at him with nearly the same velocity with which he originally tossed them. Slowly he moved to about ninety degrees and launched one. The immediate crackle as it slammed into a wall right in front of him wasn’t there: a long pause followed before the pebble skipped off the ice, bouncing for several feet before settling.
    He placed his right hand on the wall, following it as it appeared to go straight along the same direction he had just fired the rock, running parallel with the river outside. Grabbing one more pebble, he launched it into the darkness, just to double check, as he knew that there was no room for error. 
    The rock whistled past his ear, soaring into the darkness. He waited anxiously for the sound of the pebble bouncing along the frozen ground, but there was nothing. He waited a moment longer before tossing his last pebble down the invisible hallway. But there wasn’t a sound from this one either.
    Scott just stood there for a moment, wondering what the hell they had landed on that would make absolutely no sound. Suddenly, the answer became quite obvious.
    The first rock buzzed through the damp air, skipping off of his cheek before clipping his ear and bouncing off into the darkness. The second tagged him right in the back of the head as he had already whirled, his hands fumbling along the wall in search of the tunnel carved within.
    Grasping the lip of the hole, he boosted himself up, ducking his head beneath the metal rim. The floor was damp with a thin layer of ice formed over the dirt. His back scraped along the roof of the tunnel, bruising his spine, but not tearing through his shirt. Scrambling as fast as he could, he could feel the dirt pressing beneath his fingernails, building painfully.
    His heaving breath echoed all around him, closing in from the slowly lowering ceiling.     The pants were the first thing to tear, followed by the skin of his knees; the thin lines of blood smearing across the kneecap.
    There was a sharp pain in his right hand, followed quickly by another in his left and he recoiled in pain. He dabbed at his palms with his fingertips. He could feel the wounds, but there was nothing sticking out of the flesh. It had felt like glass piercing the thick skin on his palms. Carefully, he ran his fingers along the ground, trying to find what had cut him so that he could just move it and hurry on his way. There was a rattling sound as his right hand knocked a small stack of whatever littered the floor together. He ran his fingers over the surface, noting the curves and the… fur?
    He tapped down the object, feeling the long, hairy tail coming from the back end of the creature. They were rat carcasses.
    Running his arm across the floor, he could hear the bones clattering against one another and slamming into the wall, their deteriorated forms falling apart. The floor was positively littered with them. The brittle, aged bones had more than likely snapped beneath his weight, the jagged tips forcing their way into his palms. Using his forearm like a brush, he shoved the skeletons, the tattered flesh and fur hanging from random connections, to either side.
    A thin line of darkness appeared in the pitch black ahead of him, a beacon of light coming through the small tunnel. It grew lighter and lighter as he forced himself on, his hand finally grabbing for the floor, but finding nothing but air. He toppled forward out of the tunnel. His hands landed first before his head slammed into the dirt floor, the rest of his body rolling over his neck, his back slamming squarely onto the ground.
    Wincing in pain, he forced his eyes open, staring around the dark room. Thin rays of light passed through the seals around the boarded windows. It wasn’t much, but he was able to make out enough of the outlines of objects to figure out what they were. A tall, cylindrical object loomed over him, long pipes issuing straight up and into the ceiling. It was a hot water heater; making the taller, rectangular one a furnace.
    Rolling onto all fours, he pushed himself to his feet, the dust and dirt from the floor sealing the wounds on his palms and bare knees. Limping, he followed the dull outline of what appeared to be stairs straight ahead, his footsteps echoing off the rotting wooden planks as he slowly ascended, the shredded flesh on his right palm wrapped tightly around the banister, tugging him upward. Shouldering the door at the top of the stairs, it fell back, swinging with a squeak into the adjacent room.
    His heavily falling, weary footsteps pounded on the plywood floor, booming like thunder. The room beyond this small, dark cove was much brighter, light prodding into the darkness from all around the plywood sheets that covered the windows, clouds of dust lingering within the thin rays arching toward the faded wood floor. 
    Inching forward, his eyes fixed on the door in the wall straight ahead of him. He reached out for the doorknob as he closed the last five feet. The knob was cold within his hand, the brass ball soothing the tears in his palm. He twisted the knob, the breath finally starting to replenish itself within his chest.
    The knob wouldn’t budge.
    Shaking it, he yanked it backward, but it was sealed in place. He stopped, whirling around the room, and searched for any other way to get out. The windows had been boarded, but they had been sealed from the inside, the bent nails ringed around the boards. Stumbling, he grabbed onto one of them, taking a moment to slide his fingers over the top of the wooden plank, making sure that he had a good, secure grip.
    He spun; his heart pounding in his chest. He still clung to the top of the board. There was something in the room with him. He could feel it now: a thin line of ice creeping up his spine, the dust in the room swirling around the unseen form of the body that knifed through the still air. 
    Turning back to the window, his breath coming fast and furious past his lips, he yanked on the board, the nails screeching as though they were being pulled from metal. It bowed inward, buckling along the middle. Bracing his feet on the wall, he pressed down on the bending sheet of wood, using his own weight to free the plywood from the wall.
    Tossing the sheet aside, he leapt onto the windowsill, oblivious to the fragmented glass that gouged into his already sliced palms, rolling out and dropping from the window into the snow. The wind roared through the valley, the snow driving in sheets as he cradled his clawed hands against his chest, staggering towards the road buried beneath the snow in the middle of the field. He looked back over his shoulder, only briefly, but long enough to recognize the house that he had just escaped from. It was the same house that haunted his dreams. The words were barely visible on the sign, the overhanging drift of snow covering the top half of the letters, but he could make them out all the same.
    “The Cavenaugh House.”
    And there was a shape in the window; the long hair from the head blowing about the darkened head on the swirling wind. He could feel the weight of the shadow’s stare, raising the hackles on his neck and shoulders. And there was one thing that he knew for certain at that instant, if whatever that was had wanted to kill him, it could have easily done so already. For whatever reason, it wanted to play with him, to somehow engage him in its macabre game. 
    Turning back to the road, he hobbled toward the line of trees, praying for them to shelter him even slightly from the arctic wind.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART SEVEN


Part 7



IX
Monday, November 14th
1 a.m.


    Harry awoke with a start. The howling wind screamed through the trees, the upper reaches of the bare branches of the elm scraping along the roof. There was a hollow pounding, creeping through the house, barely audible beneath the snow slamming into the wall behind his head like dirt in a windstorm. He rolled out of bed, his bare feet stinging from the cold floorboards, and crept through the darkened room. He stood in the doorway, intently listening as he fumbled along the wall for the light.
    Catching the switch, the fixture burst to life overhead just as a loud thump came from the front door. Running down the hallway, he turned into the kitchen, breezing through it and into the living room. He crossed the thick carpeting, heading straight toward the front door. Wrapping the cold knob tightly in his hand, he twisted the deadbolt and yanked the door inward. 
    A crumpled body fell into the room, landing on the floor. He could barely make out the number nineteen on the back of the snow-crusted shirt, the face lying flat on the floor.
    “My God,” Harry gasped.
    Reaching down, he placed one hand beneath each of the armpits and dragged the limp body inward, slamming the door shut. He rolled the cold figure onto his back, staring down at the face. Scott’s eyelids were closed tightly, a thin layer of ice having formed on his long lashes. The ice-matted hair was buried beneath a layer of snow, the bright red ears in direct contrast to the white that covered nearly every inch of the body. Ice clung to the stubble on his face, giving him the appearance of having a thick white beard.
    Dragging him across the floor, Harry pulled him to the base of the moss-rock fireplace, yanking a cushion from the chair and bracing it beneath Scott’s head. He ran to the hallway, throwing wide the thin door of the closet and tugging down a stack of blankets from the top shelf. Racing back into the living room, he stripped the wet, frozen shirt off of Scott’s chest, and yanked the torn, snow-covered pants off, tossing them into the corner of the room. Wrapping Scott tightly in the blankets, one layer after another, he hurried to the side of the fireplace, pulled several logs from the stack and shoved them into the fireplace, then dashed back into the kitchen for a pile of newspaper. 
    Shoving the paper beneath the stack of logs, he grabbed the box of matches from the right of the pile of wood and threw back the sliding sleeve of the box, the matches falling all over the floor. Grabbing one, he scraped the white tip of the wooden match along the surface of the rock wall. The flame burst from the tip of the match, a tuft of black smoke filling the air around it. Covering the flame with his cupped hand, he lowered it beneath the soot stained rack, holding it still as the flame ignited the paper. The fire crept up the chimney; the bark on the logs crackling as it slowly charcoaled, the flame rising along the light pine, the individual fibers peeling back as they began to burn.
    Satisfied that the fire would continue to burn, he raced to the kitchen, glancing down at Scott, his chest rising and falling very slowly. The snow in his hair had begun to melt, spilling over his forehead like lines of sweat. Harry pulled the teapot from the sink, dumping the water he had been soaking in it down the drain. Throwing back the handle on the sink, he filled the can with water, rushing it to the stove and turning the knob on the burner to high. Throwing back the cabinet door directly above the stove, he grabbed a box of tea, pulling out a couple of bags and dropping them into the pot, closing the small circular lid and raising the wooden handle. He grabbed the small towel that hung from the handle of the oven.
    Turning, he walked back into the living room, and knelt next to the cushion beside Scott’s head. He ran the towel over Scott’s forehead, wiping away the cold lines of water that pooled beneath his hairline, dripping toward his brow. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, only interrupted by a wheezing, dry cough every couple of minutes. He couldn’t remember whether he was supposed to bring him back to temperature rapidly, or if he needed to do it slowly. It had been more than fifty years since he had actually practiced medicine, but he knew that prudence was the best course of action when it came to any form of treatment.  
    The color slowly rose in Scott’s face, the turnip-red, chapped skin fading to a more pinkish hue, the bright blue rings that rimmed his eyes tapering into a more normal brown. Crawling alongside the body, Harry peeled back the blankets that covered the toes, checking the fluorescent-red digits for frostbite. While not obvious at first, as the toes warmed beside the fire, he could tell that they were going to be fine. 
    “Thank heaven for small favors,” he said, covering the feet and creeping along the floor to where Scott’s head rolled slowly from side to side, his eyelids batting as he struggled to regain consciousness.
    “Mmphrm,” Scott groaned, his lips peeling back from his bared teeth. His gums were a sickly shade of gray.
    “Try not to talk,” Harry said, stroking the man’s forehead with the dampening towel. “Your body needs to rest.”
    With a jolt, Scott’s eyes opened wide, a quick breath bursting through his clenched teeth. He sat upright, his head whipping from side to side as he tried to make sense of the situation.
    “Where am I?” he shouted, panting, his eyes threatening to roll back into his head.
    “You’re at my house,” Harry said calmly. “You just showed up at the door.”
    Scott turned to look at him, his brow furrowing while he fought for recognition. Slowly, his look assuaged, his eyes softening. He laid his head back on the pillow. His eyes closed with a will of their own, and he spoke in a whisper.
    “I saw him…”
    “Saw who?”
    “Don’t know… killed Brian…”
    “Don’t talk now,” Harry said. “You need to get your rest.”
    “Tore him in half…”
    “Shhh.”
    Scott slipped back into the unconscious, his lips parting for his open mouth to breathe.
    Harry stared at him, wanting to know… no, needing to know more. But he knew that he was going to have to wait, as whatever Scott had been through that night was obviously something incredibly taxing, on both his mind and his body.
    The kettle whistled from the kitchen, the ringed lids bouncing up and down as the steam burst past it. Rising, he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a potholder from next to the stove, using it as a buffer between his hand and the scalding wooden handle. Walking it over to the sink, he set it down on the Formica, pulling two mugs from the cupboard above. Pouring the tea into the mugs, he set the kettle in the sink and grabbed the mugs by the handles, walking back into the living room.
    He set the mugs on the floor, waiting for them to cool, and walked back toward the kitchen, slipping down the hallway into his bedroom. He opened the closet door and changed into a button-down shirt and a pair of slacks. Stepping into a pair of slippers, he wandered into the hallway and took his first left into his study.
    He flipped the light switch and walked straight to the back of the room to the desk, pulling open the top drawer. Producing a thick black leather-bound notebook, a pen lodged in the spiral spine, he walked out of the room, turning off the light. He rounded the doorway, and headed back to the kitchen. Sitting on the floor next to Scott, he opened the book to the most recent entry and brought the pen to the page.
    He began to write; his cursive tightly jumbled and most likely only legible within his own mind. He wrote down every word that Scott had said as best as he could recall, glancing up at the clock atop the mantle to note the time. 
    The whole house moaned as the wind seemed to rock it from side to side, a loud thunk coming from the hall closet where something fell from the shelf to the floor, banging against the closed door. Harry flinched, the noise catching him off guard.
      The wind ripped the decaying shingles from the roof, dragging them across the wooden surface like fingernails, before tossing them into the rapidly piling snow in the yard. A shutter broke free from its bracket beside one of the windows off the main room, slamming repeatedly against the side of the house, threatening to break through the glass.
    Leaping to his feet, Harry raced to the window, sliding up the bottom pane of glass. He grabbed the shutter, not knowing what exactly he was going to do with it once he had it, but sure that the last thing he needed was for it to shatter the window. He gripped it tightly, the fierce wind struggling to tear it from his grasp. There was a loud creaking noise, and then a metallic snap. The wind tore the shutter from the siding and wrenched it from his grasp. It landed atop the snow, the wind picking it up and tossing it into the air several times before it caught in the cluster of branches of one of the evergreen shrubs.
    There was movement out there, in the night. Barely visible behind the mat of flakes that filled the sky, but he could tell that it was there. A dark shape stood in front of the cluster of spruces that lined the back of the yard. It was barely visible, and only for a moment as the swirling snow washed it away, leaving only the emptiness of the night.
    Closing the window, he pulled his body back through. Glancing one last time across the yard, he pulled the curtains tight, settling back into his seat on the floor. He had just begun to write in his notebook when Scott spoke.
    “How did I get here?”
    “You tell me.”
    “The last thing I remember, I was wandering down the road, trying to keep my arms across my chest so as not to lose any more heat.”
    Harry paused, nibbling the inside of his lip.
    “What did you see?” he asked, peering up over the top of his notebook.
    “I saw him rip Brian in half,” he said, a puzzled look sweeping across his face. “No, I didn’t see him. Brian just floated up into the air and was ripped apart.”
    “Who’s Brian?”
    “An old friend from when I was younger. Brian James. I haven’t really talked to him in… well, a long time.”
    “Start at the beginning, and spare no detail,” Harry said, raising a mug from the floor and handing it to Scott, who sipped loudly.
    Harry wrote in his journal, abbreviating everything that Scott said so that he could get it all down without forcing him to pause. His eyes never left the page as Scott spoke, starting with lying in bed trying to sleep. The lines of wear on his forehead deepened, creasing into furrows of shadow on his pale face cast by the dancing light from the flickering fire.
    “… And then I just woke up here,” Scott finished, setting the mug back on the floor and looking at Harry.
    Setting the notebook down on the floor and closing the cover, Harry rubbed his eyes and stared at Scott, whose heavy eyelids drooped half way over his irises. Sighing, Harry rose from the floor and walked into the kitchen.
    “Get some rest,” he said without turning around. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART EIGHT


Section 8

X
Monday, November 14th
11 a.m.


    Scott turned the handles on the wall, the water that steamed from the nozzle slowing to a drip. Opening the opaque glass door, the stepped out onto the blue bath mat and hurriedly dried himself with his towel. Wiping a small spot on the steam covered mirror, he combed his hair and slipped into his boxers, hustling out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.
    Harry was waiting downstairs for him to change. After allowing Scott to sleep until close to ten, he had brought him home so that he could change his clothes and freshen up. His body still resonated with a dull ache from the exposure to the cold the night before, the throbbing in his head slowly subsiding. The shower had definitely helped; the hot water soaking through his tender flesh had been nothing short of divine. He knew how lucky he was that he hadn’t been frostbitten, but he felt far more fortunate than that as the image of his old buddy Brian being ripped to shreds right in front of his eyes had burned a permanent scar into his mind, rising up constantly. His brain choked back the image, but it was never very far off, appearing from out of nowhere every time he closed his eyes long enough to blink.
    Grabbing a button down shirt and a tie from where they hung in the closet, he slipped right into the shirt, dangling the tie around his neck. Producing a pair if slacks from another hanger, he hopped into them, tucking in the shirt before buttoning them up. He tied the hanging tie, knotting it loosely beneath his chin. Walking over to the dresser, he pulled out a balled pair of socks and pulled them up to his calves, shuffling along the plushly carpeted floor to the closet and slipping into a nice pair of black leather shoes. Running his hands through his hair, he opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.
    He could see Harry sitting down in the living room at the bottom of the stairs, straight ahead. One of Scott’s large, rolled blueprints from atop his drafting table in the corner of the living room was spread out across his lap, and he was staring down at it quite intently, his eyes squinted as he tried to discern the thin contrast of the powder blue paper. He looked up briefly as Scott bounded down the stairs, before returning his attention back to the page.
    “Well?” Scott said, grabbing his coat from the closet in the entryway.
    “Just a minute,” Harry mumbled, his brow furrowing. He traced a line on the paper with his right index finger.
    “What are you looking at?”
    He walked into the living room and looked over Harry’s shoulder at the slightly crumpled blueprint.
    “Does this show all of the tunnels beneath this area?” Harry asked.
    “That’s just the location of the old mines around here. We have to be careful where we build or any one of these houses could just fall straight into the ground,” Scott said, pointing down at the plan. “You see, all of these mines have been collapsed and refilled—”
    “All of them?”
    “Everything that you see on this map.”
    “So there could be others that aren’t on this map, or tunnels leading from one to the next.”
    “Sure, this map has to be close to as old as I am.”
    “I’m sorry to interrupt. Go ahead and say what you were going to.”
    “All I was really going to say was that we have to be particularly careful where we place any houses or anything else of significant weight, as, even though these mines were filled, the dirt and rock that they used to fill them hasn’t settled quite right yet. The ground could just sink right beneath it, causing a house to crumble, or as you can see in some of the older neighborhoods to the south of here, driveways could fall right in, as could any of the streets. In the neighborhood I grew up in, barely fifteen minutes from here, you would see these driveways where the cement had fallen close to twenty feet into a gaping hole beneath the driveway. There was this one that I remember quite vividly, where the hole just opened up beneath the two cars they had parked in their driveway. You could barely see those things down there in the darkness.
    “It was kind of cool as a kid, but as a builder, it’s really nothing you want to mess with. All of our houses were built away from the sealed mine shafts. The only ones on that blueprint in this development we built around so that they are beneath the sidewalks, and the park, neither of which has any reason to have enough weight on them to cause them to suddenly settle.”
    “Interesting,” Harry said, rolling the blueprint back up and clambering off of the couch. “Does that concern you at all?”
    “It would take nothing short of a seismic event to trigger these things to collapse with that little weight on them. The neighborhood I grew up in, Raven Hills, was basically built onto a hillside, the mines nearly carving the hills hollow, but there were only a few properties that actually ever had any problems. And while those properties seemed to have the same problems every five years, none of the others appeared to settle in the slightest.”
    Harry walked across the living room and set the rolled blueprint next to the line of others atop the table, flipping off the switch atop the overhanging lamp.
    “I didn’t see that tunnel that you said you were in last night on that little map,” Harry said, brushing past Scott and towards the stairs leading down into the family room.
    “Hmm,” Scott muttered, gnawing slightly on the inside of his lower lip.
    The two passed through the family room, heading toward the garage. Opening the door, the two stepped down the pair of stairs onto the cement pad of the garage.
    “Do you have any flashlights?” Harry asked, staring curiously at the stacks of boxes that filled half of the garage.
    Following his quizzical gaze, Scott volunteered, “I didn’t plan on living here as long as I already have. There’s no point unpacking just to have to repack after a year or so.”
    “Sure,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows and his hands to his side.
    “Oh yeah, flashlights.”
    Scott slipped past the tightly stacked boxes and through the small wooden door behind them into the third garage. Flipping the light switch, he headed straight for the makeshift workbench consisting of a four by eight sheet of plywood braced atop three sawhorses. Rustling through the stack of tools and nails and screws, he produced a large, rechargeable flashlight, the adapter still wedged into the slot in the unit, the long white cord running straight up the wall and into the small square plug stuck in the outlet. Slipping it from the charger, he cradled it beneath his left arm, fishing for a second one that he knew was there. After a moment, he produced an old, plastic flashlight. It was nowhere near as modern and nice, just the cylindrical type with the two “D” sized batteries that drop straight down into the shaft, but as he verified by flipping up the white, sliding switch, it worked.
    Heading back into the main garage, he closed the door behind him and held up the lights for Harry to see. Pressing the button on the garage door opener mounted to the right of the stairs on the wall, a loud rumbling sound ensued as the garage rolled upward against the ceiling. Harry stepped out onto the driveway, the flakes of snow bouncing into the garage from the blowing wind outside. Pressing the button one more time, Scott jogged to the end of the garage. Ducking his head and raising his left leg to step over the unseen line of the electric eye that would stop the garage if anything broke the laser line between the two units mounted to either side of the garage door, just inches above the floor.
    Harry closed the driver’s side door of the old red and white Scout, leaning across to pop open the passenger side door for Scott. Transferring both flashlights to his left arm, he opened the door all the way and climbed up, closing the door with a loud thud that shook the car. His parents once had a Scout when he was growing up, and he had noticed, even way back then, that all of them had a similar smell. He wasn’t sure whether it came from the fiberglass shell of the rear portion roof, or from the black tape that ringed the roll bars, but it always smelled like the cars were thirty years old and had been kept submerged in water and then used to tan leather.
    Harry backed out of the driveway, heading through the neighborhood. The Realtors were out there in droves once again, working their tails off for that seven to ten percent commission. That thought was somewhat comforting, but Scott was hardly able to steer his mind from the task at hand for more than a few seconds. They were going to go back into the tunnels he had been in last night. At first it had seemed like a completely terrible idea, but now that he was somewhat used to the thought, it scared him senseless. 
    Turning out of the development, they headed west on the thinning, snow-covered road. The midday sun peered out briefly from behind the swelling storm clouds, only to disappear even more rapidly behind a wave of dark clouds, the precursor to the line of black that rolled over the rocky peaks to the west.
    Pulling off the side of the road onto the snowy meadow, the car idled for a moment as the two stared at the house. With a sigh, Harry killed the engine and opened the door. Reaching into the back seat, he pulled out a dark blue parka, the collar and rim of the hood lined with a thin layer of fake fur. Slipping into it behind the shield of the open door, he stepped back and closed it, the flakes making a scratching sound as they bounced off of the slick material. Following him around the front end of the car, Scott handed him the rechargeable flashlight and the two stood briefly at the base of the stairs leading up to the porch.
    Harry turned to Scott, and with a brisk nod, the two ascended the stairs. 
    “You say you came straight out this door last night?” Harry asked, staring at the lock box engaged on the handle of the door.
    “Yeah,” Scott responded, noting the same thing.
    “All right then,” Harry said, fumbling for his keys.
Holding out his keychain, Harry flipped through the handful of keys until he found an old, brass key. Shoving it into the lock box, he yanked it off the doorknob with a loud thunk. He set it on the windowsill to the right of the door, which he slowly opened inward.
The stale smell of dust and the water that dripped from the ceiling through the walls and onto the floor, mildewing in the rotting wood, overwhelmed their nostrils. Much of the graffiti that covered the walls in the main room was illegible as the water had dampened the drywall to the point that it appeared like an abstract watercolor collage. The hardwood floor was warping, some of the seams peeling up and inward, the floor sounding as if it could just crumble beneath their weight.
“After you,” Harry said, gesturing with his hand, allowing Scott to pass first through the doorway into the kitchen.
Kicking aside a pile of plaster in the middle of the bowed plywood floor, Scott headed straight for the door leading down into the basement. His heart had begun to race, his lips parting to assist in the panting. Throbbing mercilessly, all he could hear in his head was the pounding of his pulse in his temples. Reaching out with his shaking right hand, he grasped the doorknob, turning to look at Harry.
All of the color had drained from his face as well. His fingers clenched the handle of the flashlight so tightly that his knuckles had turned bright white. A pained expression wore deeply into his face, and he forced a smile for Scott’s benefit, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. He just nodded, and Scott could tell that meant that he was as ready as he was going to get.
The knob squeaked in his turning hand, the door creaking loudly as he swung it wide. Their straining eyes fought to adjust to the thick darkness, only a thin line of light visible from beneath the boarded window. Dank earth accosted their nostrils as they descended the rickety stairs. Switching on his flashlight, Scott pointed it at the wall of earth behind the hot water heater, illuminating the lip if the darkened hole, halfway up the wall. 
“That’s it,” he said, pointing through the shadows as a long ray of light burst from Harry’s flashlight behind him.
The two landed at the bottom of the stairs, the soft ground sinking slightly beneath their feet. With a quick glance back, Scott slipped between the furnace and the hot water heater, setting his flashlight atop the rim of the hole, and pulled himself up, ducking his head, and crawling into the tunnel. Clutching the light in his right hand, he inched forward, flashing the beam all about the ground that entombed him.
Dirt from the slightly damp floor of the tube rose between the fingers of his left hand, covering the knees of his slacks. 
“Are you sure you know where this leads?” he asked, craning his head over his shoulder in the tight quarters.
“No, but I’ve got a hunch.”
Shrugging, he turned back to the tunnel. There was something in the middle of the floor straight ahead, right at the point where the light faded into the darkness. Creeping toward it, he slowly became able to discern what it was. Long shadows traced the floor past the pile of bones that he immediately recognized from the night before, the palms of his hands still stinging lightly from where they had punctured the tough skin. The yellowed bones, tattered, fur-covered flesh dangling from appeared to by a series of small ribcages. As he neared, he was able to make out the long, arched front teeth of what had apparently been a large rodent on the sloping, hollowed skull lying askew in front of the pile. He counted at least five more of the skulls as he crept closer. There was something unique about the dried, curling flesh that hung from the decaying bones, something that was suddenly quite obvious. The edges of the shredded flesh were rippled slightly in a series of arcs, and there was no mistaking their origin. They were bites, from a human set of teeth.
Stopping briefly, he flashed the light around. There were long, parallel lines carved into the floor and walls all around him. Reaching up, he placed the tips of his fingers in the niches carved into the ceiling above him. They matched perfectly.
“Check this out,” he whispered as Harry crept up on him from the rear.
Skirting the pile of bones, he worked his way deeper into the tunnel, the muffled sound of the river barely audible as it echoed through the larger tunnel ahead. He could see the metal-rimmed edges of where the grate had been at the end of the stream of light. His breath coming in short bursts; the dirt began to stick to his clammy palms. Shuddering, he paused, poking his head out of the smaller tunnel into the cavern beyond. Flashing his light from one side to the other, he could see the dim light from the outside clear down to the left, nothing but more darkness to his right.
Trying to calm his breathing as it bordered on hyperventilation, he set the light on the ground beside him, closing his eyes only briefly. Wiping his damp forehead with the back of his trembling hand, he swallowed the dry lump in his throat and climbed out of the tunnel and onto the floor. Frantically, he grabbed his flashlight, whirling and shooting the light into every darkened cranny that he possibly could. He heard Harry groan as he slipped down behind him.
“That’s…” Scott started, the words catching in his dry mouth. “That’s where the tunnel starts by the river.”
Harry’s light flashed down the tunnel toward the gray aura of light before turning immediately back and pointing to the right.
“Then that’s where we need to go.”
The thin lines of light darted from the tips of the flashlights in their hands as they pressed on through the tunnel. Small icicles hung from the rocky ceiling overhead, glittering as the lights flashed overhead. Bat guano was crusted to the walls and floor to either side of the shallow stream of frozen water in the center, the icy covering crackling beneath their tread, echoing through the darkness. Small creatures skittered ahead of them, skirting the edges of their dancing lights, clinging to their shadows as they scurried about, cringing against the base of the walls.
Bending slightly to the left, the tunnel stretched on as far as they could see. They had been walking through the blackened corridor with no end in sight for close to a mile already. The air grew increasingly cold around them, their damp breath crystallizing against the flesh on their faces.
“What’s that?” Scott asked.
Harry squinted to see the end of the tunnel. A stone archway appeared at the end of the tunnel in their diffused rays. Nothing more than a roughly stacked series of coarse stones mortared together around an oblongated half circle of darkness. As they neared, their lights bouncing up and down with their strides, they could see that the tunnel bent away at a ninety degree angle to the left, leading, as best as they could tell, to the south.
“This thing has got to be well over a hundred years old,” Scott said, breaking away the crumbling chunks of mortar.
Spider webs floated from the surface of the large rocks, their white ball-like egg sacs nestled tightly in the crevices between the rocks and the cement glue. The archway was stained along the floor, rising waters marking the stones with a light green line as high as chest level.
“I think this is where we need to be,” Harry said, flashing his light into the darkened corridor beyond the arch.
“What do you think is back there?”
“I know there are tunnels underneath the old convent leading to the hot springs. The castle itself used to be a haven for tuberculosis sufferers who were taken to the supposedly therapeutic waters of the springs every day to be cleansed of their affliction. As it was socially unacceptable for people with TB to be moved out in the open during the day, they had to be shuttled back and forth through these tunnels. The guy who used to own all of this land, this Cavenaugh, his daughter suffered from it, and finally died. After burying his only child, it was only a matter of time before he disintegrated himself, but he used it as a sort of hospice for others with TB until he died and left it to the church.”
“Okay,” Scott said, pausing. “I’m familiar with the general history of the area. You’ve explained the tunnels, but what do you expect to find down this hallway.”
“An entrance into the old convent.”
“The old folks home? I’ve got news for you, there’s a much more accessible entrance above ground.”
“Don’t you think that I’ve been there? After the church sold the property to a group of investors, converting it into the nursing home, I tried to get them to let me look around, to see if the nuns had left any records that might help me rationalize what I saw here so many years ago. But they wouldn’t even allow me to stray from the tour. In fact, they were more than insistent.”
“So you want to sneak in the back door…”
“If there still is one. I’ve combed these hills since the early Seventies looking for the entrance into these tunnels, but I hadn’t been able to find anything.”
“But you never looked in that house?”
“Look, that hole in the basement wall wasn’t there decades ago when I boarded that house up. I put a lock on the front door and boarded all of the windows, why on earth would I even suspect that anyone would be digging a tunnel through the wall?” Harry huffed, his face reddening.
“No need to get worked up,” Scott said, looking Harry directly in the face in the dim glow of their lights. He hesitated, formulating his words carefully so as not to offend the older man again. “There is just something about this story that doesn’t quite fit. There are gaps that I am having a hard time making any sense of.”
“How do you think I feel?” Harry said, steering his light into the darkness beyond the archway. “Let’s see if we can find some answers.”
The two left the main tunnel, heading into the thinner, rock-walled channel. The air grew colder with each step, thickening with dust. Cobwebs hung in the air, bouncing as their movement changed in the flow of the stale air. Their flashlights stopped on a thick wooden door, the vertical slats held together by diamond-shaped iron fasteners, the circles of light growing larger and larger on the faded, splintering surface as they approached. A thin line of green covered the bottom foot of the door from where the waters had risen along the base, the slightly sloping ground was slick with the slight covering of slime. 
Stepping right up to the door, the side of his head pressed against the slightly bowed wooden surface, Harry listened intently, hoping to hear anything at all if there was someone just beyond the door. Gripping the black iron handle in his right hand, he squeezed it as hard as he could, the small lever crackling as it lowered beneath his thumb. He could hear the bolt in the wall, groaning and creaking as it slowly broke free of the rust that held it tightly within the wall. With a loud crack, the bolt disengaged, the sound echoing wildly through the tunnel around them.
Harry looked to Scott, who held his breath, a pained wince engraved into his face. 
Holding a finger to his pursed lips, Harry slowly began to pull the door outward, the bottom edges of the wooden planks scraping loudly on the compressed rock floor. The noise was awful. He could only move the door an inch at a time for fear that they would draw too much attention to themselves, surely even a group of hearing aid laden retirees could hear that noise more than a story above ground in that old castle. It was obvious that the door hadn’t been opened in quite some time, so maybe, even if it was audible on the floors above, no one would know what it was, or even have the inclination to descend into the old cellar to try to figure it out. It was the middle of the day, and surely there was enough activity up there to mask their noise.
Pulling the door just far enough back so that they could slip through sideways, Harry pointed his light through the small gap between the door and the wall, trying to look inside. There was a tightly stretched sheet of plastic covering the entrance into the castle, a tightly packed layer of spray foam insulation pressed against the plastic from the inside. Producing a small pocketknife from within his jeans, Harry slit the sheet of clear plastic right down the center and began to pull handfuls of the almost Styrofoam-like pink insulation from within.
After making a sizable dent in the insulation, the pink stuffing piled around his feet on the cold ground, he could see that there was another layer of the plastic covering, sealing the layer of foam between two airtight seals. Slicing through the far side, the tip of his blade clanged dully off of something large and wooden. Ripping out the remnants of the plastic and insulation, he pressed both hands against the wooden barrier beyond.
Its surface was smooth, not at all weathered like the outer door had been. A thick, almost satiny finish had been applied to the wood, the deep-black, highly-defined grains in astounding contrast to the mahogany stain.
Leaning against it, Harry strained, lowering his shoulder as he spread apart his feet, hoping to bull his way through it. It was heavy, and, judging by the lack of hinges, it wasn’t a door, just something haphazardly stuffed into the doorway to bar access. The base of the wooden creation scraped across the floor within, bouncing and popping slightly as it caught on the floor, Harry’s force then freeing it suddenly. 
The stagnant smell of mildew flooded the tunnel from the small opening that Harry had created, small clouds of dust swarming about them, filling their lungs. The two hacked almost in unison. Squeezing into the entryway next to Harry, Scott braced his foot against the outer door, his shoulder against the inner wall and shoved with all of his might. The combination of the two pushing together made the object squeak loudly as it scraped along the floor, opening up just enough of a gap so that they could sneak past and enter the small room beyond.
Two streams of light bounced around the pitch black room, only the thinnest line of gray creeping in from behind the enormous object that had been barring their way. Both of them studied the small circles from their lights, hoping to see anything at all that might help them to illuminate the room further. Their flashlights were barely enough to light more than the thick cloud of dust that hung all around them in the air, shimmering like glitter in the flitting rays. 
Arms in front of them as they shuffled through the darkened room, they each headed in a different direction. Scott’s hand rammed into something hard, his fingertips crumpling. Recoiling quickly, he clenched and unclenched his fist, his teeth grinding as he shook off the sudden jolt of pain. Slowly, he reached back out, his bare hand running along the dust-coated surface of a table of some sort. Shining the flashlight directly down upon it, he could see a small, hand blown glass lamp, the kerosene within soaked through the think wick which stood just above a thin metal ring. The ornately decorated glass was thick with dust, his fingers slipping from the surface the first time he tried to grab it, before latching on more securely around the thin ring of metal adjoining the two glass globes that made it look like an hourglass.
Laying his palm into the dust, he slid it from side to side, hoping to smack into a lighter or a pack of matches or something. The cloud of sediment that had been untouched in what could only have been years, floated into the air all around his face, wedging itself tightly into the sinuses behind his eyes and nose, bringing forth a sudden and ferocious fit of sneezing. Holding tightly to the lamp, he rode out the involuntary convulsions, finally sighing loudly as he inhaled a deep breath. Resting his hand on the table, he could feel a long, thin sliver of wood beneath his palm. Fishing it out of the dust, careful not to breathe in too deeply as he did, he held up the wooden piece between his thumb and forefinger. Shining the flashlight on it, he smiled to himself. Setting down the flashlight and the lamp on the table, he held back the flap of cloth that covered the zipper that ran up the front of his jacket with his left hand. He ran the head of the match straight down the zipper, the teeth grabbing at the phosphorous surface of the match. With a burst of black smoke and light, the head of the match flickered to life, the yellow flame hidden beneath Scott’s cupped left hand as he lowered it through the glass top of the lamp and down to the wide wick, the kerosene stinking awfully as it lit. Thick, black smoke billowed from the lamp, the insides of the glass charring with soot. The dancing flame encased within flickered. Settling down, the excess finally having burnt off, the circle of light around the lantern slowly expanded, pushing back the shadows into the corners. At least a portion of the room was now visible.
“Where did you find that?” Harry whispered, his face appearing from the darkness only feet away.
“On this table over here,” Scott responded, looking down through the cloud of dust that still swirled around him.
It was a long, hardwood table, almost resembling a picnic table, only much more elegant. There was a chair to either side of it, a stack of books lined neatly in the center of the table, bracketed by two iron bookends crafted to look like hands that if pushed together they would give the impression of a child’s hands praying. The old, leather-bound books were buried beneath dust. Not even the embossed letters on the spines were visible beneath the wan light and the layer of dust.
Turning, he led the lantern through the room, surveying the area in hopes of finding a way out of the room.
A door appeared from the darkness, a wide, arched wooden slab beneath an ornately carved trim. Grabbing it by the handle, Scott swung the door inward, a cloud of dust kicking up from around his feet. Stepping through, he nearly knocked himself unconscious ramming into the brick wall that had been constructed right outside the doorway. The gray bricks, cemented with a sloppily laid lining of mortar, sealed the room off from the rest of the house.
Turning to Harry, Scott shrugged.
“Well,” Harry said, turning from the sealed doorway. “I guess this is as far as we go.”
Walking back through the darkened room, the glowing ball of light that surrounded them flickered off the walls. A long mantle ran the length of the room along the wall next to the door, dust-shrouded candlesticks lining the wooden beam. Pulling one of the half-melted candles out of its holder, Scott dipped it, wick first, into the lamp, the fuse crackling before finally glowing brightly with the bouncing flame. Pulling it out, he placed the flame atop the other wicks, the dust burning with a deep, thick black smoke. The flames slowly expanded from a small glow on the wicks.
With the flaming wax lining the wall, he turned back to the room, the glow dimly illuminating the small room. A yellowed atlas was nailed to the wall to the left, small, multicolored pushpins pressed through the map and into the wall in apparently random patterns across the continents. A series of black, metal filing cabinets lined the floor beneath the map. All of their drawers were closed tightly and each of them had an individual lock in the upper right corner. A handful of manila folders sat, stacked, atop one of them, buried beneath the years of the dusty accumulation.
A large bookcase sat in the doorway behind them, its shelves lined with books that appeared to be older than time, their splitting spines exposing the thick pages within. For whatever reason, it had been shoved against the door leading out into the tunnels within the hills, and judging from the enormous pile of dust against the bottom shelf from where they had pushed it into the room, it had been there for quite some time.
On the right side of the room there was a roll-top desk, a feather quill pen protruding from a small crystal cube filled with deep black ink. There was a cloth-bound book in the center, lying open, the writing on the pages buried beneath a layer of dust. A hand-crafted wooden chair lay on its back on the floor by the desk, the intricately-stitched seat cover, its loopholes still attached to the frame, sprawled over the back. 
The cracked walls littered flakes of paint onto the wooden planks lining the floor, cobwebs stringing clear across the room. Water dripped from the ceiling in one of the corners of the room, splashing lightly into a small puddle of sloppy dust before flowing through the cracks in the floor, dampening the earth beneath. 
 Harry studied the map on the wall, his finger tracing a line between the numerous pinpoints. Scott walked over to the desk, setting the lantern down on the formerly highly-polished surface. Lifting up the book, he tapped the spine on the tabletop, the dust falling from the pages into a small pile. Holding it to the light in an attempt to read the handwritten words, he stared at the gracefully curving arcs of the ink on the page. The writing and strokes were exquisite.
“Check this out,” Harry said, holding up one of the folders that had been atop the filing cabinet. “These newspaper clippings are from 1889.”
Closing the book and tucking it beneath his left arm, he lifted the lamp from the table and carried it across the room to where Harry held up the file, his face buried within. He strained to read in the dim light. 
Something moved in the shadow-filled corner of the room behind Harry. Unable to see much more than a tuft of dust glimmering at the edge of the thick darkness, Scott stopped dead in his tracks and watched, his breath freezing in his chest.
“Harry,” he whispered, the whites of his eyes expanding around his brown irises as his eyelids peeled back. “There’s something over there.”
Whirling, Harry stared deep into the shadows, his eyes trying to penetrate the veritable wall of black.
“I don’t see anything.”
The flames of the candles atop the mantle fluttered, the light flickering throughout the room, changing the shape of the shadows along the walls all around them.
“I think we need to go now,” Scott said, his eyes unable to turn from the corner of the room.
“But I just found these files from—”
“Take them with you.”
“We haven’t had a chance to—”
“Now,” Scott said, grabbing him by the arm and turning to guide him toward the bookcase that covered the entrance back into the tunnel.
A cold gust of wind swirled through the room, the candles flickering madly before fading into a smoke filled darkness. The flame within the glass shroud in Scott’s hand bounced mightily, the yellow flame blowing nearly straight sideways, but managing to stay lit.
There was another sound in the room, just beneath the whistling sound of the sudden and swirling gust of air. It was a dry, scraping sound, almost like the death rattle of the last gasp of air passing through the dry mouth into the lungs as they filled with fluid.
Quickening the pace, Scott pushed Harry in front of him and through the gap between the wall and the bookcase, out into the piled insulation on the damp stone floor. Glancing back, he could see a shape within the shadows, a deep black outline against the swirling, dust-filled shadows. The flame in his lamp flickered, the crackling yellow deepening to a dark red. His fingers burned, seeming to catch fire themselves as the metal handle on the lantern heated beneath his flesh, causing him to drop the lantern.
It shattered on the wooden floor, shards of glass bouncing in every direction. Kerosene splashed out in a large pool on the wooden planks of the floor. The deep red flame swelled like a wave atop the flammable liquid, spreading across the floor at an unheralded speed. Yet still, the shadow pressed further into the room, the flames lapping at its feet as it rapidly closed the gap between them.
Breaking his gaze from the room, Scott slipped past the bookcase and into the tunnel, Harry’s outline barely visible in the tunnel in front of him against the bouncing glow of his flashlight. Fighting for traction on the slick ground, Scott forced his legs to run. Panic began to settle into his chest, nearly causing his heart to pound right through his ribcage, his lungs refusing to draw any air. The red, flickering light from behind the bookcase lighted the thin channel around him, the shadows lengthening all around him momentarily, before the red glow finally dissipated, the flame burning itself out. Watching Harry’s light turn to the left into the main tunnel, he could suddenly feel the palpable darkness, pressing in tightly from the sides as it tried to squeeze the life from him, the sound of the heavy breathing echoing from all around him.
Tears swelled from the corners of his eyes, running in small streams down his dry skin, leaving a trail in the dust that had settled into his stubble. There was no feeling in any of his appendages as he sprinted, his own footsteps pounding the ground. He burst from beneath the stone archway into the main tunnel, the beam from Harry’s flashlight bounding up and down in the hallway ahead.
Following the light, he urged his legs on, faster and faster, sensing that whatever was behind him was gaining. His footsteps pounded on the thin layer of frozen ice in the center of the tunnel, snapping and popping. It was all he could hear as he just focused on Harry’s light ahead of him, slowly gaining in the blackness.
The light stopped ahead of him, fluttering for a moment before pointing straight at the ground. He could only barely make out the outline of Harry bending over, his hands on his knees, as he fought to regain his breath. Coming up fast, the blood in his veins burning as though it would eat straight through the vessels, spilling out beneath his flesh. He reached out, prepared to grab Harry and carry him out of the tunnel if that was his only option.
Stopping, his back leaning against Harry’s, he whirled, shining the light into the darkness behind him, but there was nothing there. He could feel an ice-cold breeze blowing straight into his face from the endless darkness. The frigidity stinging his tearing eyes, he batted his eyelids, fighting to see whatever had been following them before it was upon them. Visions of Brian being torn in half, and Tim liquefied on the path in the early morning sunlight, tore through his brain, his heart pounding in anticipation as he prepared to fight for his life should that be the only way out of the tunnel.
The wheezing sound that came in bursts from his own chest bounced off the walls around him. He tried, without even the slightest bit of success, to silence it long enough to try to listen. Stifling a cough, he flashed the light from one side to the next, over and over, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was back there. And even though he couldn’t see anything, he knew, with ever fiber of his being, that they were not alone in that cavern.
“We have to keep moving,” Scott whispered without turning around, his chest still heaving mightily.
“I think… I’m ready,” Harry panted.
“Then go. I’m right behind you.”
Standing upright, Harry burst into a sprint, his heavy breathing dissipating into the wind that ripped through the tunnel. Scott stayed a few feet back, glancing over his shoulder as he ran. They passed the small entrance to the tunnel leading back up through the ground toward the Cavenaugh House, but they knew that if whatever was in that tunnel with them caught up to them in the cramped quarters of that small tunnel, that it was all over for them. Their only chance was to run straight through the opening down by the river, and hope, pray, that they made it out into the daylight alive.
The trailing edges of dim rays of light pierced the thick darkness ahead of them, glowing like a gray cloud in the tunnel ahead. Their legs burning and hearts throbbing on the verge of seizing within their chests, they dashed toward the growing mass of light, the overhanging branches of the evergreens on the bank above hanging like arms from the top of the exit to the tunnel.
Bursting out of the tunnel and into the light, Harry stopped his momentum barely in time to keep from tumbling headfirst into the ice-marred water of the river, Scott hot on his heels. His feet skidded on the gravel bank, a mass of pebbles tumbling across the frozen bank and into the deep blue water. He turned around, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes and freezing slowly as they trailed down his cheeks. And although he couldn’t see anyone standing there in the pitch black of the tunnel, he could tell that there was someone there, watching him intently from within that same darkness. The eyes of the unseen watcher weighed heavily on him, tearing straight through his own gaze and into his brain.
“Are you all right?” Harry asked, barely able to form the words through his heavy panting.
“Yeah. You?”
“I’ll live,” he wheezed, a dry chuckle bursting from his heaving chest.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Harry said, heading down the bank to where it lowered enough to climb up the hill.
Scott started down the bank but then stopped. An icy line of goosebumps raced up the back of his arms, settling at the base of his neck. His limbs seemed to become heavier as he slowly turned, the wind ripping the snow in droves straight into his face. He stared through the sheet of flakes into the darkened tunnel.
He could see the outline of a figure, barely darker than the rest of the tunnel, enshrouded in shadows. His eyelids batted back the flakes, keeping them from landing atop the bare surface of his eyeballs. Staring through the darkness, he could see that blackened form standing there, motionless, its intense glare fixed so deeply upon him that it felt as though it singed his flesh.
He turned to call to Harry, but he was already scrambling up over the bank and into the field above, nearly to the lake. Glancing back, his heart rising into his throat, he peered back into the darkness, but there was no one there.
Furrowing his brow, his eyes pinched tightly, he peered into the darkness with everything that he had. But all he could see was the unending wall of shadows that seethed like a mass of squirming tentacles, beckoning him to step back into the darkness.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART NINE


Section 9

Chapters 11 and 12



XI
Monday, November 14th
5 p.m.
Scott sat down at the kitchen table, staring out across the lawn at the reddened storm clouds, the sun sinking behind the mountains, staining even the falling flakes a bright hue. The coffeepot began to whir, a thin stream of the black fluid trailing onto the bottom of the pot as it slowly filled. The sound of running water from the flushing toilet below in the family room filled the walls, humming. The door opened and Harry’s footsteps were evidenced, clambering up the stairs. Staring down at the cloth-bound diary, still clenched tightly in his grasp, he set it on the table in front of him, hoping that whatever was contained within in those hand-scrawled words was going to be able to help them.
The stack of folders rested on the table to his right. Harry hopped up on the stool in front of them, pulling down the top one. He gave a glance to his right at the pot that was now nearly half-full; the dark fluid pouring down from the thin hole in the white plastic guard that housed the filter full of the ground hazelnut beans. Turning his attention back to the stack of files in front of him, he pulled the first one down, opening it in front of him. Peering up before throwing himself into the reading, he stared at Scott, who still clung tightly to the book, staring out into the darkness as the red faded from the clouds, the blackness swarming around them. The long shadows from the trees across the center of the snow-covered lawn were swallowed along with whatever last remnants of the light lingered before the night devoured them whole. Only the fluttering flakes, which flashed beneath the dim light that crept from the inside window, were visible against the wall of darkness that pressed right up to the house.
“Shall we?” Harry asked, holding up the first folder.
Nodding, Scott hopped from the stool and to the coffeepot atop the counter. The last of the slowly falling drops of the murky brew dripped from the saturated filter, sizzling onto the circular heating pad beneath the pot. Pulling it out of the machine, he poured the hot liquid into the two mugs he had set on the marble counter top next to it. Steam poured from the tops of the nearly-full mugs as he walked them back to the eating bar, setting a dark blue mug labeled simply “JAVA” in front of Harry, and a plain white, brown rimmed one in front of his stool. He climbed back up and opened the floral-patterned, cloth book.
Peeling back the first couple of pages, time sealing the inked pages together as if with some sort of glue, he stared at the thinly lined, hand-written pages. He had a hard time deciphering the words. The lines were almost excessively loopy, the ink expanding into the page from the pen.
“To all who must bear witness,” it began, his eyes moving from left to right as he tried to absorb every word. “This is my testament of the evil that walks the Earth in human form, of the dark one that has eluded our order for centuries. I feel that for the first time, we are one step ahead of the beast, that we are in a position to thwart his advances, be it only for this one time. I have been led here by the footsteps of the demon from my last assignment in the county outside of Johannesburg, South Africa. 
“We were late in arriving as the cycle had commenced long before we had any knowledge of his whereabouts. Two hundred men and women were slaughtered in the night as they were being led from the city under the guise of night. The bloodspawn, a wealthy diamond mine owner named Clayton Van Den Mueller, had them mown down by machine gun fire as they trespassed across his land to flee the persecution that followed them from Johannesburg.
“It was that night when I first saw the monster that masquerades as human. He appeared to me as an apparition standing outside the window of the reformatory, smiling up at me, mocking me. How we had not known of his location in South Africa, I am unsure, but by the time we were situated, the end was a foregone conclusion.
“So, it is today, August 27th, in the year of our Lord 1972, that I find myself at the base of the Rocky Mountains, outside of the city of Colorado Springs, barely a year after my failure in Africa. I can feel his presence. As I know that he can sense ours, lingering within these hollow hills, silencing the birds in the midst of their morning song as I wander the grounds of this compound, knowing that somewhere, beneath the shadows of the foothills, he lies in wait, watching our every move. And I know, for every fiber of my being cries out, that this will be my last assignment. My death seems to be a foregone conclusion, but whether or not I am successful still seems in doubt.”
“Look at this,” Harry said, interrupting Scott’s reading as he laid an old, yellowed newspaper clipping atop the diary.
“June 19th, 1942,” was scrawled in pen across the top of the shred of torn paper. There was a picture in the center, a mass grave, the earth still piled at the lip of the hole, a mound of charred bodies piled atop one another as a group of what appeared to be soldiers leaned over the edge.
“It says they found this grave east of the Rhine in northern Germany, but unlike the other mass graves found during World War II, the bodies inside were not limited to being Jewish. Check out the uniforms on the soldiers on the side of the grave. Those aren’t allied clothes, I can tell you that much, and you can bet that in 1942, there was no way that we had any intelligence within the borders of Germany.”
“I can’t understand any of the words,” Scott said, staring at the newsprint that was written in the native tongue.
“It’s been close to half a century since I was in a classroom learning this stuff, but I think I was able to get the gist of it,” Harry said, pointing down at the page. “It says that the people found inside were not all Jewish, some of them even members of the Nazi party. And while the Nazis generally shot their victims before burying them, these showed no signs of bullet wounds, in fact, they appeared to have been burned to death in that very hole, which for some reason was never covered.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look here,” he said, pointing to the third paragraph in the yellowed story. “It’s saying that they are looking for the faction responsible. They think that it might be an allied installment that sneaked across the border, but they aren’t entirely convinced. The Third Reich, it says, has even offered a large reward for anyone with any information on the mass killing.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Exactly. With the Nazis controlling the press, the only way they would have allowed this story to run was if they were convinced that not only did they have nothing to do with it, but that they also had no idea who, in fact, had done it. And how two hundred bodies had been found in a similar condition to those disposed of by the Nazis without anyone having any idea as to where they came from…”
“Did you say two hundred?”
“Yes, exactly two hundred.”
“That’s weird, because I’m reading over here in this diary about two hundred people who were killed in South Africa.”
“Odd,” Harry mused, opening the second file and submersing himself within the contents.
Setting the clipping aside, Scott stared back down at the pages of the diary.
 “It was by Papal decree that we were ordered to Colorado, our limited intelligence pointing to a shift in the moral clime, often a sign of his coming. Manitou Springs, barely twenty miles south of our current location, had only recently become a hotbed of presumed satanic activity. Rumored to have been where writing had begun on the Satanic Bible, the Vatican had placed an operative in this area. It was he who alerted the Pope to the presence, or at least to the immanently impending arrival, of the beast.
“I can feel him in these hills, as I could feel him in Johannesburg, and I know that timing is of the essence. Now, where we are in the cycle, I am not sure, but my suspicions lead me to believe that we are close to the beginning, rather than clumsily stumbling in to the end of the cycle as we had last time.
“Whether right or wrong, to the best of our understanding, the cycle begins with the invitation, whereupon a group of followers beckons his presence with the sacrifice of the firstborn. After accepting the invitation of blood, the beast moves on to the copulation, planting his evil seed under the cover of the night. Quite often, as our best records indicate, more than one seed in sewn.
“Now, he knows as well as we, that these children, these bloodspawn, are half-human, and thus prone to the same fallacies and unpredictability as the rest of their race. Achieving their destiny is nothing resembling a foregone conclusion. They have to be surrounded by arbiters, unwitting helpers of evil nature or not, whose sole, unknowing purpose in life is to be in the right place at the right time to help the bloodspawn to fulfill their destiny. And while not as grandiose and climactic as the enslavement of the human race as written in the Bible as the coming of the antichrist, the end result is no less insidious: the stealing of two hundred souls. 
“Why two hundred? We do not know. But it has always been that way since our fist discovery of the cycle during the Age of Enlightenment. There have always been two hundred corpses in the wake of his passing, but there has only been one instance where we have thwarted his efforts. Or, at least, that is what we have pieced together from the information left behind. That group, while successful in their endeavor, disappeared from the face of the earth without leaving more than the slightest trace of their existence.”
Scott raised his eyes from the book, staring out into the dark night, the blowing snow crystallizing in the corners of the window as the flakes bounced off the glass, swirling into the drifts beneath the window. Every word written in that diary sounded like something out of the Middle Ages. It all sounded like complete and utter bullshit, like a story fabricated for the sole purpose of scaring a child at bedtime. But he could feel, deep down in the very core of his being, that there was a certain truth to it. For he knew that he had seen the evil of which the author spoke; had felt its cold stare, its icy touch. And more importantly, he knew that it was somewhere out there in the night, waiting for him.
“Here’s another one,” Harry said, tossing the nearly disintegrated piece of newsprint in front of him on the table.
This one was labeled “September 19th, 1878.” It told the story of a group of settlers headed west along the Oregon Trail; none of them referred to by name. They were found in a circle of their own wagons, two hundred of them in all, slaughtered by what they assumed to be a massive and quick attack by the Apache. It was a call to arms of sort, with a reward of ten dollars for anyone who had any information about the attack. The President himself had ordered the cavalry into Idaho, commissioning them to “do what needed to be done to bring the rogue cowards who perpetrated such a monstrosity to be brought to justice one way or another.”
“Here it is again,” Scott said, sliding the article back in front of Harry. “’Two hundred of them in all’.”
“I’m sensing a pattern here.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
Turning his attention back to the diary, he picked up where he left off.
“Perhaps we will be graced by God with luck this time, as we have stumbled into this cycle early on. Or perhaps this will end like the others, and we will never be heard from again. I pray to God nightly for the strength to endure, to do what must be done, as I know it will take more than I have to offer. I know that it will take every single ounce of my faith, of our cumulative faith, for—as we have already divined the origin of the bloodspawn—we will have to take the souls of innocents in the process.
“Not far from this very convent, in the wooded hills at the base of the mountains, a man named LeRoy Trottier has brought that evil onto this earth. The only problem is that there are four children, and as we now know to be fact, only one of them can truly be the bloodspawn. The others are nothing more than poor, vacuous shells, their innocent souls—should they even have any—nothing more than sacrificial lambs being led to the slaughter, regardless of if we do it or not. We have arranged for these children to be brought into our custody, as Mr. Trottier will undoubtedly be spending the remainder of his natural life in prison.
“Now, by seizing these children, whether we have broken the cycle, or merely become a part of it, is completely uncertain. Until that moment when we are able to separate the bloodspawn’s soul from his mortal body, there will be no way of knowing for sure. So I pray to thee right now, oh Lord, for the strength the do what must be done, and for your forgiveness for the violation of your commandments when and if we succeed.
“But know this, to whomever should carry the torch should we fail here today, that there is always the chance that the evil deed may never come to pass. As the bloodspawn is one half human, that gives the child an element of unpredictability. The right combinations of both internal and external forces must be in place to draw the bloodspawn to the right place at the right time to bring the prophetic resolution to fruition. If we are unable to do what must be done, there still may be a chance. Find the bloodspawn before it is too late.
“May God forgive us…”
Scott flipped the page, but there were no further entries; nothing but the blank, light blue-lined pages of the incomplete diary. And, if what Harry had told him about that night at the Cavenaugh house was true, he already knew why. Closing the book, he slid it away from him on the table, staring out the ice-rippled glass into the frozen yard.
“What happened to the child you saved in that house?” Scott asked, still staring at the dark line of trees at the edge of the yard.
“The state put him up for adoption almost immediately. I tried to find out where he had gone and who had adopted him, but those records were sealed and I had no way of accessing them. My employment with the state was terminated relatively quickly after that, and I no longer have the contacts to get any information at all.”
“So, how old would this child be now?”
“Oh, geez,” Harry said, rolling his eyes back and staring up towards the ceiling. “Twenty- nine, maybe thirty, it would depend on his exact age when I found him that night.”
“So roughly my age?”
“I would say so. He should be right about your age.”
“Is it possible that Matt might have been that child? That he might somehow have survived that car crash and is in the process of accumulating his two hundred?”
“Everything that I’ve seen in these clippings makes it appear as though all two hundred of these people are killed at the same time, not one by one.”
“But could it be possible?”
“I don’t know. I’m no expert on any of this. I’m just now finding out things that I wish I’d known twenty years ago.”
“Then I guess we know what we need to do,” Scott said, rising from the table and scooting the stool in beneath the eating bar.
“What’s that?”
“We need to find Matt,” he said, turning to stare Harry straight in the eye. “We need to find the bloodspawn.”
 
XII
Monday, November 14th
11 p.m.
    The yellow cab slowed in front of the apartment complex, the rear wheels grinding on the snow-packed road as it came to a stop against the curb. Stumbling from the vehicle, the passenger clambered over the curb and glared back at the driver.
    “Eight bucks for a five mile ride,” he grumbled, slamming to door.
    Jeremy Willis pulled the collar of his jacket over his bright red cheeks. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the black leather jacket, he shuffled towards the front door of the complex. Breathing heavily, his breath in a cloud around his face, he grabbed hold of the handle on the door, staring through the glass into the dimly lit lobby. Leaning against the wall momentarily, he fought back the wave of nausea that gurgled up from his stomach, the sea of beer sloshing violently as he blinked his eyes spastically in hopes of staying conscious. Regulating his breathing so as to calm the swell that threatened to overwhelm him, he yanked the door outward and stepped into the lobby.
    A gust of hot air blew straight down on him from the overhead vent, giving rise to the goosebumps that crawled across his skin. Three rows of tiny, square mailboxes were built into the wall to his left, the names of the occupants labeled beneath the keyholes on tiny, blue stickers. To his right, the leasing desk sat unattended, the door to the manager's office closed with a little plastic clock sign hanging from the doorknob.
    “Will return at 8 am,” the sign read.
    Scooting across the tightly knit knap of the bright red carpet, his feet barely leaving the ground, he made his way toward the glass wall with the door in the middle that led back to all of the apartments. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he pulled them out, bringing them close to his face so that he could leaf through them one by one until he found the right one. Swaying as he stood, his mouth hanging slack, he pinched the door key between his thumb and forefinger. It took several attempts, but finally he slipped the key into the lock, turning it to the right and pulling open the glass door.
    Wrapping his keys tightly in his closed fist, he turned to the right and opened the wooden door to the stairwell, stumbling up the cement stairs. Rounding the landing, he paused to catch his breath before heading up the remainder of the stairs to the second floor. Bursting through the door from the stairwell, he scuffed straight across the hallway, the door to the stairwell slamming shut behind him with a thud. His footsteps echoed on the hollow floor beneath, booming like the thunderous footfalls of a giant through the empty hall.
    Slipping his key into the lock for the deadbolt, he sent it back into the door with a resounding thack, dropping his key to the doorknob to unlock it as well. Throwing the door inward, he stumbled into the apartment onto the olive-green and yellow linoleum floor of the entryway, the kitchen immediately to the left.
    “Chopper?” he called, staring down the hallway into the living room. “Where are you boy?”
    His wet shoes squeaked on the floor as he crossed it, nearly tripping over the seam of the carpet as he stepped into the living room. The television rested on a cluster of cinder blocks at the back of the room beneath the rust-tinged curtains that hung from the window. A tan couch sat in the middle of the room, the matching chair set up just to the right. The seams were tattered, the threads peeling back in clusters, and the bright blue throw pillows that rested in the corners were scattered across the floor, their corners knotted and matted as though they had been chewed.
    “Chopper!” he yelled.
    A meek whimper issued from down the small hallway to the right.
    Whirling, he stopped, prepared to head down the hallway toward the bedroom, but his eyes caught on something else. There was a picture, framed and matted just to the right of the hallway, a gut-wrenching reminder of a better day. He stood to the left, wearing a black suit and tie, his left arm lying across the shoulder of a quite attractive blonde woman wearing a light purple sun dress. In her lap sat a small girl, her shiny blonde hair hung to either side of her smiling face as she clung tightly to a small stuffed dog. She wore a bright red dress, the edges fringed with lace. White tights covered her legs right down to the shiny black, buckled shoes that dangled above the floor, hardly past her mother’s knees.
    He couldn’t believe how much younger he looked, his hair full and the suit fitting him perfectly as though it had been tailored just for him. His face looked nothing like it did today, his blue eyes accented by his thick brows, his lips curled back from a genuine smile. It showed none of the wear that aged his face today, his eyes weren’t sunken back into their sockets behind large brown bags, nor were the thin lines that aged his face even beginning to form.
    “And Darcy…” he said, running his finger over the woman in the picture, the oils from his skin leaving a transparent line.
    She had to have been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The only problem was that she knew that just as well as he did. What he had been unable to provide, another had been more than willing to, and she had left him nothing but a simple note on the table.
    “See you in court,” the note had read.
    He could remember dashing up the stairs and into their bedroom, throwing open the closet door only to find that all of her clothes and shoes were now gone. Spinning around, he could vividly recall the despair that sunk into his chest as he raced into his daughter’s room, only to find it completely empty, the carpet still holding the matted impressions of where her bedposts and her dresser had been. He had fallen to his knees on that very floor, sobbing like a baby, his face buried in his hands for the rest of the night.
    That was when the serious drinking had begun.
    The next time he had seen her was in court, as she had promised, her new beau loaded to the gills with enough money to bury him alive. Assuming that the worst of his worries were the child support issue, he had been completely unprepared for what he found there in that hollow, marble-floored room. Not only did he learn that he was a terrible husband, uncaring and oft-times violent—which came as a complete shock—but that he was a mean and abusive father as well. And while he had known that those accusations were completely unfounded, the judge obviously hadn’t, ruling that he was to have no further contact with the child… yet still, he was going to have to part with the house, the cars, and more than half of his monthly income.
    It had been the worst day of his life, bar none. He had left there in tears, shrugging off his lawyer’s attempt to comfort him, unable to even give his only daughter one last hug before she was whisked away in her new “daddy’s” Mercedes. He had paid religiously and timely for the next couple of years. No longer able to afford the style in which he was accustomed to living, he had moved into this tiny apartment, selling everything that had ever mattered to him to cover the first and last month’s rent. 
    He had been fired from the department store where he had spent the last eight years managing the electronics department after showing up one too many times hung over and looking as though he hadn’t slept, let alone showered. Of course, he hadn’t, as there was barely enough time in his life for anything other than the bar. It was there where he received at least the most remote resemblance of respect: the bartenders all knew him by name, he placed second two years running in the annual darts competition, and there were always ladies there willing to treat him like a king, if only for a night.
    Tonight, however, he hadn’t been in the mood for anything other than a long-term relationship with his bed. A one on one, twelve hour affair that would hopefully leave him able to wake up functional enough to try to find a better job than he had held for the last two years. And besides, he was getting awfully tired of waiting tables, even if the management didn’t make him claim his tips. 
    Kissing his fingertips, he placed them on his daughter’s picture, a tear forming in the corner of his eye as he shrugged, his lips twisting over his teeth. Sniffing, he broke his stare from the picture, heading down the hallway to the whining dog, which was, more than likely, cringing beneath his bed.
    Turning left into the darkened bedroom, he could smell it right away. Covering his mouth and nose, he flipped on the light switch, his eyes surveying the floor for the fresh, steaming pile of crap, that he knew had to be there somewhere. There were no brown piles on the tan carpet, so, fearing the worst, he raised his eyes from the floor level to that of the bed, immediately seeing the stack of logs atop the comforter.
    “Chopper!” he shouted, watching the tip of the dog’s nose disappear behind the bedspread that draped nearly to the floor.
    Grimacing, he skulked across the well-worn carpeting, throwing wide the bathroom door. Grabbing the roll of toilet paper off of the counter next to the toilet, he pulled off about three feet of the white paper, bundling it up in his hand. Stepping back into the bedroom, he paused at the foot of the bed, his face crumpling beneath his upturned nose.
    He snared the pile in the tissue, the warmth creeping through even the second ply into his flesh. Groaning, he whirled and raced to the bathroom, throwing open the lid of the toilet and dropping the heavy mound into the water with a splash. Flushing the toilet twice for good measure, he stood in front of the sink, running the hot water so that it might get warm enough for his hands. Pumping the soap dispenser, he was able to procure nothing more than the crusted ball of dried soap that clung to the nozzle. Sighing, he rubbed it between his hands beneath the slowly warming water before drying his unsatisfactorily clean hands on his bath towel that hung over the shower rod. Turning, he took a deep breath and stumbled back into the bedroom.
    “Chopper!” he called, falling to his hands and knees right at the base of the bed.
    He could see the dark outline of the dog beneath the bed, huddled right in the center in hopes of being out of reach.
    “Damn it! You come out here right now!”
    But the dog only whimpered as he reached quickly beneath the drooping covers, grabbing the collar tightly with his right hand and yanking the squirming dog out from beneath the bed. The nails on all four of his feet dug into the carpet as he stiffened, his head flopping from one side to the other as he was dragged out into the light.
    “You know better,” Jeremy said, lifting the black and rust patterned Rottweiler into the air by its collar, its flailing legs accomplishing nothing more than twisting its neck tighter in the collar.
    Raising his left arm, he whacked the dog on the hind end repeatedly, his palm stinging from the blows. His teeth bared, he tossed the dog down on the bed, the Rott landing squarely on its back before flipping onto its feet and cringing at the top of his bed atop his pillow.
    Shaking his head, Jeremy rifled his fingers through his dark hair, trying to calm himself.
    “Sorry, boy,” he said, climbing onto the bed and crawling toward the pillows. Chopper flinched, but immediately melted as Jeremy began to scratch behind his ears, his slobbering tongue immediately reciprocating with a quick slop across the face.
    Smiling, Jeremy rolled onto his back, bringing the dog onto his chest as the ferocious licking continued until he could no longer take it and had to roll the dog back over, rubbing his exposed belly.
    His head had begun to throb, his drooping lids nearly lowered over his burning eyes, but he needed to make it up to Chopper. It wasn’t necessarily his fault that he had dumped in the apartment; after all, he had been home alone for close to fourteen hours. Jeremy knew that there was no way he could hold his bowels that long. Chopper had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, as it seemed he was more frequently, especially as of late. And the bottom line was that the last thing Jeremy wanted to become was abusive, as they had accused him of being in court on that one fateful day so many years ago now.
    “You wanna go for a walk?” he slurred, smiling as he held the dog’s face cradled in his hands.
    Chopper sprung to his feet, playfully bouncing on the bed from side to side, his saliva drenched tongue lolling from one side of his mouth to the other.           
     “You wanna go for a walk?”
    The dog darted off the bed, sprinting toward the entryway, the carpeting grinding beneath his clawed feet as he tore across it. Chuckling, Jeremy rolled off of the bed and shuffled into the hallway to the sound of Chopper’s paws scraping on the front door. Rounding the corner into the family room, he turned back to the front door, opening the small closet and grabbing the leash that dangled from the inside of the knob. Latching it onto the bouncing dog’s collar, he opened the front door and held on for dear life. Chopper bolted out into the hall and toward the door to the stairwell, pausing only long enough for Jeremy to open it before bounding down the stairs as fast as his churning legs would take him. Struggling against the force of the strong dog’s will, he clung tightly to the railing, easing slowly down the steps so as not to be yanked headfirst into the air.
    Staring back at him from where he sat at the door to the lobby, Chopper’s tongue dangled from between his canines as he panted, his eyes aglow with the anticipation of the night. Jeremy had barely turned the knob before Chopper threw his weight against it, leading them both through the lobby at a ferocious pace and to the front door where he just stared out into the swirling snow, the muscles in his shoulders and back tense with longing.
    “All right, boy,” Jeremy said aloud, bracing himself for the freezing breeze that he knew would rip right through his clothing, nipping at his skin beneath. 
    Enjoying just one more moment of the blowing heat that poured from above, creeping down his back beneath his jacket, he opened the door. The dog tore out into the night. His shoulder lurched as the leash he had wrapped around his hand tensed, the Rottweiler pulling against him with everything that it had, wanting nothing more than to just cross the parking lot and make it to the line of shrubbery at the start of the green belt.
    “Easy, boy,” Jeremy said, his head starting to spin slightly from the alcohol that coursed through his veins.
    Pulling the leash in, he took up the slack until he reached the collar, unfastening the clip from the panting, slobbering dog’s neck. Chopper sprinted straight across the snow-covered parking lot, kicking up small clouds of the rapidly accumulating powder from behind his padded feet, heading toward the curb beneath the dim streetlight. Thousands of tiny flakes swirled in the small aura of light beneath the high lamp, the trees rustling heartily in the whistling wind.
    Chopper bounded over the curb, stopping by the row of hedges in front of the tall pines. He sniffed at the bare branches buried beneath the heavy snow for only the briefest of moments before raising his leg and staining the snow yellow. Pinching it off, he sniffed along the ground for five feet before raising his leg once again. Repeating this pattern several times, he finally stopped, turning to stare at Jeremy, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in what looked like a smile, his lolling tongue bouncing behind the tufts of steam that bellowed from his throat.
    Slowly, he raised his head into the air, sniffing loudly. He closed his mouth, swallowing his bright pink tongue. Cocking his head into the wind, he stood perfectly still as Jeremy finally crossed the parking lot, swaying, and clambered up over the curb. Chopper shot a quick glance back at him and then immediately broke into a fit of riotous barking.
    “Chopper!” Jeremy growled, looking up at the line of darkened windows and hoping that the damn dog wouldn’t wake anyone.
    He was allowed to have a dog, but the complex rules state that the dog cannot exceed forty pounds, and when he moved in it hadn’t. But Chopper had to be nearly sixty pounds by now and the last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention to that fact. The brazen, mostly disobedient dog was all that he had now, his only family, and he sure as hell didn’t want to lose his family all over again.
    The dog stopped barking, pausing once again to sniff the air. Slowly, he turned, looking straight through the line of hedges. He lowered his head, the short hairs on his shoulders and neck bristling up, as a long, guttural growl ripped from between his bared teeth. His feet pressed forward only inches at a time as he crept towards the line of brush.
    “What is it, boy? Do you smell a rabbit?”
    The dog just stood there, every muscle in his body tensing visibly as he growled, unflinching, into the undergrowth. A thick line of drool hung from his lower jaw, growing longer and longer, before finally falling into the snow. His bobbed tail, which usually wagged incessantly, stood straight up.
    “Chopper?”
    Without a final glance back, Chopper let out one final bark and then shot through the barren hedges, leaving nothing but the bobbing branches in his wake. There was the sound of crackling and crunching as branches were torn from their moorings, the dog rocketing into the wilderness.
    “Shit,” Jeremy muttered through his own bared teeth, his taut lips twisting and contorting. He fought down the sense of rage that swelled from deep in his chest.
    Shaking his head, he kicked at a clump of snow that had fallen from the shrubbery where Chopper had entered. With one final glance back across the parking lot at the darkened building, he slipped into the foliage, the long, thin branches snagging at his clothing.
    Breaking through the line of landscaped hedge, he ducked beneath the lower canopy of the mess of pine branches. The brown, needle-covered ground was nearly dry, as only the slightest dusting of snow had been able to make the descent through the branches that were so tightly woven together that barely a single ray of light could filter through. His back ached miserably as he hunched over, his hands still thrust deeply into his pockets. Bending his knees, he crept beneath the sharply-needled branches, the only sound he could hear being the needles on the ground as they crunched beneath his uneven footsteps.
    “Chopper!” he called, ducking out from beneath the painfully low branches and into a slight clearing.
    He craned his head and listened, but all he could hear was the wind ripping through the branches of the trees, filling the small path he had stumbled onto with a fine mist of powder. Off in the distance, he heard a muffled bark, but surely there was no way that Chopper could have gotten that far away in such a short amount of time.
    Following the path, he made every effort to tread lightly, his clumsily-falling feet muffled by the deepening snow. He listened intently, turning his head from one side to the other as he scanned the lines of matted, white branches and intertwining trunks to either side. But there was nothing, not even the slightest—
    “Chopper?” he said, quickly turning to his right as he caught just the briefest of glimpses of the round, rust-colored circle of fur on the dog’s rear end between a gap in the trees.
    Stepping from the path, the snow got deeper as it piled upon itself at the base of the row of trees. Ducking beneath the low-lying branches, heavily bowed beneath the weight of the snow, he crept toward the dog, standing completely still, staring at something outside of his view in the middle of the forest. Unraveling the leash from his right hand, he gripped the clip tightly, pulling back the trigger to open it wide enough to just quickly latch it onto the metal ring on the collar. It wasn’t often that Chopper took off on his own, but on that rare occasion when he did, Jeremy knew that he was in for a seriously long night.
    Slipping past the hindquarters of the dog, the hairs along its back still standing erect, Jeremy clipped the leash onto the collar. Smiling, and more than just a little pleased with himself, he positively beamed, his face awash with a gigantic smile. Had he been outside of the cluster of trees, he surely would have raised both arms above his head, Rocky-style, and bounced up and down.
    His sudden burst of happiness waning, the thought of kicking that dog’s undisciplined butt slowly entered his mind, writhing around like a serpent in his brain until there was nothing that he wanted more. He yanked on the leash; visibly jerking the dog’s body backward, but Chopper didn’t budge, still intently focused on whatever was locked in his line of view.
    “Come on, Chopper!” Jeremy shouted, tugging on the leash with everything that he could muster from that somewhat crouched position atop the piled needles.
    But the dog didn’t give an inch. The muscles in his back legs tensed like steel cables from beneath the black fur as he fought against the leash.
    “Damn it, Chopper! I said—”
    The dog interrupted him with a fierce, terrifying growl that sent the hackles straight up Jeremy’s back and neck. Allowing the leash to loosen in his grasp, the leather cord went slack and he placed his left hand atop the dog’s arched back. He could feel the growl as it rumbled through the animal’s body, the shoulders shuddering as it burst from the throat and through the snarling, bared teeth.
    Running his hand up the back and through the stiffly-standing hairs on the shoulders, he patted Chopper’s neck lightly, staring down his poised head towards whatever he was looking at. His right knee touched the frozen ground, the thin layer of snow soaking damply through his pants.
    His eyes followed the blotched ground toward where Chopper’s stare was fixed, the shadows thickening beneath the heavily intertwined branches of a dense cluster of pines. A cold breeze ripped through the forest, chilling him straight through his jacket and into the flesh beneath. The rustling trees showered him with tiny flecks of ice crystals, which settled in his hair and across his bare flesh as he stared into the shadows.
    He couldn’t see it right off, but he knew that there was something in there, hidden in the shadows. The hackles slowly rose across the backs of his arms.
    “Come on, boy,” he said, gently tugging at the collar while he patted the dog on the neck. “Let’s go.”
    The sound of rustling needles and crackling branches filled the still air about them. 
    He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all. There was something about the situation that really didn’t sit well with him, writhing serpentine-like in his belly as he was overwhelmed with the urge to take flight. His breathing grew short and quick, sounding almost identical to the panting canine.
    “Now!” he shouted, clambering to his feet, his head raking across the bottom of the branches above, which showered him with snow.
    Tugging on the collar, he barely moved the dog in the slightest, but he kept on tugging, trying frantically to drag the dog from the confines of the forest and back onto the thin path that would surely lead them home. Chopper’s sides still quivered from the growls that issued from his tight jaw, but slowly, the sound dissipated, and the dog’s sides shook for a different reason.
    A high-pitched whine echoed through the night from Chopper’s trembling form, and Jeremy could feel his heart sink in his chest. Slowly, he turned, the leash falling from his formerly clenched hand to the hard, frozen earth. His shaking hands flopped to his sides as he fell to his knees on the ground.
    He could feel it, aching in the marrow of his bones. It was right there with him.
    His eyes rose from the ground, following the shadow-infested ground to where the dog stared, straight ahead. He was helpless to do anything but observe as a form eased out of the shadows that concealed it. His gaze rising from the ground, Jeremy could see two bare feet, the flesh buried beneath a layer of crusted mud and earth, dangling inches above the frosted earth. Tattered edges of a long, dark cloak flagged about those feet. 
    With one final whimper, Chopper turned suddenly and raced back out of the woods and into the clearing.
    His gaze shifting upward, Jeremy flopped onto his back, his feet kicking at the ground in an attempt to propel him to his feet. All he could see was the darkness of the shroud, the loosely-fitting garment rippling about the hidden form beneath, blending into the shadows that seemed to be stretching out toward him. From the heart of that darkness, a pair of eyes shone dully beneath the thin hint of light that somehow broke through the sheath of branches. There was something in those eyes that he had never seen before. They were so cold, so cold…
    Thrusting with his hips, he flopped over onto all fours, scrambling across the dead needles that poked straight through the thick skin on his palms. The jeans shredded back from his knees as the hard ground rose up and tore at him, trying to keep him from reaching his feet.
    Tears streamed from his eyes, his heart jackhammering, fit to burst. He could see the path ahead as he scrambled to his feet, stumbling before launching himself headlong into the masses of branches, barely throwing his arms in front of his face in time to keep the needles from raking the flesh on his face. 
    He hurdled along the path, breaking through the mass of branches that shielded the other side, his feet propelling him onward as he fought to see through the small gap he had left between his arms. Branches grabbed at him from all sides, trying to get a grip on him to keep him from escaping their wooden clutches.
    There was a sharp and sudden pain in his right toe, his leg aching straight through to the thigh as he felt himself become airborne, his hands reflexively reaching out in front of him to brace his fall. His chest was the first to hit, slamming onto the frozen turf, knocking what little air he had in his chest out with a loud groan. Fighting for air, he tried to push himself back to his knees, unable to draw in even the slightest gasp of oxygen.
    Straight ahead, he could see the light from the parking lot, the darkened apartment complex through the bare branches of the hedge from where they had first entered the forest. He could see Chopper sitting at the door, staring straight up at the doorknob as though someone were going to let him in.
    Jeremy’s clawed hands tore at the turf, urging him toward the parking lot. His shoulders shook and tears streamed in waves down his cheeks, his collapsed chest struggling to come up with enough air to cry out.
    There was sharp pressure to either side of his neck, clamping on the thin muscles above his clavicle. All he could do was watch the parking lot as he was suddenly ripped from the ground and into the air, his flopping legs dangling above the ground. He mouthed the words, hoping that just once the sound would come.
    “Help me!” 
    The words came in a dry burst that wouldn’t even qualify as a whisper.
    “Somebody, please! Help me!”
    His voice trailed off into the night as he was turned, the parking lot fading away behind him. There was now nothing but wave after wave of snow-matted pine needles ripping into the flesh on his face as he was led deeper into the forest.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART TEN


PART 10


XIII
Tuesday, November 15th
4 a.m.
    Leaning back in the chair at the computer, Scott stretched his arms above his head, stifling a yawn as he tried to work out the dull ache that had settled in at the base of his spine. He had been pouring over the Internet for what felt like an eternity, trying to come up with anything at all that could lead him to the whereabouts of the child that Harry had saved so many years ago. Everything within the State of Colorado Department of Child Welfare and Social Services web sites was password controlled, and, try as he might, he had no luck entering. From there he had moved on to some of the adoption location agencies, some of which claimed they could locate the adoptive child’s parentage within forty- eight hours. He had found one such service, The People Network, which had been the only one of the many web sites that he had encountered that had anyone online to help. They had been unable to offer their forty-eight hour guarantee as special circumstances surrounded the initial adoption, but had gladly taken his credit card number. The agent, as he was called, had promised that they would either call or fax him as soon as they knew anything, but said not to expect to hear from them for at least four to five days unless they got lucky. So now, it was just a matter of waiting. 
He rubbed his weary eyes and glanced over at the clock. 
4:18 a.m.
His body was a seething mass of pain and discomfort, every strained and pulled muscle begging for him to just lie down, if even for just a little while. But he knew, as he could tell most every other night, that there was no way that his mind would shut down for any stretch of time, let alone long enough to fall asleep. And this night was no different than any other, but piled even higher with the stress of suddenly having to deal battling supernatural forces for the fate of two hundred souls. He was already short a couple of buddies from high school. The first thing on his agenda in the morning was to call what remained of his old social circle to see if he could convince the others—if they were actually still alive—to get the hell out of town for a while.
He still wasn’t sure that he completely accepted everything about the current situation as it stood. Sure, he had seen two of his best friends brutally slaughtered, but there was almost a dream-like quality to it. Almost as though their deaths existed only in his imagination. There were no bodies lying on cold, stainless steel tables in a coroner’s lab, their lifeless corpses awaiting the final touches on their make up in the back office of a funeral parlor. There was nothing tangible about it in the slightest. All that he had were the vague recollections of what, in all actuality, were fairly traumatic moments, with absolutely no physical evidence that the bodies had ever actually been there.
And then there was the diary and the files they had found in the little room back in the tunnel. The whole concept of a devil that wandered the earth planting his seed, with the sole purpose of that child, that bloodspawn, bringing the ultimate deaths of two hundred people was outside his comprehension. It seemed completely preposterous from just a surface view. The fact that there was an entire sect of nuns devoted to tracking and battling with this hitchhiking devil seemed like something out of an early eighties horror flick he might have seen on the USA network in the middle of the night.
But he had seen whatever it was that had torn his friend clean in two. He had felt it down there with him in that darkened tunnel earlier in the day, had tasted its cold breath, felt it on his bare skin. Maybe he would have been able to shrug the whole thing off and go to sleep; dismissing all of the nuns’ accumulated information with the most lackadaisical shrug. But the fact remained that he had seen it with his own eyes, and whether he bought into the whole bloodspawn theory or not, he had seen enough over the last couple of days to know better than to not take it seriously.
And, truthfully, he wasn’t sure of exactly what he was supposed to do, but from everything that he had read and seen that day, it seemed like the best place to start was to try and figure out this whole bloodspawn thing. The first question that needed to be answered was what had happened to this child that Harry had rescued from the Cavenaugh house so many years ago?
“Harry?” Scott said, turning in the swiveling chair to face the living room.
Harry’s head lay back on the top of the recliner chair, his mouth wide open as he wheezed heavily. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the diary, which he had been reading, had fallen from his lap to the floor. The arms of the chair did little more than prop up his arms. His hands dangled over the sides, nearly touching the carpet.
Chuckling to himself, Scott rose from the computer chair and crossed the living room, stretching his arms straight over his head as he walked beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. He lurched up the stairs, his exhausted legs fighting him the whole way as they did little more than drag his limp feet up the steps. Rounding the corner and walking down the short hallway into his bedroom, he paused at the foot of his bed, staring down at the unmade mess of covers and thinking about just how delightful it would be to just climb under that comforter for just a few minutes, just long enough to close his eyes and… And what? Sleep? What were the odds of that?
Feeling completely disheartened, his shoulders slouching, he knew that his only option would be to do the next best thing: take a nice, hot shower, and start the day anew.
Shedding his button down shirt, he tossed it into the corner of the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, rolling his neck about on his shoulders, as he kicked off his shoes and socks and walked into the bathroom.
Leaning toward the mirror, he opened his eyes wide and studied the myriad red veins that crept from the corners of his eyes into the dark irises. His heavy lids settling back down over the thin slits of his open eyes that rested deep within the dark bags beneath them, he stepped to the right, lifting the toilet seat and sighing mightily as he drained the nearly full pot of coffee that swelled within his bladder. Smiling to himself, he closed the lid, pressing the small metal handle that caused the loud whoosh that filled the room. 
The cold tile felt almost nice beneath his aching feet as the muscles slid apart just enough to allow the cool surface to soothe the tight tendons. Ducking back to his left, he opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a towel from the small stack and slung it over the brass rim of the shower stall. Turning to go choose some different, and say, clean clothes to wear, he heard a faint thump as the towel fell from atop the opaque glass shower stall, landing in a clump on the floor. 
Sighing, he whirled around as he hadn’t quite made it out of the bathroom yet. Kneeling to the floor, he swiped up the towel with his right hand. But before he could return to standing, he caught a glimpse of something on the floor.
“Dammit,” he grumbled, wiping the small droplets of the red fluid from the tile.
Tossing the towel back up over the top rim of the shower, he paused. He was definitely tired, he knew that, and under these circumstances there was no way that his brain was as sharp as he generally prided himself on keeping it, but he suddenly needed to figure out what the hell he had just wiped off the floor of his bathroom.
The first thought that crossed his mind was that Harry had used the bathroom, and being an older fellow and all, and having something of a physically taxing day, maybe there was just something wrong with the plumbing. But why would he have gone into his bedroom to use the bathroom when he would have passed one on the way down the hall, and the other one was more than likely a whole lot cleaner than his personal one. 
Something caught his eye in the mirror. It had barely snared his attention from the far reaches of his peripheral vision, and it had taken him a moment to find it, but there it was, clear as day, and he suddenly wondered how he had possibly missed it when he had first entered the room. 
There was a series of small red splotches, so dark they almost appeared black on the light blue horizontal blinds. He dabbed at one of them with his right index finger, recoiling quickly as it was still wet to the touch… and still warm. Lifting the blinds, he stared down at the windowsill that was covered with a splotch of the red fluid, which crawled over the molding and was running down the wall in a pair of small, crimson lines, just ready to peek out from beneath the curtains.
He tugged on the window, but it was locked tightly, and even through the frosted window he could see that the screen was still in place, so how could it have possibly gotten in there?
There was a small splat as one fine ball of the somewhat viscous fluid dropped from the orange peel-textured white wall to the tiled floor. His eyes followed the sound, staring at the small circle of red. And there were more, leading in a small line toward the base of the shower where he had wiped up the first couple of drops. And then he saw it, something that were he any less tired he would have noticed right away when he had first walked into the room. There, on the top edge of the brass handle affixed to the right side of the hinged, almost white looking glass, was another splotch of red. He peered more closely at it, creeping across the red spotted tile, his eyes fixed on the marking. Coming right up on top of it, he craned his head forward, inspecting it thoroughly. There were small whorls in the pattern pressed into the red mark on the shining brass fixture, and there was absolutely no denying that what he was looking at was, indeed, a thumbprint.
Scott’s breath caught in his chest. He was suddenly quite aware of just how alone he was in that bathroom, and wishing that he had opted for the clear glass panels for the shower, rather than the opaque.
Reaching out with his trembling hand, he grasped the brass handle, trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled outward. There was a small popping sound as the door disengaged from the magnetic seal, the glass door swinging backward with slight squeak. His eyes grew wide, his jaw falling slack. From his shaking legs all the way up and over his shoulders, his whole body started to quiver at once. Every tiny hair that covered his skin stood straight on end as he saw it, right in the middle of the floor of the shower stall as soon as he looked inside.
Fighting back the urge to vomit, his stomach heaving dryly, he cupped a hand over his mouth and stared down at the pile of flesh that lay in the middle of a bloody pool that slowly trickled down the circular drain beneath the showerhead. The tattered remnants of a shredded shirt clung to the chest of the body, saturated with the crimson mess. The legs were crumpled to either side, the jeans torn away from the scraped knees. Blood ran in small lines over the bare feet, dripping from between the toes. 
All he could see of the head was a mass of dark, tangled hair, the man’s chin resting in the middle of his chest. The tips of each ear appeared to have been clipped off, blood puddling in the hollows of his ears, forming large droplets at the bottom of each lobe. There was a small circular scar in the lobe of the left ear, apparently from where the hole from a piercing had healed shut.
Shaking violently, he reached toward the man with his right hand, pressing on the forehead with just the middle finger of his hand as he leaned the head back. Staring straight into the face, he could tell at first glance exactly who it was, even though he hadn’t seen him in years. Jeremy looked exactly same as he had in high school, even without his eyes. His hair was a little shorter, and his features more mature, but there was no mistaking it.
Ripping back his hand, Scott turned away from the body, the head bouncing several times off the chest before rolling to the right. The image of the face was engraved into the back of his head, and all he could see as he closed his eyes was the empty sockets of the eyes. The lids were sunken inward; streams of blood poured from the corners of the eyes, running through the thick stubble on the cheeks, clinging in drops at the line of the chin, hanging there perpetually as if they would never fall. The open mouth exposed the swelling tongue, which pressed on the chipped front teeth, the lips faded from their formerly dark pink as he remembered them to a more subdued, pale shade of light blue.
“Harry…” he managed in only a meek whisper.
He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, slowly pushing himself backward along the floor, his hands and bare feet barely able to get any traction on the slick tile.
“Harry!” he shouted, the word booming through the upstairs bathroom.
Unable to fight the urge any longer, he stared through the open shower door at the body that sat almost Indian style in the middle of the blue marble stall. He shook his head over and over, as if that sign of disbelief would change the fact that he was actually staring at it. A muffled whimper crept from his chest as the only other sound in the room was the light trickling of the blood dripping down the drain.
Breaking his gaze, he leapt to his feet, turning his back on the bathroom as he raced across the bedroom and into the hallway.
“Harry!”
Rounding the corner, he could see the living room straight down the hallway at the base of the stairs. Harry was still completely unconscious in the chair, a small line of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.
“Harry!” Scott shouted. He hit the stairs at a full sprint, hurdling them three at a time as he grasped the railing.
Harry shot upright; looking completely perplexed as he wiped the saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. Squinting, he stared at Scott who was already crossing the living room floor.
“What’s going on?” he mumbled through a yawn. He gently massaged his stiff lower back with his left hand.
“Come on!” Scott shouted right into his face as he grabbed him by the hand and nearly yanked him right out of the chair.
“I’m coming!” Harry snapped, snatching his hand back from Scott.
“Jesus Christ,” Scott muttered as he raced back toward the stairs, clambering up to the hallway and ducking back into him room. 
He could hear Harry’s muffled footsteps on the plush carpeting as they reached the top of the staircase and turned down the hallway towards his room. Stopping at the doorway, he leaned against the trim staring back toward the bedroom door. He knew he couldn’t stand to look in there at his old friend again.
“What is it?” Harry asked, the sleep finally wearing off, along with it the incredible grumpiness.
“In the shower…” Scott stammered, his voice trailing off to a whisper. “In the shower.”
Harry walked past him and into the bathroom, his shoes squeaking on the tile.
“What?” Harry asked, his eyes scanning the glass enclosure.
“Right there, on the floor in the stall.”
“Is that real marble?”
“What?” Scott asked, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily before whirling and stepping into the bathroom behind Harry.
Pushing him to the side, Scott walked right to the edge of the shower and stared through the open door.
There was absolutely nothing there.
Not a single drop of blood could be seen on the marble surface, the brass drain shining as though freshly polished. His eyes covered the floor, looking for any trace of the droplets of blood that had freckled the tile only a moment prior, but there was nothing. Shoving past Harry once again, he grabbed the horizontal blinds, noticing immediately that there were no splotches on the blades. Throwing them upward, he stared at the windowsill only to find the white trim looking just like new without the slightest hint of the crimson that had traced lines across the painted wood.
“Did I miss something?” Harry asked.
Turning, Scoot just stared at him, his mouth opening and forming words, but no sound came out. His brow furrowed as he paused, then quickly turned and stared out the window.
“It was there. I promise you. It was there just a minute ago.”
“What?”
“Jeremy… an old friend. He was in my shower.”
“Well,” Harry said, unsure of what to say or believe. “Where is he now?”
“There!” Scott shouted as he stared out onto the snow-covered lawn. There was a wide dark streak running straight through the center of the yard toward the line of trees. He could barely see a pair of bare feet at the edge of the undergrowth, but only for a split second as they were dragged out of sight into the darkness beyond.
Bounding out of the bathroom, Scott grabbed a pair of shoes from the floor and slipped his bare feet straight into them, grabbing the button-down shirt from the floor where he had tossed it, slipping his arms into the sleeves as he ran out of the bedroom. He hit the hallway at a full sprint, grabbing the wall to keep from slamming into it, not even bothering to button up the shirt. He leapt the stairs, landing in the entryway, his whole body functioning on pure instinct.
Unlatching the lock, he slid back the sliding glass door and bounded out into the blowing snow. The channel carved into the accumulation was still there, the powdered mass of flakes melting back from the warm red stain as whatever new flakes fell atop it fizzled into water. His eyes followed the line of flattened snow to the edge of the forest as his legs slowly began to move forward. 
There was something on the wind, an unnatural scent of sorts. It was almost like a mixture of sulfur and copper that he could taste as well as he could smell. It was all around him, yet seemed to be resonating from within the confines of the closely packed trees that led back into the wilderness. And he could feel him there, too, watching him with stoic eyes as he crossed the lawn and peeled back the first layer of undergrowth, entering its domain. 
The sound of the whistling wind dissipated into the night as he pressed deeper into the pine grove, the only audible sounds were those of his heavy, labored breathing and the needles of the branches as they caressed one another, scraping from side to side as he passed beneath. It became increasingly difficult to follow the trench through the forest. It shifted from side to side as it meandered through the maze of trunks, the redness fading to a pale silver on the white ground as there appeared to be no more of the red to stain it.
An owl hooted in the upper reaches of the needle-covered branches above, its long feathers clapping together as it rapidly took to flight.
Scott finally stopped, leaning his hands on his thighs. He doubled over in an effort to catch his breath. Steam swirled in bursts from his ruby red nostrils as his eyes scanned the thin lines of darkness between the closely packed trunks, peering through the masses of green and browning needles for anything resembling a human form. Granted, there was a large part of him that really didn’t want to find whatever it was that he had chased out here into the forest, but there was another part that just had to try to force some form of resolution. He couldn’t keep doing this night after night with no end in sight. He couldn’t just lie awake waiting for whatever monstrosity stalked the darkness to parade the slaughtered corpses of two hundred of his friends in front of him, if that was, indeed, the whole point.
And there was a part of him that wanted to prove that it was nothing more than a dream, a bad dream that he just couldn’t see the way out of. If he could just track down whoever this was out here in the night, he might be able to wake up, because, after all, there was absolutely no way that this was his friend he had watched die right in front of his eyes so many years ago. Regardless of what the diary may have insinuated, or what Harry had seen at that house in the valley, he needed to prove to himself that his deceased friend Matt wasn’t skulking around in the shadows taking his revenge in the form of a garish bloodbath.
Wiping the crystallized drops of sweat from his forehead, he jogged deeper into the woods, dodging the branches and trunks. They came at him with surprising speed, his tautly-wound reflexes spring-like in their reactions. The hollow thud of his footsteps atop the frozen ground resonated within his head, hammering like the thumping of the blood through his temples. His brow furrowed with a will of its own and his churning legs slowed to a walk, and then finally stopped all together.
He was in the center of a small circle of trees; the needled arms lacing together like fingers above his head to blot out the slivers of light that crept through the clouds from the moon. The piercing cold stabbed at his bare chest, penetrating through the flesh like a series of needles, ripping at the skin as though to peel it back. His swirling breath lingered around his face like a localized fog before fading into the darkness. Turning in place, he watched the ring of trees around him.
There was no doubt in his mind that there was someone nearby, just out of his line of sight. He could feel him there, the heavy stare fixed upon him as he stood alone in the center of the grove. There was that coppery smell again, climbing into his sinuses and dripping down the back of his throat as it filled the forest on the thin breeze.
Peering beyond the shadowed trunks, he could see nothing but the thick blanket of darkness that enshrouded the shrubbery. It masked whatever animals slumbered through hibernation or brumation or whatever small prelude to death slowed their functioning through the frigid winter months, allowing them to arise in time for the mating season in spring. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the darkness seemed to be gaining mass, piling blackness upon itself until it seemed to pulse behind the lichen-crusted trunks. Threatening to swell all around him and spill through the thin gaps between the trunks into the small circle where he hesitantly waited for whatever had drawn him here to reveal itself, it called to him with words that he could feel, but not necessarily hear.
He looked straight up into the darkened mass of interwoven branches, their needled extremities shuddering against one another. A thin cloud of snow sifted through from above. There was nothing around him, at least nothing that he could see with his own eyes, yet still he knew that it was there with him, standing just outside of his line of sight, sharing the same frigid night air that rifled through his lungs. He could taste its rotting breath on the tip of his tongue and feel its damp warmth on his exposed skin.
 Staring down at the white-dusted ground, he could see something etched into the frozen, crusty snow in the dim light. Though barely visible, he could tell it was there. Kneeling, his face only a few feet from the hardened surface of white, his finger traced the carvings. They were letters, marked into the snow by a human hand, his finger fitting perfectly into the thin channels.
“White lace?” he mused, discerning the patterns of letters.
Why in the world would anyone take the time to write the words “white lace” in the snow in the middle of nowhere? 
His mind raced in circles, the words echoing over and over in the corners of his brain, which churned like an engine in response to the letters. Knowing they were written there for his benefit, for his eyes only, he frantically sought to decipher the cryptic code.
Finally, it hit him.
An old Alice Copper song played through his head. It was a song he hadn’t listened to since he was maybe sixteen years old, yet still the words poured back atop the music in his mind as if he was listening to it at that very moment. The chorus echoed in his brain and he whispered it aloud.
“In my mind,” he said, his finger still tracing the words, “Blood drops look like roses on white lace.”
There was a dull splattering sound, like the sound of a leaking faucet dripping onto an open drain. Following the noise, he stared down on the small droplets, bright red circles in the virgin snow. Dabbing at one of them, he brought his dampened finger right in front of his face, inspecting the reddened surface of his fingertip. He rubbed his thumb over it, smearing the thick crimson fluid.
Throwing himself onto his back, he stared up into the canopy above, just as a loud crashing sound filled the woods. Brown needles fell in droves from the branches above as a shower of snow cascaded through the air. A dark shape appeared from the branches above, hurdling toward the ground at an enormous speed. The object landed with a sickening thump, a gut-churning groan emanating from the shape that was sprawled across the ground just past his outstretched feet.
Sitting up, Scott felt his heart begin to race. He reached for the object with his trembling hands. He could tell what it was, but beneath the darkened sky, he was unable to tell whom. His throat grew dry, his lips parting to dampen his mouth with the humid air.
Rolling up onto his knees, he shakily lifted the arm that was sprawled across the snow in front of him into the air. The skin was cold and dry, the flesh traced with the drying lines of blood that had run like small streams over the surface. Fingers curled into claws, elbow tightly straightened; rigor mortis had begun to set in. Allowing the arm to flop back down onto the snow, he leaned over the body and stared at the face, which was crusted beneath a mask of dried blood.    
It was Jeremy, just as he had seen him only minutes prior in a heap on the marble floor of his shower stall. His peeled back eyelids exposed the bloodshot whites of his eyes, only the bottom crescent of his dark eyes visible as they had rolled back into his skull. 
A gaseous groan parted his blue lips as the head slowly lifted from the ground.
Scrambling backward, his red hands buried in the thick snow, Scott hurriedly scuttled away. The body slowly rose from the ground. The head lolled back onto the shoulders, the arms and legs hanging limply, as the body floated into the air. The tips of the blue toes scraped at the crusted surface of the snow, tracing thin lines with the long, yellowing nails.
Unable to take his eyes from the body hanging in midair, he scrambled backward against the trunk of a tree, the jagged bark pressing deeply into his back. His feet continued to kick at the snow in an attempt to propel him further away, but to no avail. So he sat there, trembling against the base of the tree, helpless to do anything more than watch as Jeremy’s head snapped forward, the whitened eyes seeming to stare straight down at him on the ground.
Thin tufts of steam rasped from the mouth of the formerly lifeless body, the breath scraping audibly through the collapsed trachea. It just hung there momentarily, before finally beginning to move very slowly. It came toward him, the toes dragging in the snow.
Scott fought to close his eyes, to roll around the side of the trunk, to leap to his feet to sprint in the other direction, but nothing was going to work. His entire body was paralyzed with fear, even his breath growing stale in his lungs as only his hammering heart was able to function through the onset of the crippling numbness that raced through every inch of his being.
The body stopped, still dangling like a marionette on unseen strings from the mass of branches above. Falling to the right, the head rested on the shoulder, the eyes still appearing to be fixed directly on him. He watched in horror as the lips slowly began to move, the thin blue lines writhing like snakes as they fought to mouth words. A faint sound whisked through those lips, growing stronger and louder with each subsequent attempt until finally it found its voice.
“It’s been a long time,” the deep rasping voice said through the lips of the deceased, its breath visible against the dark night.
The voice seemed to reach right in through Scott’s ears and straight down into his chest, seizing his rapidly pumping heart within its cold grasp. He recognized the voice immediately, knowing that it didn’t belong to the body that floated in the center of the ring of trees around him. Trying to respond, he swallowed the ball of phlegm that blocked his throat, but still the words would not com. His eyes grew even wider, the brows raised nearly to the center of his forehead. 
“Aren’t you going to say hello to an old friend?” the corpse mouthed, the voice seeming to come from all around him rather than from behind the swollen tongue of the chipped-tooth mouth.
It couldn’t be possible, Scott thought. Every rational part of his being fought in circles trying to grasp the concept of what he already knew to be true, but was completely unprepared to accept. And though much time had passed, he still recognized that voice as well as if it were his own. Wrapping his trembling arms around his chest in what resembled a self-embrace, he stared at the dangling feet of the body, his voice coming in little more than a muffled whisper.
“Matt,” he said, closing his eyes tightly. He felt the cold swell upon him from all sides, tearing through his clothing in an effort to freeze the skin beneath.
    “Ahh,” the voice echoed from all around him. “I see you do remember, even after all of these years.”
    “You… you’re dead. I watched you die,” Scott muttered, pressing his back as far as it would go against the trunk of the tree, unable to steer his gaze from the figure that hovered in front of him.
    “For a while, I thought so too. In fact, there were definitely times when I wished that I had been, but apparently I was meant for something more.”
    Scott’s hands shook violently as he held them in front of his face, the dangling apparition gliding slowly toward him in the small grove. There was a shadow to his left, muffled beneath the darkness of the trees. Barely more than a vague outline against the pitch black night, it seemed to generate its own blackness, the serpentine darkness writhing and twisting, a cold effervescence emanating from the heart of the shadow.
    “What… how…” Scott stammered, unable to connect his scattershot thoughts.
    “How did I survive? Is that what you’re asking?” the lifeless form mouthed. “After that car slipped beneath the ice on that lake, the freezing waters filling the inside of the car, I prayed for a swift death. I prayed for the water to rise up and fill my lungs. But there was to be no solace for me. When the weight of the car finally broke through the ice, it rolled, trapping a pocket of air within the vehicle. It landed on the roof of the car on the bottom of the lake. I broke free of the seat belt and swam out through the open window, but it was so dark under the layer of ice that I was unable to see anything at all. I couldn’t even see the hole in the ice where the car had fallen through. So I swam beneath the icy crust, pounding on it with my fists before the cold finally began to overwhelm me, numbing my flesh so that I could barely move. I watched the surface above me as I sunk deeper into the water, but before I knew it, my back was on the sloped bottom. The stale breath forming icicles in my lungs, I scrambled up the bank, kicking and scraping at the rough silt before finally slamming my head into the thin ice by the shore. 
    “Clawing up onto the frozen bank, I dragged myself forward. My body shook so violently that there was no conscious control of my faculties. I just crawled, my whole body trembling. Little did I know there was a river just off the far bank. Before I even knew that it was there, I had splashed down into it face first, the rapidly-running water ripping me beneath the surface. The next thing I knew, I woke up in a small, dark tunnel. I don’t know how I got there or why, but my entire body felt as though it was frozen and my muscles were beginning to atrophy. I could barely move as I was wedged so tightly into this tunnel. There was no wriggling free, at least not in the state that I was in. There was no water, no food. I just lay there, pressed tightly into a small cylindrical tunnel of packed earth, praying for death.
    “Four days passed before the rats came. The water must have risen in the larger tunnel beyond, as the earth grew damp beneath me, the rats coming all at once in a screaming fit of squeals and clawing nails. They raced right up the tunnel toward my body, squeezing between the earthen walls of the tunnel and me. I was able to bait them with my own flesh long enough to keep them near enough to me to grab them, to snap their little necks. I feasted on those rats for as long as they lasted, buying me enough time to regain my strength, to claw my way through the soft ground, and into that house.”
    “What do you want from me?” Scott asked in a meek whisper, his eyes scanning the shadows for the source of the voice, rather than the mere puppet that dangled in front of him in the freezing night air.
    “That night, so many years ago, you dragged me out of that house. Who knows how that night would have played out, maybe they would have killed me, or maybe I would have killed all of them: no one will ever know. But it was because of you that I was able to get a second chance.”
    “A second chance at life?”
    “No,” the voice said, booming laughter filling the entire forest. “A second chance to kill all of them. There is just the one thing that still needs to be decided. I have summoned you here for one reason and one reason alone tonight. I need to know whether or not I need to kill you as well.”
    “You were my best friend,” Scott said, sliding to his feet along the roughly-barked trunk of the tree, his eyes scanning the darkness hard, searching for some connection with the ghostly apparition that lurked within the shadows. “I would never have let them hurt you if I had known that was their purpose for bringing you to that house that night. They told me that it was time to bury the hatchet—”
    “It would have been if you hadn’t pulled me out of there.”
    “Time to let bygones be bygones, if you will. I never would have let you show up if I had known what was going to happen. For the last twelve years, I’ve blamed myself for your death. I’ve carried the burden that I was the one who couldn’t save you, couldn’t pull you out of that car. Do you know what that’s like? I haven’t had a single decent night’s sleep since I was seventeen years old.”
    “Poor thing, and here I thought living in a hole in the ground surviving on nothing but the uncooked flesh of vermin was bad. Please forgive me for troubling your sleep.”
    “That’s not what I’m saying,” Scott said, lowering his shaking head. “And it’s really not the point.”
    “Then what is the point?”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    The corpse slumped to the ground in a heap, the gasses building within bursting from the compressing flesh in a combination of a loud belch and flatulence that sounded more like the roar of a bear than anything else. Stepping from where he hid beneath the blackened cloak of the shadows, Matt’s outlined form stepped towards the clearing. Though barely more than a shadow in the night, Scott focused on the form as it began to speak, the darkness around him seeming to resonate from within the dark core of his former friend.
    “You remember how it used to be, don’t you?” Matt said, his voice almost sounding human, like it had more than a decade ago.
    “How so?”
    “Don’t you remember how everyone looked at me, how they treated me? It was as if I carried the plague, as if I was the antichrist. I couldn’t escape it, not even at home. Wherever I went, there was always someone there to try to bring me down.”
    “Like I said back then, if you don’t dwell on it, it will eventually go away.”
    “But it never did!” Matt’s voice boomed from the heart of the darkness. Snow fell from the branches overhead in clumps from where it had piled atop the nest of needles. Whatever lonesome creatures skulked through the night, scavenging for food or respite from the wicked storm scattered from the underbrush at the sound of the ear-shattering voice.
    Scott stared at the wall of shadows. Matt’s form seemed to pulse from the dark rage that resonated within his form. He could feel the cold waves of hatred as they rippled through the forest across the thin, frigid breeze. The form eased from the blackness that cloaked it in its embrace of invisibility, stepping out into the middle of the small clearing, just to the other side of Jeremy’s lifeless form.
    The dark cloak that shielded his form blew around him, the tattered edges dancing rhythmically. It looked as though a fire burned about him; black flames lapping at the night from his almost spectral form as it hovered inches above the frozen ground. His face was cloaked in shadows, only the dull manila glare from his sunken eyes, and the choppy, rotten teeth from his snarling mouth were visible. The dim light reflected from the dried surface of his eyes. The cracked and yellowed eyeballs appeared as though they couldn’t see anything at all, the leathered surface snagging each time the eyelids blinked.
    “Jesus,” Scott uttered, his eyes fixing on the blind stare of the creature that stood before him.
    “Do I repulse you? Does this festering visage offend you in some way? You’ll have to forgive me as I’ve been living in this infernal hell for as long as I can remember now. But this is all a part of the deal for me. When I gave up my life, my soul, for the chance at retribution, this became a foregone conclusion. The voices in my head that chatter amongst themselves relentlessly are nothing compared to the physical torment of a body that is in a constant state of decomposition. My skin cracks and peels back from the blood that flows like fire through my veins. And there is only one way to end this nightmare, this never ending stream of pain.”
    “What’s that?” Scott asked, his trembling voice betraying the onslaught of fear that raged through his quivering body. He stumbled backward from the advancing form.
    “I have to finish what I started. I have to live up to my part of the bargain. I was given this power, this curse, for the sole purpose of bringing death to those who had forced so much pain upon me. The demons that writhe within my body, my mind, demand this from me, demand that I reap the souls for them that I promised I would.”
    “Two hundred?” Scott asked as he slipped beneath the shadow of the tree behind him, slinking behind the trunk.
    Matt just laughed, an insidious cackle that shook Scott to the core of his being.
    “Been doing some research, I see. If only you knew what I do. I think you’d find that pretty amusing.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Our destinies our linked, you and I. It is our lot to walk side by side through the valley of the shadow of death. The night I made the deal, at the point when the demons swelled from the darkness, whispering, as they entered my body, they revealed everything to me. They told me of the child of the horned god’s blood that would bring the souls of the prophesied hundreds to the master for his eternal consumption. They revealed to me all of the secrets that the darkness held, for me, for all of us. And indeed, I would have my revenge, but that was only one part of the grand scenario.
    “Later that night when I killed my parents, I could feel their souls rise from their decapitated bodies as they lay atop those blood-stained sheets. Their essence filled the air all around me, swirling in the stench of their own rot. Theirs were the first of the many that I would reap, my part of the redemption of my life.”
    “You’re a monster,” Scott gasped.
    Jeremy’s body suddenly floated back into the air in the center of the grove, the arms and legs floundering. The body jerked back to life, the shadowed form of the creature that had once been his friend Matt slipping back into the darkened refuge that the trees provided.
    “You call me a monster!” the voice boomed from all around him, tearing a hole in the night. “I had come to offer you help, but you reject me in such a way!”
    The body spun in circles in the air, the lifeless arms flopping in the air as they whirled like helicopter blades. There was a gut-wrenching tearing sound as the body ripped straight down the center, droplets of blood flying in all directions. The body was rendered in two, the innards filling the air as they sloshed to the snow-covered earth. Emptied, the flapping shell was flung into the night, the flesh draping from the branches of the trees. What little fluid still clung to the lifeless sheath drained in small drops atop the whitened ground.
    “See you real soon,” the voice boomed from the darkness as the outline of the form faded into the shadows.
    Scott fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands. He fought to keep the stench of his friend’s insides from overwhelming his senses. Small splatters of the rapidly cooling blood that was not his own ran down his bare, chapped face as the last of the rustling sounds of the monster slipping through the tightly wrought forest faded into the hum of the wind, the rattling of the needles.
    Slowly, Scott opened his eyes, rolling onto all four. His stinging, bright red knuckles burned in the ice-cold snow as he crawled forward, staring down at the red patterns that decorated the even white surface. Churning, his stomach turned over in his sour belly, the vomit rising to the back of his throat before being choked back down with an audible thump. Tears crept from the corners of his eyes, arching over his cheeks as they mixed with the crimson droplets, hanging like icicles from the stubbled line of his chin.
    Harry burst from the line of trees behind him, his thin shadow casting a long line across the center of the grove. Scott bolted upright, the noise startling him to the point that he was unsure if he would ever be able to slow the hammering in his chest.
    “My God,” Harry whispered, surveying the blood-stained ground, his eyes recoiling in horror as they caught a brief glimpse of the lines of intestines that dangled from the branches of the pines like a Christmas garland.
    Scott turned, looking over at Harry as his shoulders began to shake, the tears streaming from his eyes. He began to sob uncontrollably. Harry crossed the snow, kneeling beside him and resting his hand on Scott’s back, comforting him as he brought his other hand to his face to cover his mouth and nose.



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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART ELEVEN



 Part 11

Chapters 14 & 15


XIV
Tuesday, November 15th
10 a.m.
    Harry peeled back the thick, hard- bound cover of the old yearbook, thumbing through the pages that were all nearly stuck together. Rifling past the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors, he settled into the senior section. All of the pictures were large and in color, unlike all of the other sections where the pictures had all been so small and in black and white. He looked over the faces one by one, until he came to page 267. There were twelve pictures to a page, three rows of four. Bringing the book closer to his face, he stared at the right hand page.
    Matt Parker was the top, left picture, and the first on that particular row of four. His long hair hung over the collar of his gray and black flecked sport coat. He had an off white shirt with a blue and black marbled-looking tie. His arms were crossed across his chest, his chin tilted upwards so he appeared to be looking down at the viewer. A thin smile traced his lips, his right eye hidden behind his long bangs. He stared into the one visible eye. The page seemed to melt away behind it as a certain blackness rose from within that lone eye, resonating throughout the living room as the faint sun crept through the clouds outside, arching a thin line of light through the bay window and onto the plush carpeting. The hackles rose along his spine as he grew suddenly quite aware of how cold he was, his breath coming in short bursts.
    Breaking his stare from Matt’s picture, he easily identified the one just beneath it. It was Scott Ramsey, dressed smartly in his late eighties splendor. He wore a dark suit, from the lighting it was unclear whether it was black or a navy, with a thin black tie, his chin resting on his right hand. He wore a pleasantly sincere smile that barely showed his bright white teeth, his eyes warm and charming. And compared to most of the faces he had seen so far just flipping through the book, these two should have done quite all right as far as the social scenario went.
    The pipes in the walls hummed as Scott started the shower upstairs. Harry had insisted that he try to sleep, or at least lay down for a couple of hours to try to get a little shut eye, but he knew that there was no way that he was going to sleep. His face appeared to have aged close to a decade since he had met him, barely more than a day ago. His eyes, which from the start had been so filled with life that they positively sparkled, had faded to a duller hue, more akin with his own. 
    He knew how difficult all of this was for him to suddenly not only have to comprehend, but to have to accept on nothing more than blind faith. After all, he himself had been forced to do the same thing so very long ago, but at least he was there for Scott. Back when he had first been forced to reckon with the evil that walked the earth, he had been completely and exhaustingly alone. Not that his plight had been any more difficult than the one that Scott now fought through, but at least there was someone to talk to, someone to sympathize with him as his world turned upside down over and over again.
    Turning his attention back to the book spread out across his lap, he scanned the color pictures with his eyes, watching the names for any that he might recognize. He started at the beginning of the section with the two- page spread that featured a class photo on what appeared to be bleachers outside at the stadium. Above it was a large heading in bright blue letters, outlined in white: “Class of 1990.” His eyes wandered across the tiny faces lined up along the bleachers, but he couldn’t make out either Scott or Matt. 
    Flipping the page, he first scanned the listing of names along the left- hand column of the page, and then perused their faces. He crossed page after page, focusing on the pictures with first names similar to those that Scott had used to identify the friends who had died at the hands of the bloodspawn. After passing a handful of Brian’s, he finally came to the picture of Brian James. As he stared at the picture, a thin line appeared to pass over the picture from the top right corner down to the bottom left. It looked like a thin line of gray like that of the lead from a pencil, but it slowly widen, separating the colors of the picture with the white from the page beneath. It looked as though someone had torn the picture diagonally without removing it from the page.
    Harry looked up, staring into the still living room, the yellowing Norfolk Pine drooping terribly, the needles falling in a circle around the hand crafter pot onto the carpet. A bewildered look etching his face. He stared back into the open yearbook at the picture. Not only was the tear mark still there across the picture, but another was in the process of forming, running diagonally from the other side to form a large “x” across the picture.
    Slamming the book shut, he rifled his trembling fingers through his hair, the book falling from his lap onto the floor. Placing his quivering hand across his mouth, the air from his nostrils whistling over his knuckles, he stared down at the book on the thick carpeting. 
    The incessant tick- tock from the grandfather clock in the corner filled the otherwise silent room. Dust floated in swirling clouds in the stream of light from the window, but only for a moment as the next wave of the dark front rolled over the Rockies from the west, choking back the sparse rays of sun behind the black, rolling clouds. A dull whine echoed from within the walls as the water from the shower was turned off.
    Harry stared down at the cover of the book. Mustering his courage, he shifted his weight, leaning over the edge of the couch with his outstretched right arm to grab the yearbook from the floor. Right before his slowly steadying hand could grab the heavy annual, the front cover peeled back, the pages flying past before finally opening wide. It stopped of its own will on one of the pages with the color pictures, the smiling faces beaming up at the vaulted ceiling of the living room. Squinting, he tried to make out the names along the line to the left. Barely able to read more than just the capital letters at the start of the first and last names, he crawled from the couch onto the floor, careful not to so much as breath on the book.
    Placing a shaky hand to either side of the book on the floor, his shuddering breath blew down on the pages as a thin line began to trace across one of the pictures, just as it had the one he had been watching a moment ago. His eyes shot to the left to read the name as the line continued to scratch right through the picture from the inside of the page. 
    “Williams, Tim,” he read aloud.
    The first diagonal line had finished its course, the second beginning on the upper right corner of the picture. Before that line was even half way across Tim’s face, another line started in the picture directly to the right. His eyes jumped to the left, landing on the line below the one he had just read: Jeremy Willis.
    The tearing continued until both pictures were etched under a thick, white “x.”
    Harry had only a moment to stare at the page before it changed on its own, the pages flying past until finally coming to rest between the B’s and C’s. There were only three bodies that he knew of, one corresponding to each of the three “X’s” that the phantom had had scrawled across the pictures. Staring into the smiling lines of faces, he watched for anything at all: any movement, the beginning stroke of any of the tears across the page.
    But there was nothing.
    There was no movement at all. Not even a single “x.” 
    Starting with the page on the left, Harry’s eyes stared from one face to the next, lingering just long enough to place the face with the name to the left. All of the smiling face leered back at him from beneath the gloss of the page as he inspected them one by one. But nothing jumped out at him.
    Moving on to the right page, he began to scan once again, caressing each of the faces with his gentle stare. One by one they passed, the names lining up with the faces, until…
    Something on the page jumped, he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see it right off, but he was sure that he had seen something on the right page. Glancing towards the bottom right side of the page, he scanned the pictures, waiting for whatever had happened to do so again. Finally, his patience was rewarded.
    A tiny, almost unnoticeable flash of red caught his eye as it immediately focused in on the picture of its origin. Choosing not even to steer his gaze from the picture long enough to read the name for fear whatever was happening might stop, he stared deeply into the picture, watching as the crimson flashes started appearing with more regularity.
    The picture was of a young man, fairly attractive in the grand scheme of things, but nothing incredibly out of the ordinary for that age group. Whatever color his hair had been was now replaced with a deep red, the hair matted damply to the arch of the skull. The face was different from all of the others, as the expression that haunted the face was nothing even close to the smiles that ripped across all of the others. This particular boy wore would could only be described as a grimace, his tightly stretched lips peeled back from his clenched, grinding teeth. His eyes were mere slits, his brow knit tightly below the taut skin of his forehead. Thin lines of red ran vertically down his neck, diffusing into the white color of his shirt, spreading in an oblong arc like a sweat stain across his chest beneath his black tie.
    Harry’s eyes darted to the left side of the page, quickly finding the name and reading it aloud.    
    “Corso, Shane.”
    His eyes shot back to the picture before the name had even fully rolled off the tip of his tongue, but by the time his gaze had settled onto the picture, it had returned to normal. The only red in the picture now was the two small circles in the center of each eye. The grimace had been replaced by a warm smile; the light hair combed back into place, and the white shirt almost glowing beneath the dark jacket.
    Reading the name one last time, Harry closed the book with a loud clap and slid it across the floor of the room beneath the love seat across the room from him.
    Footsteps pounded down the hallway upstairs as Scott appeared rounding the corner just above the staircase. Harry’s head jerked to the side as Scott could see immediately the startled look on the man’s pale face as he crouched on the ground.
    “What’s going on?” Scott asked as he bounded down the stairs. His damp hair bounced slightly as he descended. 
    Harry just stared up at him from the floor, his jaw hanging open.
    The dark blue sweatshirt featuring the old Denver Broncos logo in the center brought out his eyes from behind the thick bags that encircled them as he crossed the entryway into the living room. Thrusting his right hand into the pocket of his faded jeans, he hovered over Harry, the carpet seeping between his bare toes.
    Harry just stared up at him for a moment, his brow knit tightly over his eyes, before finally he spoke.
    “Do you know Shane Corso?” he asked, rising from the floor and settling back onto the couch.
    “Sure,” Scott replied, bewildered. “But I haven’t seen him since high school.”
    Harry stared at the dark line beneath the love seat where the yearbook had slipped beneath.
    “I think we should try to get in touch with him.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “I was looking through that old yearbook of yours and…”
    “And what?”
    “And I think that he’s going to be the next to die.”
    The ringing phone startled both of them as Scott looked to Harry to elaborate briefly before walking from the room and into the kitchen. He grabbed the receiver from the rechargeable stand and pressed the “talk” button.
    “Hello?”
    “Mr. Ramsey?” the voice on the other end asked.
    “Yes.”
    “This is Bob Goode with the People Network.”
    “Oh, hi.”
    “I just wanted to call to let you know that I have been assigned to the location that you requested.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’m going to go ahead and give you my phone number and extension where I can be reached should you have any questions or any information that you may find pertinent to the situation.”
    “All right,” Scott said, pulling a pen and a small notepad from the top drawer of the cabinet beneath. “Go ahead.”
    “Area code 206, 541, 2064, extension 302,” he said, pausing briefly. “Did you get that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well then, Mr. Ramsey, I look forward to helping you, and thank you for choosing the People Network.”
    “Yeah, thanks,” Scott muttered into the phone as the he heard a click at the other end of the line.
    Replacing the cordless unit atop the charger, he walked back towards the living room.
    “It seems almost silly to have them look for the kid you pulled out of that house, but I didn’t know exactly what to say.”
    Harry was standing in front of the couch staring out the window as the snow multiplied, a white sheet of the enormous flakes hammering into the large picture window.
    “Do you have any way of getting in touch with your old friend Shane?” he asked without turning around. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks, but he still looked quite pale, the lines of age clearly defined across his face.
    “I don’t have a phone number or anything, but I think his parents still live in the same house and I doubt they would mind giving me his number.”
    “Good.”
    He still stared out into the storm.
    “But I don’t remember their phone number so I’m going to have to go look in the phone book.”
    “Why don’t we just stop by, there’s something else I would like to take a look at while we’re out.”
    Harry finally peeked back at Scott, but only long enough to give him a worn smile of reassurance, returning his gaze to row of spruces in the front yard, and the yellow, glowing eyes of the stag that stared back at him from within the branches of the trees.
 
XV
Tuesday, November 15th
Noon
    The forest green Cherokee rolled to a stop against the curb in front of the house. A large “For Sale” sign was staked in the lawn in the front yard just to the right of the driveway. In the right corner was a picture of the smiling Realtor, her pseudo- smile so large it threatened to rip her face in two.
    Scott stared up at the vacant house for a moment. He had more than his share of memories within this house. He could remember so many afternoons where they had gone one on one in the driveway beneath that freestanding basket that had been painted green to match the house. There had been the times where they had brought girls over to bounce on the trampoline in the back yard for no other reason than the bounce. 
    All of the window coverings had been removed, and even through the second story windows he could tell that the house was completely barren. From what he understood, the house had changed hands close to a half dozen times over the last decade plus, with none of the owners staying lone enough to even trim back the Mugho Pines that crowded the front walkway, covering the slate.
    Opening the door, he climbed out of the Jeep, his feet sinking well past his ankles into the deepening snow. Closing the door, he could hear the echo of Harry doing the same as he walked up the pristine snow that covered the driveway towards the front door of the house. He bounded up the front steps as he had done so many times throughout his youth, alighting atop the landing and walking to the right side of the porch. 
    A cluster of small junipers was just to the other side of the wrought iron railing. Reaching beneath, he fished around with his hand until he found a large stone beneath the scratchy foliage. Lifting it, he found the small plastic bag with the rust colored key that had been there from so many years before. Matt’s mom had stashed it there so he would always be able to get into the house as he had a tendency to lose them if he carried them with him. Often, Scott and some of Matt’s other friends had used it just to sneak into his house and startle him while he was alone after school, but that had been a lifetime ago.
    Brushing the snow from the knees of his jeans. Scott stuck the key into the deadbolt lock and turned it until he heard the loud thunk. Removing it, he slipped it into the lower lock and opened the door inwards as he turned it.
    With a quick glance over his shoulder at Harry, who watched him with keen interest, he ducked into the house, the wet soles of his shoes squeaking on the tile in the entryway. To his right, a built- in bookcase separated the entryway from the living room, a thin layer of dust covering the top which was just about chest level. Gesturing to the stairs that led up and to the left, Scott looked to Harry, who slowly eased upwards.
    “What exactly are you hoping to find?” Scott asked, right on Harry’s heels as they rounded the staircase into the hallway. “It’s the first door on the right.”
    Nodding, Harry opened the bedroom door and stepped into the stale air of the long since vacated room.
    “I’m not really sure,” he said, his eyes canvassing every inch of the room.
    The walls were painted light blue. A dark, wood shelf ran along the wall to the right, several splatters of the blue paint marring its surface. There were no impressions on the thick, blue carpeting from where any furniture had been, as it must have been quite some time since anything had rested on the flooring long enough to leave a mark.
    “Awfully cold in here,” Harry muttered, his breath gusting in thin lines of steam in front of his lips.
    Scott just nodded as he surveyed the room. In his mind, he could remember when the walls had been painted white, the carpet a much more tightly knit nap of dark blue. He could vaguely remember the wallpaper that had been on the wall to the right just above the built in shelf, ships, if he remembered correctly. Not just ships, but large ocean vessels, HMS something, anyway. Closing his eyes, he could see the dark wood furniture lined along the left side of the room, a pile of coins next to an old intercom. There had been a bookcase filled with novels: Choose Your Own Adventures, a line of Piers Anthony science fictions, and the budding start of a horror collection consisting mainly of Stephen King and Dean R. Koontz. A desk had sat just to the right of that in the corner, a lamp coming out of the top of an old Washington Redskin’s helmet which had always made no sense as Matt had been a Falcon’s fan since the day he had met him.
    There had been a bunk bed in the center of the room; both levels dressed the same beneath comforters featuring what looked like abstract drawings of ducks. He could remember many a night where he had crashed on the top bunk as a child. It had always been such a treat for him to sleep up high as he had always wanted bunk beds but his parents had never even considered the notion. He had listened to Matt talking from below as he made up stories of ghosts that haunted the woods around the house, wondering if he was for sure just making them up or if he had actually seen them as Matt never gave him a straight answer either way. His frayed nerves on edge, he had stared up at the panel that led up into the crawl space, praying that nothing crept out and grabbed him as he slept.
    Staring up at that same ceiling now, he could see there square entrance to the crawl space, which for some reason still seemed just as threatening to this day.
    “What’s up there?” Harry asked, nodding towards the ceiling where Scott stared.
    “Crawl space.”
    “Obviously,” Harry said, shooting him an icy glance. “Why are you looking up there?”
    “I used to think there were ghosts that lived up there that would come down and get me while I slept.”
    “Ever go up there?”
    “No, but I remember Matt talking about finishing it up there so he had a place of his own to go where no one could ever find him.”
    “Did he ever do it?”
    “Not to the best of my knowledge, but our friendship became somewhat estranged the last year or so.”
    “I think it’s about time we found out then, don’t you.”
    “I guess, but why…”
    “I’ll boost you up,” Harry interrupted, lacing his fingers in front of his waist.
    Scott put his right foot into Harry’s hands, bouncing a couple of times before propelling himself upwards. Hammering the square of drywall that covered the hole upward with his momentum, he grabbed hold of the lip of the wooden square, pulling himself up into the darkness.
His knee snagged on the rim of the wooden edge, scraping the flesh beneath.
    “Ow,” he grumbled, feeling the soft texture of the carpet remnants beneath his palms.
    The light from the hole in the center of the hole did little to illuminate the dark covey. Dark shadows stretched from the light into the blackened corners of the barren attic as he pulled his feet past the rim and onto the makeshift floor. Batting his eyes, he could barely see his nose in the center of his face as his hands moved in a swimming motion to either side as he attempted to find anything that might shed a little more light on the situation.
    His fumbling fingers knocked into something, sending it toppling onto its side as it clanked against another seemingly invisible object. Tracing its form with his hand, his fingers followed the glass base of an oblong cylindrical object, rounding the top edge before touching something completely different. He chipped at the surface with his thumbnail, peeling back a soft, waxy chunk of what could only have been wax.
    “Do you have a match or a lighter or something?” Scott called down towards the hole, shifting his weight to the side as a box rattled to his right as he bumped it.
    “Never mind,” he muttered, having answered his own question. He pulled back the lid of the box of matches and pulled a pair of the wooden sticks from within, returning the cover.
    Running the bulbous head of the match along the sandpaper- like strike strip that ran down the side of the box, a ball of fire burst from the tip of the match, followed instantaneously by a black tuft of smoke. Holding the candle over his lap, he held the flame to the end of the wick, waiting as it popped and snapped before finally glowing with a flame all its own. Shaking the match which had nearly burned down to his thumb on the charcoaled stick, he set it down on the closed box and held the candle out in front of him. A dim aura of light encircled the flame, casting his long shadow into the recesses of the attic behind him. 
    He could see a folding chair of sorts lying on its side, half opened, in the center of the room. There was a stack of books beside it, a thick tome lying open on the tan carpeted floor. The walls to either side, which were held in place by only a few sparse nails, were covered with posters and cut- outs from magazines, bands that he hadn’t thought about in nearly a decade and women in various stages of undress. It was, on the surface, the hiding place of dreams for any high school aged boy; the only problem was that in this case it obviously hadn’t been.
    Turning his stare from the snarling face of Dave Mustaine, he crawled forward into the crawlspace, heading for the back wall. A thin arc of light circled what he knew to be the seal around one of the ceiling vents, a stream of bitter, arctic air squeezing through the infinitely small gap and into the room. The surface of the carpet felt cold to the touch, the breeze causing the flame atop the candle to flicker, the goose bumps on the backs of his arms to rise. Pink rolls of insulation lined the back walls, filling the gaps between the wooden studs. The edge of the plywood laid across the floor fell several inches shy of reaching the back wall, exposing the insulation buried beneath. Stands of the thread that ran through the carpet to hold the knap in place danced, tangled and intertwined, at the edge of the frayed carpet beneath the chilly breeze.
    Rolling onto his rear end, he turned back to stare into the finished portion of the attic. A globule of melted wax rolled over the top of the glass candlestick, singing the hair atop his knuckle as it froze into place atop his scalded skin.
    There had to be something up there that would somehow be of use, he was sure of that, but what? What could he possibly find that would be of any help?
    “What’s up there?” Harry called from below, the sound of his shoes scraping off the shelf on the wall below as he tried to climb up behind him echoing in the attic.
    “He just finished a small portion of the attic,” Scott hollered, crawling closer to the entrance so that he wouldn’t have to shout. “There’s a whole little room up here.”
    “What do you see?”
    “A lawn chair in the center next to a small stack of books. The walls are plastered with old posters, rock bands and women, and so on. There’s carpet just lying on plywood, and enough dust to choke a mite.”
    “What books are up there?”
    Turning around, he held the candle towards the books, a line of wax falling from the light green candle onto the carpet. He worked through the stack, which was closest to him first. There was a book of witchcraft from the Time/ Life series, the stamp of possession from the high school library still on the inside cover. He tossed an old Metal Edge magazine from the stack into the corner of the room without even opening it. A copy of “The Chicks of Metal” brought a dry smile, but then ended up sliding across the carpet to greet the Metal edge. There was a copy of “Faust” and one of “Helter Skelter.”
    “Standard alienated youth reading list,” Scott called over his shoulder. “All we’re missing is a copy of… wait, here we go. ‘Dante’s Inferno’.”
    “Anything else?”
    “There’s one more book over here,” he said, crawling towards it. “Judging from the way this one’s worn, it has got to be pretty old.”
    Placing his thumb between the pages where it lay open, he closed it, turning it so that he could see the cover of the leather bound tome. 
    “What is it?’
    “There’s no title on it. Its cover’s made of leather. There’s some sort of embossing here… wait a sec.” He held the book closer to his face, the candle right in front of it. “Appears to be a pentagram. Sound familiar?”
    “No. Why don’t you grab it and bring it down here?”
    “Just a minute. Let me open it up and see if there’s anything in it to make it worthwhile.”
    Opening the book to where his thumb marked it, he lowered the flame to the page, squinting as he read the small print.
    “Let thy first sacrifice be of thine own flesh,” he whispered as he read from the page. “Be it blood or bile, skin or nail, but surrender it willingly by thine own hand.”
    There was a small patch in the center of the paragraph: a dried fingerprint matted in blood on the yellowed page. He placed his own forefinger on that print, smothering it beneath his larger print. He could feel the crusted fluid flaking off beneath his oily touch.
    A whispering sound resonated from the darkened corner of the room. 
    Raising the candle, he attempted to peel back the darkness, staring into the heart of the shadow only to see the thin arch of the vent. It must have been the wind whistling through the tiny gap between the aluminum vent and the shingles on the roof. He turned his attention back to the book.
    “Let thy second sacrifice be of flesh not thine own. Be it a rodent or a human, it matters not, so long as it is taken unwillingly.”
    The whispering sound arose again, this time louder, sounding like more than one voice at a time all vying to be heard over the other.
    But it had to be the vent… didn’t it?
    “And lastly, with thy third sacrifice,” he whispered from the page. “Let it be thine own soul. Commit it to thy master and thy vessel shall forever walk in the shadow of thy lord. Commence thee to thy task and pave the way in blood for thy master, the physical manifestation in flesh of the bloodspawn: the antichrist. Eternal life shall be thy reward for wielding the saber of vengeance, and a seat at the high court of hell should you succeed in bringing the destiny of the child to fruition.”
    His head jerked up as movement caught his eye. The thick shadows beneath the vent swirled like the tentacles of a squid, gaining life as they stretched their thin arms into the room, piercing the glow of the candle. 
    “Holy shit,” he uttered as the whispering grew so loud that it filled his head, the jumbled words seeming to originate from within his fear wrought mind, rather than from without.
    Without a sound, the flame atop the wick of the candle dwindled to an orange ember, a thin tuft of smoke trailing from the dim pinpoint of light into the darkness. The coldness of the trilling tendrils pierced his dry skin, shredding through the flesh and muscle and into the bone beneath, throbbing painfully in the core of his being. They tugged at him, coaxing him towards the heart of the darkness from which they sprung, their voices chattering within his brain.
    There was a loud thump as the drywall square that he had pushed off to the side onto the carpet slipped back into place, filling the square hole and shutting out the last of the tiny hint of light that shined up from the bedroom. 
    The tendrils were all around him now, ripping at him from all directions, the icy touch covering every inch of his exposed flesh as he scrambled frantically against the overwhelming urging of the tentacle towards the hatch. Growing louder and louder until they echoed within the confines of his skull, the voices dug sharply into his brain. Closing his eyes as tightly as he possibly could, he clapped his hands to his ears, scraping his way towards the only exit in the room on his elbows. His bared teeth showcased the savage pain the rippled across his flesh, tiny needles of icy fire stabbing repeatedly through his skin.
    A scream died somewhere between his chest and his mouth, escaping as a mere whispered moan from between his clenched teeth. With a thud, his elbows landed hollowly on the thin square of drywall. There was knocking on the small door from below as Harry’s fists hammered against it, trying to force it back open.
    Summoning all of the strength that he could muster, he fought through the blistering pain, rising to his feet atop the drywall hatch. All of the muscles in his legs cried out at once as they wobbled on his shaky ankles, wanting nothing more than to just succumb to the will of the darkness that sought to reel him into the darkened heart of the room. Breathing heavily, he brought forth all of his will, all of the strength he had suppressed within his frail human form, jumping straight up into the air.
    His head slammed against the paneled rafters, as bright balls of light appeared from behind his sealed eyelids. A throbbing wave of pain rushed through his head, pounding several times as though from beneath the repeated downfall of a hammer, jostling all of the voices as they formed finally into one.
    “Master,” they all whispered in unison as his feet hit the floor.
    The drywall square shattered into a million tiny fragments beneath his weight. Clouds of the chalky inside layer filling the air around him like a magician’s smoke as he hurdled downwards through the air. His bent elbows slammed into the wooden square around the hole, purple and black bruises swelling from beneath his sweatshirt almost immediately upon impact. The back of his head slammed into the rim, tearing wide a fresh, red rimmed gouge beneath the matted hair on the back of his head, causing his feet to flop backwards.
    He landed in a heap on his side, the impact from the blow knocking the wind from his suddenly collapsed lungs. Rolling from side to side, he fought to draw even a single breath, his wide eyes staring back into his head, exposing nothing but two large white orbs beneath his lids. Every inch of his flesh cried out in cold pain as he flopped like a fish out of water.
    Harry’s hands were all over him, trying to steady him long enough to get a good look at him, to see if he was badly injured. He could hear his voice, sounding as though it were coming from a mile away, but none of the words penetrated the fearsome throbbing of his swelling brain beneath his skull. His frantic tongue lolled from his mouth as with one final, great effort he drew in an entire chest full of air, sending him into a coughing frenzy. Lines of saliva flew from his open mouth, dangling from his lips onto the blue carpet.
    His rapidly pumping heart slowed to an almost functional level as he slowly rolled onto his side, curling into fetal position. He allowed the air to creep through his seemingly collapsed trachea into his flattened lungs, his chest rising and falling several times before he was finally able to shake the feeling that he might never breathe again. From the corner of his teary eye he could see the concerned look on Harry’s face as he sat helplessly back on his knees, waiting for him to come back around.
    “What the hell happened up there?” Harry asked, leaning over so that he could make eye contact.
    “I… don’t know,” Scott wheezed, forcefully swallowing the large lump that had formed in his throat.
    “I heard all of this banging and then all of a sudden you closed the door, and there were… voices.” His voice trailed off with that last word.
    “They were all around me, grabbing at me, trying to … to…”
    “To what?”
    “I don’t know, to suck me into the darkness.”
    “Who was up there with you?”
    “No one. There were just these… arms that came out of the corner of the room, grabbing me, pulling me towards the center of the darkness. And they were so cold. And the voices, right before I fell through the whole I was able to understand what they were saying.”
    “What was that?”
    “They were saying ‘master,’ over and over again, a hundred different voices all whispering it at the same time.”
    “What do you suppose that means?”
    “I don’t know, but I think they were calling to their master, and whoever, whatever their master is, I sure as shit don’t want to be up there when he gets there.”
    Harry stared down at him for a moment, a somewhat bemused look scratching across his wrinkled face.
    “What’s that?” he finally said, pointing down at the book Scott still had tucked beneath his arm. 
    “It’s all yours,” Scott sighed, handing the leather bound tome to Harry for his inspection.
    He took it within his leathery hands, slowly peeling back the cover and opening it to the first page. A tuft of black smoke billowed in a small cloud above the book as the whole thing suddenly turned to ashes in his hands, falling between his fingers like grains of sand to the floor. It sifted into the carpet on the wisps of cold air that gusted down from the hole above.
    Scott and Harry just stared at each other, and then at the darkened stain on the carpet.
    “Do you know what that was?” Harry asked without looking up from the soot.
    “No, what?”
    “That was the Book of the Damned, but like no other copy that I’ve ever seen. Hell, you can buy it off the shelf at most bookstores in paperback, but that one was old, far older than any other copy I’ve ever come across.”
    “I’ve never heard of it,” Scott said, wincing, as he rose to his feet, warily staring back up into the darkened square above his head.
    “It’s a bible of sorts for certain sects of Satanists. It was written in the early seventies by a man named Ashvan Montevega, and, rumor has it that it was written somewhere around here. He was said to have taken court with the devil himself, receiving, as a gift, a handwritten copy of the book. I forget which publishing house he sold it to, but to make it more palatable for the masses, they had no choice but to make countless revisions. This guy in this little bookstore downtown where I found my copy told me that there were six original volumes, all hand pressed. He had never seen any, but he had heard the stories of the leather bound, gold embossed tomes, and, I believe, that is what we were looking at.”
“I don’t know. That book looked much older than thirty years.”
“If that’s right, and those rumors are true, then that must be one of the original copies penned by Satan himself.”
Scott just looked at him.
“So, what bearing does that have here?”
 “Those who take the book as gospel believe that after being cast down from heaven, the angel Lucifer’s punishment was to walk the earth in human form until the day of the final reckoning, whereupon a great and final battle would ensue. The final winner of which would take control not only of the heavens but of the earth as well. But in order to lure the angels from the heavens for the final battle, Lucifer must first collect and damn enough souls to bleed the heavens dry. And these souls stalk the night at their master’s bidding until that ultimate conflict when they will fight long past their deaths.”
“So you think that is the reason for the two hundred souls?”
“Stands to reason. Why else would the Vatican give the story enough credence to devote an entire sect to trying to stop it?”
“Sounds insane,” Scott mumbled, looking back over his shoulder as he walked out of the bedroom, careful not to walk directly beneath the open hole in the ceiling.
“Any more insane than what we’ve seen over the last couple of days?”
Clambering down the steps towards the entryway, Scott stopped on the landing and looked back up to Harry as he began his descent down the stairs.
“So…” he began with a pause. “What are we supposed to do?”
“I believe we have to stop it.”
“And how do we do that?”
“We have to find your friend Matt, or whatever he has become, and make sure that he is not allowed to claim his two hundred lives.”
“Kill him?”
“Unless you think pleading will work.”
“How do you propose we do that? He’s not even human any more for God’s sake.”
“Whatever he is, if his body is still flesh, then we can still kill him.”
Scott sighed loudly, his furrowed brow lowering over his troubled eyes. He stared into the living room where there had once been rust colored carpet and a small antique wooden coffee table. In his mind he could see Matt and himself as eight year- olds playing with their Star Wars figures on that table. 
A tear crept to the corner of his eye.


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART TWELVE



SECTION 12
 
Chapters 16 & 17
 
XVI
Tuesday, November 15th
9 p.m.
They had locked up Matt’s family’s old house and had driven across the neighborhood to Shane Corso’s mother’s house. The roads had grown increasingly treacherous as the fluffy snow was piling atop a thick layer of ice, and it was only a matter of time before not even the snowplows and sand trucks would be able to get back into this area to try to clear the roads. Why they hadn’t already remained a mystery, but he had learned a long time ago that when dealing with the city, nothing made sense.
Shane’s mother, Annette Corso, had answered the door in a long red bathrobe, her graying hair bound atop her head in large soup can sized curlers. She wore some sort of plastic or vinyl bonnet over them, just the first few rollers atop her forehead being visible. White slippers with purple designs adorned her bare feet. While at first she had been hesitant to talk, it only took a few moments for her to open up and that became a whole new problem as Scott remembered even from way back then, that once she started going it was nearly impossible to get her to stop.
Her forced trip down memory lane began where high school left off. With Shane ready to leave the house to go off to school or whatever it was he was going to do, she and her husband of twenty- two years, Herb, were going to move up to the land near Crystal Lake that they had purchased nearly ten years prior. After all, their house was nearly paid off, and they had little other existing debt. Shane’s schooling had been taken care of for quite some time with the money that her parents had left to him for that very purpose upon their death. They were going to build a cabin right by the lake and open up a small general store. Herb would be able to sell the flies that he tied religiously to the tourists, while she would be able to run the gossip mill from behind the counter. It was something that they had talked about, dreamed of, for the last decade.
That dream had been put to rest with a single call.
The phone had rung at a quarter past seven. Herb was always home by seven. She had answered the phone with only the slightest concern in her voice, as fifteen minutes, even with Herb, wasn’t great enough cause to emote. Stirring the mashed potatoes on the stove, she had cradled the phone against her shoulder.
“Hello?” she had answered merrily.
“Annette.”
“Herb?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What? Are you running late?’
“No, not exactly,” he had said without the slightest change of inflection in his voice. “I’m leaving you.”
            “Leaving me what?”
            “No, no. I’m leaving you for good. I’ve fallen in love with Helen.”
            “Your secretary?”
            “Yes.”
            “What is she, maybe twenty?”
            “Twenty- eight, but that’s of no importance. I’ve thought this through…”
            “Obviously you haven’t.”
            “As I was saying… keep the house and the car, the money in the kid’s college account. I’m taking the deed to the land in Crystal and the remainder of the money in the personal accounts. Good luck to you, and say ‘hi’ to the boy for me.”
            The conversation had been that simple, at least according to her version. And while that story had been somewhat gut wrenching, it really didn’t answer the question they had asked, “How can we get ahold of Shane?”
            Scott had been as patient as he possibly could; after all she had been exceedingly nice to him growing up. She had, more often than not, brought them out cookies and lemonade while they were outside just messing around, and had always invited him to stay for dinner. She was a relic, a throwback to the fifties, a mother who thrived in that role. She only seemed contented while she was serving her family in some fashion. So he had listened to her story, truly feeling sad for her, but in his current situation, he really just wanted that one simple piece of information so he could just get the hell out of there and find Shane before it was too late.
            A silver BMW had pulled into the driveway just as Scott was preparing to ask just one more time how he could find Shane.
            “Oh, no!” she had exclaimed. “All this chit chat has made me run late.”
            An older man, maybe in his mid fifties climbed out of the driver’s side of the Beamer, hiding the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat behind his back. He paused at Scott’s Cherokee, almost jealously sizing up Harry as he sat in the car. Making his way up the front stairs, Scott asked just one more time.
            “Please, Mrs. Corso…”
            “Annette.”
            “Okay.” His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Can you tell me how I can get in touch with Shane… tonight?”
            “Oh, sure,” she said, pulling the rollers from beneath the plastic hood as she frantically tried to primp herself before the man with the flowers made it to the top of the stairs. “He’s working down at the shop right now. I’d give you the phone number there, but he tells me his boss doesn’t like him to get personal calls while on the job, but he’s always there until close to nine. Just pretend you want to buy something. That always works for me.”
            “And the address?” he asked coaxingly.
            “542 South Mohawk.”
            “Are you sure?” He asked as all he could picture down there were a bunch of deserted looking warehouses.
            “Of course I’m sure,” she said, smiling widely as she allowed her robe to open a little further. “Tell him to call his mother sometime.”
            The gentleman from the car, the red roses blooming over his shoulder from behind, hopped onto the landing and swung the flowers out for her inspection.
            “Oh, Jerry, they’re beautiful,” she said, snatching them from his outstretched hand.
            “As are you, my dear,” he said with a slight bow.
            Rolling his eyes, Scott lumbered down the stairs and to the driver’s side door of the Jeep.
            “Don’t stay away so long next time!” Mrs. Corso, er, Annette, called after him as she pulled her gentleman caller inside and shut the door.
            With a chuckle, he had clambered into the vehicle, which he had left running. The heater blasted full tilt directly at him, warming him thoroughly, all except for his knuckles clenched tightly to the wheel, which felt as though they might catch fire.
            They rode in silence the whole way, the sun having long since set behind the mountains, though who could have known it as the sun had made but a brief appearance from behind the dark clouds that day. The forecast said that was more than they were likely to see within the next couple of days, however.
            They had arrived in the small warehouse district, winding through the maze of Indian named roads until they found the address that they were looking for. 542 was a large, cement building that looked much like all of the others with the exception of the thirty or so cars parked in the lot on the side of the building. The lights in the entryway, behind the side by side glass doors, were dimmed behind the vacant receptionist’s desk.
            Pulling up against the curb just across the street from the front doors of the abandoned looking building, Scott looked over to Harry who wore that same puzzled look as he stared at the building.
            “What do you think they do here?” he asked. “It doesn’t look as though they provide any sort of service.”
            “I’m not sure, but why don’t you wait here for me.”
            “You sure?”
            “Yeah, knowing Shane, I don’t think he would take well to being cornered by two of us.”
            “Think he’ll believe you?”
            “Not a chance, but I think I’ll be able to get him to come with us regardless.”
            “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
            “What does it matter if I’m able to get him somewhere that he’ll be safe.”
            “I don’t think there is such a place.”
            “Well,” Scott said, opening the door and hopping out into the snow that blew straight from the side. “I hope you’re wrong.”
            He left the engine running so that Harry could still take full advantage of the fiery heat that gusted from the heater. Slamming the door shut, he lowered his head and raced through the blinding snow across the slick street, bounding up onto the curb in front of the warehouse. Slowing, he walked straight towards the front doors, pausing briefly to note the sign etched into the glass on the door.
            “International Awards,” he read aloud, grabbing the handle and pulling it wide.
            A muffled ding echoed from the back of the warehouse, behind the closed doors to the left of the secretary’s desk. Several bronze service award plaques hung from the carpeted walls as well as the company’s mission statement that was tacked to the surface in large letters: “Quality and service are the industry standards. Set the bar high.”
            The door to the left side of the room opened and a man in a light pink button down shirt appeared. The cuffs were rolled up past his elbows and a tuft of the dense hair on his chest peeked over the top button. He wore khaki slacks with a pair of dark brown loafers. His long, black hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail behind the base of his skull, his green eyes leering from beneath his thick unibrow. A scruffy goatee wrapped an “o” around his thin lips, more than accentuating the look of surprise on his sun burnt face. A tattoo of a dragon was carved into his right forearm.  
            “What can I do for you,” he asked, looking Scott up and down.
            “I’m looking for Shane Corso.”
            “Who can I tell him is here?”
            “Scott Ramsey,” he said, gnawing the corner of his lip.
            “Have a seat over there and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
            Scott turned to see a pair of folding chairs leaning against the wall. Pulling one down, he opened it and sat down, staring around the darkened room. There was a small door to the right side of the room without a knob, just a little circular hole where there had once been one. A peeled sticker on the door stated that at least once it had been a “Restroo.”
            The door opened to the left again as Shane burst into the room. With the exception of the thick sideburns, he looked just as he had a decade ago. He was wearing an expensive looking suit with a bright red and black patterned tie. His highly polished black shoes reflected the dim light that seeped from beneath the door he had just exited. And while his light brown hair was somewhat thinner, it was still in the same style he had worn it back in high school.
            “Scott Ramsey,” he said, a wide, white toothed smile appearing. He looked like a salesman. “Long time no see, my brother. What’s it been twelve years?”
            He offered his hand.
            “Something like that,” Scott said, clasping the hand which more than firmly squeezed it.
            “What brings you down here on a night like this?”
            “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”
            Shane glanced down at the watch beneath his ornate gold cufflinks.
            “I’ve always got time for an old friend. Why don’t we go to my office.”
            Turning, he opened the wooden door and held it wide, allowing Scott to pass through the doorway first.
            It was an enormous room, with desks as far as the eye could see. There were people sitting in those desks, all of them with a phone held to their ear. Their voices clamored into a loud din, with none of them standing out. A handful of nicely dressed men and women walked the floor with clipboards leaning over the shoulders of the people on the phones. Every ten desks or so, there was a large chalkboard on wheels. Written on the green surface was a line of names along the left side, each of them with a varying amount of white markings to the right.
            Shane slipped in front of Scott and walked straight down the thin walkway between the desk towards a closed door at the back of the room.
            “But ma’am, surely you knew that it was Al Capone who originally started the better business bureau,” a man on the phone to his right said as he passed.
            “Now ma’am,” another said from a different desk. “I’m a business man and a Christian…”
            “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that you’re not only going to appreciate the quality of those pens, but I’ve got a hunch you may be the big winner,” a tall, burly looking fellow said into the old style receiver.
            Shane opened the door and stepped to the side to allow Scott to walk through, closing it behind him. The roar from the room outside was nearly sealed off from them; barely the hum of the clamor crept from the crack beneath the door.
            Shane walked around the desk and sat in the leather chair behind the desk. There was a brass nameplate affixed to a wooden placard at the front of the barren desk.
            “Mr. Corso,” Scott read with a nod.
            “That’s me,” Shane said, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back in the chair.
            “Well, Mr. Corso,” Scott said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “I’ve got to ask. What is it that you do here?”
            “We sell pens.”
            “Pens?”
            “Not just the ball pens that you’ll find in every store in the world, but nice pens. You’ve seen Cross pens, right?”
            “I got a pair for graduation.”
            “Just like that.”
            “Just like that?”
            “Well, truthfully, they’re not quite as nice. We get them in volume from Taiwan, but in addition to those pens, our customers have the chance to win five thousand dollars.”
            “Hence, International Awards.”
            “Bingo,” Shane said, pointing at Scott.
            “How much do you charge for these pens?”
            “19.95 for a set of four, but they always receive one of our four fantastic awards.”
            “Fantastic?”
            “Sorry, man, I’m in work mode.”
            Scott chuckled, “And what would that award be?”
            “Ninety- nine percent of the time they get a nice feaux opal broach, but one in every twenty thousand wins the big one.”
            “Five thousand bucks.”
            “Right.”
            “So these people are lured into buying the pens by the hope of winning five thousand dollars.”
            “We call them ‘mooks’.”
            “Classy.”
            “Did you come down here to insult me, or what? Not everyone inherits their daddy’s business, tough guy. I make ten percent of every sale. That’s close to five thousand bucks a week. I barely work forty hours and I’m driving a brand new 3000 GT. If you can top that, please do. Otherwise, get to the point.”
            His smile had faded to a scowl, his hands falling to the desk in front of him where he leaned forward, somewhat menacingly towards Scott.
            “Relax,” Scott said, shaking his head. “I just came down here to see what you were up to these days. I ran into your mom earlier today and she said that I could find you here.”
            “Well, okay then,” he said, his smile returning.
            “We’re all just about to knock off for the night. Can I buy you a drink or something?”
            “Sounds good.”
            “Can I offer you another form of recreation?” Shane asked with a curious glimmer in his eye as he opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a small mirror and a glass vial.
            “Thanks anyway,” Scott said, watching as Shane tapped the contents of the vial onto the mirror in two straight lines of white powder. Capping the vial, he slipped it back into the desk and pulled a one hundred- dollar bill from the desk.
            “We use these as incentives,” he said, holding up the bill momentarily before rolling it tightly into a small straw.
            Placing it into his right nostril, he lowered it to the glass and deeply inhaled the first of the two lines. Sniffing back the run off, he tilted his head back as his eyes began to water furiously. Swallowing hard, he licked his teeth and switched nostrils, inhaling the final line. The welling tears forced his eyes shut as he brought both fists to his face to rub them.
            Finally opening his red rimmed eyes, he licked his finger and rubbed it across the mirror, picking up the remnants of the dust that marred his image as he stared intently down at it. Contented, he rubbed his finger beneath his upper lip across his gums and slid the mirror back into the desk.
            “I prefer my sugar in my coffee,” Scott said somewhat uneasily.
            Shane burst into a laughing fit that boomed and echoed throughout the hollow office.
            “You know, pal,” he said, rising from behind the desk and walking towards him, laying his arm across Scott’s shoulder. “I’ve really missed you.”
            “Same here,” Scott faked, rising from the chair and stepping towards the door.
            “So what have you been up to lately? Found yourself a lady?”
            “Not just yet. I’ve been working a lot.”
            “That’s no reason not to have yourself a woman,” Shane said, opening the door and stepping out into the main room. All of the phone operators were staring intently at the clock mounted on the wall, pensively staring at Shane as he entered the room.
            “I thank all of you for your hard work today, and I expect more of the same tomorrow.”
            None of them moved as they all just stared at him.
            “Who was our top seller today?”
            One of the men in the suits piped up from the back of the room. “I’ve got one with six back here,” he shouted.
            “I’ve got one with seven,” another called.
            “Ten here,” a slender woman in a skirt suit chimed in from just to his left.
            “Can anyone beat ten?” Shane shouted.
            There was a chorus of ooh’s and ahh’s, but it appeared that no one could.
            He pulled the hundred dollar bill from his pocket and straightened it our, folding it lengthwise down the middle and brushing it off on his pant leg. Handing it to the woman, he nodded approvingly as she passed it on to a rather meek looking middle aged man. He rose from the desk, nearly knocking over his almost completely filled ashtray, and gave a curt bow to the rest of the group who clapped and hooted before beginning to file through the side door that opened into the parking lot on the side of the building.
            “Can I talk to you for a moment, Mr. Corso,” the brunette in the skirt suit said, taking him by the arm. Her bright red nails ran up and down his thigh as she gave a gentle tug.
            “Why don’t you give me a few minutes to wrap things up here,” Shane said, looking to the woman. “I’ll meet you outside in say… ten minutes?”
            She shook her head, licking her ruby red lips.
            “Give me fifteen,” he said, allowing himself to be led into the office. Scott could see him walk around to the chair behind the desk and sit down in the chair. The brunette followed him, dropping to her knees behind the oak desk as he opened up the top drawer once again.
            Scott whirled towards the door, a sudden and embarrassed redness rising in his cheeks. Walking past the rows of now empty desks towards the front lobby, only the supervisors in their suits remained, wiping clean their chalkboards and sifting through the white recipe cards that contained their contacts. Breezing through the wooden door and across the darkened lobby, he stepped out into the howling wind once again.
            The flakes had gotten larger since he had first gone in, blowing straight from behind him as the bitter wind raced down the front slope of the Rockies. Rolling, black clouds choked out every ounce of light from the sky, the only dim rays filtering through the night from the street lamp across the street in front of the vacant docking bays of what appeared to have once been a small shipping business.
            His previous footsteps were already filled with snow in the walkway as he bounded towards the Cherokee, his hands shoved tightly into his pockets. He could see Harry watching him intently from the vehicle, his palms raised upwards in a “what happened” gesture.
            Throwing back the door, he hopped into the warm car as the heat burst past him, dissipating across the whipping wind.
            “Well?” Harry asked as Scott closed the door.
            “We’re meeting him for drinks.”
            “Did you tell him anything?”
            “No.”
            “So what’s going on then?”
            “He’s got some, uh, business to take care of really quickly and then we’re going to follow him to some bar or something.”
            “Okay,” Harry said dryly, staring through the front windshield as the wet snow caked the glass in patches, their warm breath fogging it from the inside.
            They sat in silence for several minutes; both of them too tired to try to force the conversation. The green digital display of the clock on the dashboard slowly crept by, fifteen minutes passing as though it had been thirty.
            “How long did he say he was going to be?” Harry finally asked, breaking the silence dulled only by the heat blowing from the vents in the dash.
            “Fifteen minutes,” Scott responded, staring down at the clock.
            Movement to his left, across the street, caught his attention. Rubbing the steamed window with his elbow, he watched as the brunette who had led Shane into the office appeared through the front door. She turned her key in the lock on the glass door, giving the handle one final tug to ensure that it was locked. Turning back to the night, she lowered her head from the snow the swirled around her as she buttoned the top couple of buttons on her blouse and zipped her jacket up to right beneath her chin.
            “Oh,” Harry mused. “I understand.”
            Scott just chuckled to himself as with Shane that was how it had always been. Growing up, no matter where they had gone, be it the mall, a party, or the youth group their parents often used as a punishment, Shane had seemingly never left alone. It was apparently his gift. He had that certain mixture of confidence and cockiness that most seemed to find irresistible. He’d never been able to understand it, nor had he ever tried to emulate it.
            The woman ducked around the corner and into the parking lot, walking out of view behind the corner of the building. A plume of smoke appeared over the flat roof of the warehouse; the dull glow of headlights appearing just before the car as it drove to the end of the lot, throwing on its right blinker. Pausing for a moment, the car turned onto the slick street, the rear end bucking back and forth for just a moment before gaining traction and heading off into the night, the red squares of the tail lights slowly fading into blackness.
            Glancing at the clock, Scott stared at the edge of the building, waiting for any other signs of movement. Beyond the building, the foothills rose steeply towards the cloud covered mountains, the white capped masses of pines and other tall evergreens standing out sharply against the pinkish hue of the stone quarry carved into the steel slope behind them. One minute turned to five, and five to fifteen, as Scott and Harry took turns staring from the side of the building to the clock to each other. Finally, he shot Harry a somewhat concerned look and shoved the gears into drive.
            Their headlights flashed across the front of the building, reflecting blindingly off of the front glass doors as the popped up slightly on the opposite curb before straightening out and heading in the opposite direction. He slowed at the entrance to the parking lot, staring through the waves of flakes that gusted straight towards them at the sole car in the darkened parking lot. It was clear in the back, nearly around the back of the building at the edge of the eight- foot tall chain link fence that surrounded the snow filled parking lot.
            Climbing over the curb, Scott guided the car into the deserted parking lot, square patches of lightly snow- dusted asphalt lined either side of the lot from where the cars had been parked for most of the day, their tracks matting down the snow in criss- crossing lines.
            A thin line of smoke plumed from the tail pipe of the snow covered 3000 GT. The front windshield wipers dredged back and forth, piling the snow into a thick frame around the window. The inside of the fogged vehicle was completely dark, though they would have seen little through the darkly tinted windows regardless. Hanging drifts of snow sloughed from the roof of the car, exposing small patches of the cherry red paint job beneath.
            Flashing his lights a couple of times as he slowly cruised through the lot, Scott waited for a response. The packed snow crunching defiantly beneath the rolling tires, they stopped right next to the Mitsubishi, flashing the brights through the windows to verify what they could already tell: the vehicle was empty.
            Scott looked over at Harry, who wore the same puzzled expression. “I’ll be right back,” he said, throwing open the door and hopping down into the snow.
            Passing through his own headlights, he cupped his hands to either side of his face and peered through the passenger window of the 3000 GT. A series of red lights glowed from the dashboard within. There was what appeared to be a briefcase on the floorboards in front of the passenger seat, a pack of smokes and a pair of empty bottle atop it. But there was no one up there, or lying down in what passed for the back seat of the car.
            Steering his gaze from the vehicle, he looked towards the side of the building, noting the small door to the side where all of the employees had exited earlier. With a nod back to Harry, he lowered his head and squinted his eyes against the wet flakes that pounded him along the fierce wind as he jogged across the matted snow along the walkway towards the door. Gripping the knob tightly in his right hand, he yanked on it, his shoulder nearly popping out of the socket with his more than adequate force, but the door wouldn’t budge. Turning the knob in the opposite direction, he tried again, this time with a little more subtlety, but it was locked.            
            Harry rolled down the window of the car and leaned his head out, cringing momentarily as the frigid air nipped at his bare face.
            “Locked?” he called over the wind.
            “Yeah,” Scott responded, jogging back over to the car, stopping just shy of the open window.
            “What do you think?”
            “He’s got to be here somewhere.”
            “And you checked the car?”
            “Nothing.”
            “The back seat?”
            “You couldn’t squeeze an adult back there if you tried.”
            “Do you think he ditched us then?”
            “The thought crossed my mind, but he wouldn’t have left his car, especially with it running.”
            “Did you try the doors?”
            “No,” Scott said, looking back towards Shane’s car. “But I guess I’d better.”
            Turning, he could hear the whir of the raising window behind him as he loped around the front of the car and onto the curb, hopping back down on the other side of the car and standing at the driver’s side door. Giving one last look to Harry, he grabbed the handle and opened the door.
            A wall of heat rushed towards him from the inside of the vehicle as he stared within. The windows were completely fogged now, making it nearly impossible to see out of the vehicle. Grabbing the headrest of the driver’s seat and using it as leverage, he leaned into the car, not sure of exactly what he was looking for. It was always possible that Shane was so doped up that he had forgotten his car and had just ridden of with the brunette. That wouldn’t be completely unlike the Shane that he had once known.
            Shaking his head, as he saw nothing that would be of any help whatsoever, he pushed himself back to his feet. The fingers on his right hand innocently rubbed his damp palm as he stared down at it, innocently wondering what would have caused it to become wet. The thin patch of fluid on the tough skin of his palm was much darker than he had expected to see, figuring that it had just dampened from the falling snow.
            Leaning back under the roof of the car, he inspected the seat, but the dark cushioning just blended into the darkness of the car. The dim rays of the overhead light did little more than just swell into a light globe around the bulb. Reaching towards it, he flipped the switch next to the light, turning it off before finding the third position that made it brighter. Looking back down at the seat, he could see it this time. Large splotches of red that nearly covered the entire seat, sloppy handprints of the dark fluid dripping from the leather steering wheel.
            “Harry!” he shouted, slamming his the back of his head against the rim of the door before finally pulling his head out.
            Harry just stared at him through the front window of the car.
            “Harry!” he shouted again, this time flailing his arms.
            Scott could hear the dim hum of the window as Harry rolled it down from the inside, so he shouted once again.
            “Harry!”
            The whirring of the window ceased as the door popped open and Harry clambered out of the vehicle, jogging over to where Scott still stood by the open door of the car.
            “Jesus,” Harry muttered, slipping past Scott to get a look into the car.
            Scott scanned the white ground, the only light from his headlights as it crept beneath the 3000 GT, dully passing through the tinted windows, but there was nothing. Walking away from the car, he had gone a good ten feet before finally finding what he was looking for.
            There was a matted portion of snow that almost looked like a snow angel, the arms and legs floundering in the packed snow. There were droplets of red throughout the impression, and surrounding it on the pristine snow. Following the red trails, he headed straight towards the tall chain link fence, following the metal ringed surface towards the top. A coiled roll of barbed wire looped through the top rungs of the fence, the sharp points of the metal spikes glistening in the night.
            Tattered shreds of clothing hung from the wire where the body had been raked across the jagged barbed wire.
            Shedding his jacket, Scott jumped, throwing it over the barbed wire atop the fence and began it climb. Scaling it as quickly as he could, he threw his right leg over his jacket, using it as a shield between his privates and the sharp metal as he climbed over, hopping down to the frozen earth beyond.
            He could hear the rattle of the fence as Harry hit it full tilt, climbing up and over just as Scott had done. Glancing back over his shoulder as he dashed across the snow covered field into the foothills, he made sure that Harry was over the fence. Hitting the first grove of pines, the ground beneath his churning legs rising more steeply with each successive step, he wove between the densely packed trunks. Darkness closed in from all around him as whatever dim light pierced the heavily cloud infested night sky was blocked by the thick mat of needles above his head.
            There was nothing to go by; no red spotted ground or a channel carved into the crusted snow from the dragging of a body, just the ghost of a voice in the back of his head that urged him on. His legs burned as the cold night air rattled icily in his lungs. Frantically scanning from one side to the other, his eyes tried in vein to peel back the darkness enough to make out even the most vague outline of his vanished friend.
            “Scott!” he could hear Harry’s muffled voice cry from somewhere behind him, but he didn’t have the time to stop, or enough wind in his heaving chest to respond.
            He knew that if he had any hopes of ever seeing Shane alive again, he had to find him right now as he had seen first hand the speed with which Matt was capable of killing. Somewhere, deep down, he already knew that he was too late.
            Throwing his hands in front of his face, he burst through a mass of scrub oak, the barren branches covered with a thick shield of ice. His clothing snagged on the sharp extensions, raking his forearms as he hurdled the clusters of thin trunks, nearly falling flat on his face in the pristine snow of the clearing beyond.
            The wind whistled loudly all around him as he stopped in the center of the field. Yucca plants broke the snow covered plain, their long, green points standing high above the ground as the wind tossed the powder into swirling clouds all around.  Branches rattled together, the sound of bark raking against bark the only other sound that he could discern from the night.
            His heart rose into his chest, a damp layer of cold sweat matting his creased forehead. Each quick breath shuddered past his lips, the frozen air in his quivering chest turning to mist as it burst into the night.
            The shrubbery rustled behind him as it parted as Harry suddenly appeared. He was wheezing loudly, barely more than stumbling through the deep snow. Doubling over, he placed his hands on his knees as he stood next to Scott, coughing. He stared down at the ground sucking in as much as possible as quickly as he could, before finally looking up, scanning the line of trees at the other side of the field.
            “Where…?” Harry huffed, pausing just long enough for a couple of deep breaths. “Where did they go?”
            “I’m not sure.”
            Scott focused intently on the darkness all around, all of his senses poised taut as he searched for some clue as to where they had gone.
            “We have to keep moving,” Harry said, finally able to stand fully erect, his shoulders still heaving.
            “But where should we go? I see absolutely no sign of them anywhere.”
            “If we just stop, you’re friend’s as good as dead.”
            “There’s no doubt in my mind that he already is.”
            “Then what do you want to do?”
            “I don’t know,” Scott said softly, his voice trailing off as the wind swept it from his lips.
            The two stood in silence, side by side, as the dark night closed in around them.
            A loud noise boomed from somewhere, sounding as though it came from all sides at once. It was a cracking sound, like a thousand branches being snapped in half all at the same time. Fading back into the night, the silence swelled around them as they scanned the tree line that encircled them. There was another booming noise, then another, and another. It was straight across the field from them, and it was getting closer with each successive sound. The tops of the trees ahead tossled visibly, the white snow shaking off to expose the green needles beneath.
            Holding their breath, they could do little but watch as fear overwhelmed every inch of their frozen flesh.
            The noise grew louder and louder as the forest itself sounded as though it was being ripped apart. Trees crashed to the ground just out of their range of view, the ground shuddering beneath their feet.
            It was coming closer and closer, they could feel whatever it was there with them in the darkness, laying siege to the grove of pines straight ahead of them. Wide eyed, they watched in horror as the wall of trees straight ahead imploded. The center of the trunks seemed to implode from the core, fragments of wood no larger than toothpicks flying through the air from the suddenly halved trunk. The upper reaches of the trees toppled to the side, the heavily needled branches crashing to the ground with a thud.     
            “Sweet Jesus,” Harry muttered, quickly covering his eyes as the fragmented, sap- drenched shards of tree trunk rained down on them.
             As silence finally settled into the forest around them, the last remnants of the booming explosion of the trees echoing high in the valleys above, the two surveyed the area. The trees had been cleared in what looked to be a large path leading straight ahead of them into the hills. Jagged, pointed stumps littered the snow- covered ground in the ten-foot wide path leading up the slope into the darkness. The remains piled against the still standing trunks to either side, the green and brown masses of the fallen trees pressed together to make it look like a half pipe. Tiny yellow wooden shrapnel peppered the snow all around them in the small clearing, sticking to their clothes with the sticky yellow sap as the smell of pine all around them was almost overwhelming. At the end of the channel carved through the trees, deep within the darkness that rolled down the face of the western slope of the Rockies, there was the shadow of a man.
            “We need to go,” Harry whispered, tugging on Scott’s sleeve.
            “What… who is that?” Scott asked, staring at the pitch- black shade of the human form from which all of the darkness seemed to resonate.
            “Now!” Harry whispered forcefully, looping his arm around Scott’s and dragging him through the clearing towards where they had come from.
            Scott stared back over his shoulder at the darkened figure as Harry fought to drag him back towards the car with everything that he had. Stumbling, but unable to steer his gaze, Scott watched in awe as the figure raised its arms out to either side and held them there, the trunks of the trees suddenly bending as though they were made of rubber. A pair of amber eyes glowed like small pinpoints of sunlight from beneath the figure’s darkened brow. His eyes locking on those of the massive shadow, those eyes helplessly entranced him, everything else fading to black around him.
            “Come on!” Harry shouted, his voice dissipating beneath the loud siren of the wind as it howled down through the channel from the snow- capped peaks above. The shadow of the man grew wider; the tattered and shredded fabric that dangled from his shadowy form tossing and snapping about him like long thin flags as the raging wind rocketed past.
            Scott could do nothing more than stare at the shadowy figure, feeling hopelessly drawn towards it.
            His barely dragging feet snagging on the twisted and ragged trunks of the mass of scrub oak, Scott slipped from Harry’s grasp, crumpling into the mess of tangled branches which cut off the view of the image with its fiery ashen eyes. His whole body seemed to grow limp, a warm, pleasant sensation washing through every inch of his formerly frozen flesh. It was as though he was laying on a beach somewhere tropical, just he and the hot equatorial sun that shined down on him alone. There was but the vaguest impression of discomfort beneath his armpits as he could feel Harry’s hands gripping tightly, dragging him through the tangled array of branches and beneath the cover of the pines. His eyes lolled back beneath his only partially closed lids as a feeling more pleasurable than any he had experienced in what he could then remember of his pained life flooded through his senses and he felt nothing but the warming tingle that buzzed electrically through his veins.
            A small line of blood rolled over his upper lip from beneath his right nostril, clinging to the chapped skin momentarily before running down into his slacken mouth, pooling on his upper teeth.
            “Get up and walk, damn it!” Harry shouted down at him as his aching arms and back could no longer find the will to drag him.
            Harry knelt on the ground above Scott, whose eyes finally rolled back from beneath his fluttering lids enough to give him the semblance of consciousness.
            “Look at me!” Harry growled, grabbing Scott’s face between his two leathery palms and shaking it atop his flimsy neck. “You need to get up right now or we are both going to die out here!”   
            Loud, booming footsteps echoed through the foothills as the ground shook beneath them. The thicket of scrub oak they had just passed through rattled as the branches tossed against the line of snow beyond.
            Boom.
            Boom.
            “Wake up!” Harry shouted, smacking Scott across the face as he frantically looked up towards the origin of the sound, his tensed legs poised in anticipation of their call to flight.
            Scott’s mouth slowly closed, his dry tongue smacking against his dehydrated palate. His fluttering lids opened momentarily as his eyeballs rolled back completely into his skull before reappearing again as he fought to awaken from whatever trance had gripped hold of his physical form.
            Boom.
            “Get up!” Harry called through a wave of panic as tears spontaneously streamed from his eyes.
            Boom.
            Powdered snow cascaded through the air all around them in a sparkling crystalline shower of glimmering flakes from the tops of the trees where it had been piled nearly since the start of winter.
            Boom.
            Harry slipped his arm beneath Scott’s armpit and heaved him into the air, his back screaming in agony from the shards of white hot pain that stabbed into his brittle back like the searing blades of so many daggers.
            Boom.
            Turning, Harry could feel Scott’s dangling feet fighting through whatever possessed him, lightly kicking at the ground as they fought to find some sort of traction.
            Boom.
            The sound was so close he could feel the vibrations from the trembling ground clear up into his thighs. His eyes fixed on his winding path through the maze of the trees as the tears froze to his bright red cheeks.
            Crash.
            The scrub oak peeled back behind them as whatever was the source of that booming exited the clearing, slamming into the wall of branches, which peeled back and splintered into nothingness.
            Boom.
            Scott’s toes danced of the ground as something vaguely reminiscent of feeling coursed through the blood. The warm glow, which had dulled his senses, was slipping out through his pores into the night, allowing the waves of coldness to creep back along his flesh, chilling the skin before stabbing like sharp icicles into the flesh beneath. His eyes fixed on the ground as his head bobbed on his noodle of a neck.
            Boom. Crash.
            Branches were ripped from the trunks of the pines, the green needles filling the air about the shadowy form as it’s heavy footfalls pounded on the ground. Forcing its way through the forest, anything in its way was pulverized into powder.
            Boom.
            His feet starting to churn in an attempt to run, Scott’s feet sunk into the deep snow, wrenching him out of Harry’s grip. Landing face first in the packed powder, he closed his eyes tightly, pushing back the ice crystals that burned like fire against his bare eyeballs as he tried to get his arms beneath to push himself back up.
            Boom!
            “Get up!” Harry screamed. He whirled and grabbed Scott by the back of the shirt, dragging him along the ground as he watched the foliage behind them exploding in a cloud of green and white. He could see the black form in the center of the shrapnel, those eyes glowing like embers as they locked onto him.
            Boom!
            Bracing his hands against the frozen earth beneath the mat of snow, Scott dragged his legs under him and he was at least on all fours. Fighting against the wrenching on his shirt, he stumbled to his feet, lurching forward of his own volition.
            Boom!
            Harry let go of the sweatshirt, glancing back just long enough to ensure that Scott was on his feet. Turning back to the winding course through the irregularly spaced trunks, he barely had enough time to force his eyes shut as he ran straight into the low lying branch. The rough bark tore at the skin on his forehead, splitting it wide in a series on scrapes, the skin around it turning purple. The swelling began at impact.
            Boom!
            His feet flew out from beneath him as the next thing to land would be his shoulders as he watched his feet rise up into view against the dark canopy of the trees above. The back of his head slammed into the snow, which plumed into the air around him as his back crashed to the earth as well. Flopping helplessly at the ends of his flailing legs, his feet were the last to come crashing down.
            Boom!
            Scott scrambled onto his hands and knees by Harry, trying to slip his hands beneath Harry’s shoulders and hips, in hopes of, even in his severely weakened state, picking him up to carry him from the grove.
            Boom!
            The ground shuddered beneath them as Scott fought in vain to raise Harry from the ground as he rolled from side to side trying to regain the wind that had been forced from his suddenly collapsed lungs. It felt as though the earth was going to open wide and swallow them as it trembled beneath the thunderous footfalls that were now nearly upon them.
            Boom!
            The crashing was right behind him now, the echoing footfalls no more than a few feet from his turned back now. He could feel the cold breath of whatever it was that was following them raise the hackles on the back of his neck. The ferocious wind that ripped through the air, seeming to originate from the very core of their stalker, gusted painfully from behind, carrying with it the shrapnel from the leveled forest.
            Boom!
            Clenching his fists at his sides, Scott stared down at Harry briefly. His clenched eyes finally opened as his rolling stopped, that first wonderfully cold inhalation filling his lungs from the finally gasp. Knowing that there was nothing he could do for his new found friend other than watch him breath, Scott summoned the swell of adrenaline that pumped up from his chest, spilling out through his vessels into every corner of his being. His chest began to pound in anticipation. His bared teeth curled back his tightly sewn lips, his breath bursting from his nostrils like a wild bull.
            Boom!
            His legs tensed as he prepared to leap to his feet. His fingernails pressed crescents into his palms as his pulse throbbed within his tightly closed fists. He just needed it to get a little closer. Just a little more….
            Boom!
            Leaping to his feet, he whirled around. Facing the direction where the booming had come from, he led with his right, swinging it in a huge arc with all of the might that he could muster. It whistled through the air, landing on nothing but the thin night air as he stumbled forward, losing his balance. Toppling into the snow, he hopped back to his feet as soon as he hit the cold surface. His head snapped from one side to the other as he sought to gain a glimpse of whatever had been there only a second before.
            But there was nothing there.
            “My son,” a deep voice whispered along the breeze that streamed through the forest, swirling about them for a moment before finally being absorbed by the darkness.
            “Where…?” Scott stammered as he whirled, trying to find the figure that had been right on their heels only a moment prior. It had sounded so massive, how could it have just vanished without a sound?
            There was a loud crashing in the underbrush to the right as Scott whirled in time to catch the flash of the eyes of a large buck as it bounded through the foliage, its enormous rack of antlers blending in with the criss- crossing mass of tangled branches above it. Its eyes flashed like two yellow lights, their image lingering against the night as there was but a flash from the white patch on its hind end as it bounded off into the night.
            “Are you all right?” Scott asked, turning as he noticed that Harry was now sitting up, sucking in the crisp air as though he had never done so before.
            “Yeah,” he wheezed, take one long inhalation before allowing a long, thin sigh to creep from his lips, his shoulders finally settling into a slouch.
            Scott caught movement from the top of his eyes and immediately looked up. There was a darkened shape hovering in midair against the line of trees in front of them.
            “Help me,” a wispy voice whispered as the object dangling in midair came into focus.
            It was a skull.
            The flesh had been ripped from the exposed bone, severed muscles and tendons dangling from where they connected to the red stained skull. Two barren black holes stared at them from the center of the dripping face, the blood flowing in streams down the exposed bone, welling atop the stone cut cheek bones before falling in long lines to the snow.
            “Please,” the apparition mouthed, its jaw clicking with the movement. “Help me.”
            Scott stared at it, fighting his trembling legs as they wanted nothing more then to burst into a sprint, carrying him as far away from there as they possibly could. Slowly, a dark outline of a human form appeared beneath the skull, barely standing out from the darkened night. Perhaps he had at first mistaken it for one of the trunks of the trees that lined his view, or perhaps it hadn’t been there at all, but slowly it came into focus, barely discernible against the blackness that seemed to emanate from it, rather than from the night.
            Tattered strands of fabric blew like tendrils from the form along the light breeze that had changed directions unnaturally so that now it was blowing right into his face. Two fiery embers peered forth from the blackness that surrounded the face beneath the shroud, burning straight through him with their blazing stare. A long arm extended from the form’s shoulder straight up into the floating skull, the hand disappearing within.
            “Help me,” the meek voice cried again, the hand making the mouth of the skull move.
            Scott just stared at the skull, which merely mouthed the words that floated on the sap- tinged air.
            A loud, cackling laugh burst past the cracked lips of the figure that finally lowered the skull and turned it so that he could look into the hollow sockets where the eyes had only recently been. More laughter ensued as he moved his hand beneath the bone, causing the hinged jaw to open and close.
             Even in the darkness and without being able to make out more than the outline of the shape, Scott knew that it was Matt.
            “Help me Obi Wan Kenobi,” Matt uttered through the cackling, amusing himself with the lifeless skull. “You are my only hope.”
            Laughter boomed from the core of the shadow as Scott was helpless to do anything more than watch.
            “Here,” Matt said, his glowing eyes fixing directly on Scott.
            He tossed the skull through the night, the darkened shape disappearing into shadows in midair before finally appearing right in front of him. Scott caught it against his chest, the damp, red fluid leeching into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He could feel the cold wetness of the rapidly drying skull on the skin of his palms. Holding it out on front of him, he could see clumps of blood stained hair matted to the barren skull, the seams in the plates of the bulbous head looking like sutures. As he watched it, the lower jaw cracked audibly as it lowered, the jaggedly broken teeth parting.
            “It’s time,” a deep, hollow voice echoed from within the mass of bone in his hands.
            Startled, he dropped the skull to the ground as though it had been a poisonous snake poised to strike at him. He eyes followed it to the ground where it sunk straight into the deep snow, only the reddened cap of the head visible atop the piled white powder.
            Snapping his head up almost immediately, he looked back to where Matt had been standing, but he was already gone. There was nothing there but the rows of tree trunks, and the darkness trapped beneath the low- lying canopy of branches.
            “Where did he go?” Harry asked from his right, where he was staring slack jawed towards the line of trees as well.
            “I don’t know.”
            “Figure that was Shane?”
            Harry nodded towards the reddened lump that barely peeked up at them from the snow.
            “That would be a safe bet.”
            “Who do you think is next?” Harry asked as he tramped through the snow towards Scott, easing him by the shoulder away from the skull.
            “I’m all out of old buddies,” Scott said, walking of his own volition through the maze of trunks, glancing down at the snow- covered ground only long enough to note what he already expected: there wasn’t a single track in the unbroken field of white.
            “That certainly limits the options.”
            “And then some.”
            “So, the way I see it, there’s really only one thing left to do.”
            “What’s that?” Scott asked.
            Harry stopped, gripping Scott tightly by the shoulders and turning him so that he could look him directly in the eye.
            “We have to go on the offensive.”
            Scott just nodded.
            “We have to track him down and kill him.”
            “But he’s already dead.”
            “Then let’s kill him again.”
            “Do you think that will work?”
            “Do you have a better idea?”
            Scoot looked down towards his feet, which were buried beneath the snow, noting that he couldn’t feel his toes at all. Like the rest of him, his body, his mind, he had become desensitized. All that he could feel was fear, which his mind shoved back into the darkened recesses of his brain as soon as it swelled up. There was nothing left after that. He had been reduced to a basic biological state. All that he could do was just the bare minimum necessary to survive, his instincts telling him to eat, drink and sleep. Any other less primal urges were stuffed back as anything of a more emotional base would always lead him back to the fear.
            But there was something else deep down within him now, something that he hadn’t felt within before. It was like a fire, or at least the smoking kindling of what would become a fire. He could feel it welling deep in his chest, gaining strength as it fought to come to the forefront. It was the feeling that caused his teeth to grind, his eyes to narrow, and his breathing to slow.
            It was rage. And with that emotion came the fire and determination with which he attacked every challenge. The fear and helplessness slipped from his consciousness as this new, powerful drive fought to the forefront.
            Scott looked back up from the ground, his eyes locking straight on Harry’s. The kindling had been fanned to a full- fledged fire, which burned from behind his eyes, his trembling limbs suddenly gaining a newfound strength and stability.
            With a nod of his stone chiseled, clenched jaw, his unblinking eyes turned back towards the night as they headed back towards the car, the shadows writhing in the blackness all around them in the lifeless forest.

XVII
Wednesday, November 16th
6 a.m.
            “Excuse me,” Scott said, flagging down the man in the navy blue vest who walked down the aisle with a wrapped sandwich and a two liter bottle of Pepsi cradled against his chest.
            “I’m on break,” the man said, nodding towards his food. “Try over there in electronics.”
            With a pained grimace, Scott thanked him with a curt nod and headed towards the electronics section where he could hear the rustling of boxes from behind the stocked shelves along the wall that separated the section from the rest of the store.
            Rounding the wall of jewelry boxes, he passed a long wall of nothing but film before coming to the entrance to the section. The cash register sat closed and locked down to the left of the entrance. Box filled carts littered the entranceway making it all but impossible to walk. Sliding between the closely packed metal carts, he looked over the tall stacks of boxes towards where he had heard the noise coming from. There was a tall, wild haired man with a shirt that read on the back in bright red letters: “Ski Naked.”
            He was an incredibly large man. Not only did he have to be something like six foot five, but he had to be close to two hundred eighty pounds as well. The suddenly revolting idea proposed on the back of his far too tightly fitting shirt that rode up over his hairy, bloated stomach in the front was almost cause for something to be said to the man, but Scott needed something from him. Something that it seemed that not one of the hundred other employees he had seen in the store was able to do.
             “Excuse me,” he said politely, craning around the mountainous stack of boxes full of video games.
            The man looked up briefly, a contemptuous look streaking his face as he rolled his eyes. He had an enormous mane of fluffy dark hair and glasses that were tinted yellow. His fleshy cheeks jiggled as he tossed the pricing gun onto the shelf. Sighing loudly, he raised his eyebrows and took a step towards Scott.
            “What do you want?” he grumbled.
            “I need you to open one of these cases over in sporting goods.”
            “I don’t have the time now. There should be someone over there.”
            “There isn’t, and everyone I’ve talked to so far has been of no help whatsoever.”
            “You’re just going to have to wait.”  
            “I already have.”
            “Then wait some more,” he said, turning back down the aisle, his shirt creeping up from his hairy, exposed crack.
            Scott smiled bemusedly; licking his upper lip as a smirk brought with it a quiet chuckle.
            “I’m trying to be really nice here…”
            “So am I,” the man interrupted.
            Scott looked at the stacked boxes that covered nearly every available inch of the glossy, white tiled floor. An idea formed as the smirk widened.
            “Oops,” he said, bumping into one of the towers of boxes with his hip.
            The boxes toppled to the floor, the contents of the top box spilling out from where the tape had split along the upper seal. Wrapped video games covered the floor all around his feet.
            “Hey,” the man said, whirling as his face turned bright red. “You just did that on purpose.”
            Scott just smiled as he had grown weary of the banter. He hadn’t slept in what felt like a week. His entire body ached, his head pounded, and he most certainly didn’t have anything resembling the patience to deal with this asshole.
            “I should come over there and make you pick that up.”
            “Oops,” Scott said as another stack of boxes fell from a shift of his hips, crashing into another stack which fell as well.
            “I watched you do that!” he shouted, his eyes growing as wild as his hair.
            “You could have averted this by just opening the case for me when I had asked.”
            “So you’re admitting that you did that on purpose.”
            “If that’ll get you through the day…”
            The electronics troll popped out of the aisle, holding in his gut so he could squeeze past the piles of boxes. His meaty ham- fists clenched at his sides, he walked right up to Scott and grabbed two handfuls of his shirt.
            “What’s going on over there?” a suddenly panicked man wearing one of the navy blue vests beneath his down winter jacket gasped from where he stood at the entrance to the electronics section.
            The chunky worker immediately released Scott’s shirt and took a rapid step backwards, his mouth falling slack.
            The man set the briefcase he had been carrying, along with the brown paper bag full of what could presumably only been his lunch onto the counter by the register and proceeded to walk straight towards them, his face growing increasingly redder with each step. Passing Scott, he stopped right in front of the suddenly cowed wild haired worker, his teeth clenching as his jaw ground from side to side.
            “Go wait for me in my office,” he growled, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.
            He stood with his back to Scott watching as the electronics guy weaved between the stacks of boxes and out into the aisle, heading towards the back of the store. Scott could hear the man sigh as he paused just momentarily before turning back to Scott.
            “Please accept my apologies, sir. My nephew has a tendency to be a little antisocial. Hence, we try to keep him here in the middle of the night as much as possible to keep him away from the customers.”
            “Your nephew?”
            “When your sister calls and says her son needs a job so that he can help her pay the bills now that her husband of twenty- five years has decided to flat out split on them, what are you supposed to do?”
            With a reassuring smile, Scott nodded. “I completely understand.”
            The man paused, inspecting Scott. His dark mustache twitched as his narrow brown eyes scanned every inch of him. The long line of fluorescent tubes mounted high above in the ceiling reflected off the shiny skin atop his head under his thin comb- over.
            “Now,” he said, still wearing the same uncomfortable expression. “Is there something that I can do for you.”
            “I need something out of one of these cases over here in sporting goods.”
            “All right,” the man said through a feigned smile, pulling a mass of keys from his hip where they had been clipped to his belt. “If you will please follow me then.”
            The two walked through the maze of boxes and out into the main aisle while the man tossed through the pile of keys one by one, finally pinching one of the smaller silver ones between his thumb and index finger.
            Rounding the corner, they passed the limited costume jewelry section and beneath an archway formed from hip waders. There was a counter straight ahead, a small register bolted in the front left corner. Behind the counter was a large glass case filled with a vertical row of shotguns and rifles. Beside the case on the shelves that ran the length of the wall were boxes upon boxes of ammunition, stocked from the floor clear up the nine- foot wall.
            “This case?” the man asked somewhat hesitantly as he nodded towards the wall of guns.
            “Yes, sir,” Scott said politely. “I need that Remington twelve gauge and the Winchester right below it.”
            “Doing some hunting?”
            “Something like that.”
            “What are you going for?”
            “Deer,” Scott muttered, having not expected to have to justify the purchase.
            “With shotguns?”
            “They’re for the geese, it’s a combination hunt.”
            “Oh,” the man mused as he opened the small circular lock on the bottom of the case and slid back the large pane of glass.
            He pulled the Remington down first, lifting it off of the plastic hooks that held it in place. Setting it on the counter, he pulled down the Winchester, laying it next to the other. Closing the glass door, he replaced the metal lock and reached beneath the counter. Producing a large book of forms in triplicate, he opened it to the next available form and turned it, handing it to Scott so that it would be right side up.
            “I just need you to fill this out for me really quickly if you please,” he said with a curt smile, handing Scott a pen from atop the register.
            “Thanks,” Scott said as he brought the pen to the page and began to fill it out as quickly as he could. He wrote down his name and address, his social security number and his driver’s license number. He filled in every bit of information from his date of birth through his mother’s maiden name. They wanted every bit of information about his life that he was able to provide, which he filled in just as quickly as he could. Affixing his signature to the bottom line, he handed it back to the man whom, of course, needed to verify all of the information with every piece of plastic that Scott had in his wallet.
            After several minutes of comparing the driver’s license to the page, he handed it back to Scott, coyly comparing the face on the plastic to his current stubbled visage.
            “Is there anything else we can get you?’ he asked, tearing the top form off and setting it to the side of the register.
            “I need about six boxes of twelve gauge shells.”
            The man, who had unzipped his coat so that his managerial badge was now visible, stepped to the side and grabbed one of the boxes.
            “Any preference as to brand?”
            “Nope, just grab whatever.”
            The manager pulled down one box at a time, stacking them in two sets of three on the fake white marble countertop next to the shotguns.
            “Can I get you some licenses to go with that?” he asked with a smile.
            “No thanks,” Scott said, pulling his gold card from his wallet.
            The man stared at him somewhat dumbfounded for a moment.
            Intercepting the look, Scott elaborated.
            “We’ve already got the licenses, I just figured it was about time to replace that old gun of mine before we left for the mountains, but I couldn’t decide which one to go with so I figured I’d just buy them both and see which one I was more comfortable with in the field.”
            “Will that give you enough time to have the stock modified to fit your reach?”
            “I’m lucky,” Scott said wishing for nothing more for the man to just end the conversation and hand him his damned shotguns. “My reach is the same as the standard factory stock. It makes it easy.”
            Shaking his head, as he really had no idea what he was talking about, he forced the credit card into the man’s face as he began to ring the transaction into the register. After a moment of hammering keys and scanning bar codes, he turned back to Scott with a far more sincere grin.
            “That’ll be nine hundred eighty dollars and thirty-two cents.”
            He pulled the electronically generated receipt from the printer in the register and handed it to Scott. As he signed, the man placed the heavy boxes of shells into a plastic bag, slipping it into two other before finally taking the signed receipt from Scott and stapling his copy to the bag.
            Tucking the shotguns beneath his left arm, Scott grabbed the bag and with a polite nod headed towards the front of the store. Every one of the worthless employees who stood by the main aisle pretending to sweep or mop or stock shelves stopped what they were doing to stare, open mouthed, at him as he walked towards the sliding doors at the front of the store. He could feel their eyes on his back clear out into the parking lot as he headed across the sand covered ice that covered the lot towards the Cherokee.
             Popping open the trunk, he laid the gun on the carpeted floor, setting the bag beside them. Hurrying around the side of the car, he hopped into the driver’s seat and pinned the pedal to the floor as he turned the key. The engine roared as he dropped the gear into reverse, the tires spinning on the sand as they tossed a cloud of the minuscule grains into the air. He backed from the parking place, pausing long enough to throw it into drive, and headed out of the enormous parking lot towards the flashing red lights of the street beyond.
            Heading back towards the highway, his mind couldn’t help but revert back to the one thing that was bothering him more than anything else. Sure, the one thing that bothered him more than anything was the fact that everyone he knew was dying at the hands of a former friend who appeared to be more of an unnatural apparition than a man. But taking it at face value, there was a part of the story that seemed to be missing. Everything that he had learned from pouring through that dead nun’s diary, and everything that they had read and reread in the faded yellow trappings, pointed to the number two hundred as the number of deaths associated with the coming of the bloodspawn. And in every single one of those cases, all of the deaths had happened at once, not spread out one by one over a great number of days as these had been so far.
            The killings were lacking the same MO.
            Perhaps the nuns had been wrong from the start and what they had found here wasn’t the scenario that that thought it was. Maybe, and while this most definitely had something of a supernatural undertone, it wasn’t the maturation of the bloodspawn as they thought it would be. But then explain the child Harry rescued from the nuns before they killed it. Explain the presence of the dark figure that had shredded the forest with his mere will, shattering the trunks of so many trees as though they had been made of glass. All of the secondary signs seemed to be there. Could that all have just been coincidence?
            Scott pulled into the driveway and pressed the garage door opener. A grip of long icicles fell from where they dangled from the roof, shattering in front of the door on the snow covered concrete as it rolled up against the ceiling of the garage. Rolling in slowly, he parked next to the mass of unpacked boxes and killed the engine. Leaning back over his shoulder, he stared at the two shotguns as they lay on the floor in the trunk. Their mere presence inspired power as he knew that with a single shot from one of the black metal and wood creations and a spray of the tiny steel bb’s, he could snuff out a life in a heartbeat. That seemed of little comfort as he had watched Matt do the same with his bare hands in as little time.
            Shaking his head and sighing loudly, the sudden weight of the daunting task ahead settling into the knotted muscles of his shoulders. He shoved the keys into his pockets and closed the car door, walking around the back of the car and walking past the boxes to the garage door. Pressing the buttons, he climbed up the pair of cement stairs and into the house.
            “Harry,” he called from the family room as he crossed the plush carpeting and bounded up the stairs.
            “In here,” Harry’s voice echoed from the vaulted ceiling in the living room.
            Crossing the tile floor and stepping into the living room, Scott leaned over Harry’s shoulder staring down at the massive pile of newspaper clippings that had been arranged chronologically on his work desk.
            “Anything new?” Scott asked, but Harry’s response was cut off before it even passed his lips by the ringing phone.
            “Just a sec,” Scott said as he walked through the living room and into the kitchen.
            “Hello?”
            “Mr. Ramsey?”
            It was a deep male voice, and sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it right off.
            “Yes…”
            “This is Bob Goode with the People Network again.”
            “Oh.”
            “I just wanted to call to let you know that we’ve found a great lead on the location project that you requested.”
            “Thanks, but I think I’ve got this one figured out by now.”
            “Regardless, Mr. Ramsey, you’ve already paid for our services and we guarantee results. Do you have a fax number so that I can fax you the information as soon as I get it?”
            “Yeah,” Scott said. “But really, I don’t think it’s necessary…”
            “How so?”
            “I’m fairly confident I’ve already figured out the child’s identity.”
            “Who?” the man asked, suddenly quite intrigued.
            “A childhood friend of mine, Matt Parker.”
            “Well,” the man said, pausing as he took Scott’s answer as something of a challenge, to see if he could prove him wrong. “We’ll just have to see if the information that I found supports your assumption. Now, the fax number?”
            “Area code 719, 590, 2644.”
            “Thank you very much. You should have the information that you requested faxed to you within, most likely, the next twenty four hours, but I guarantee it within forty- eight. And once again, Mr. Ramsey, on behalf of the People Network I would like to thank you for choosing our service and hope that we will be able to help you again in the future.”
            There was a click on the other end of the line and suddenly Scott wished that he had not chosen the People Network. The man had grown too pushy and it was quite obvious that he wanted nothing more than to prove to him, and the entire world for that matter, that there was no greater detective when it came to doing what he did in the entire world. But, in his eagerness to see if Harry had found anything new while he was gone, he pushed the conversation to the back of his mind and it was only a matter of time before he forgot about it completely.
            “Who was that?” Harry asked as Scott entered the living room.
            “Oh, that was that guy I told you about that I hired over the Internet to track down the identity of the child.”
            “Seems kind of a moot point now, huh?”
            “That’s what I told him, but he seems hell bent on doing it. What can you do?”
            Harry turned back to the table and grabbed a smaller stack of newspaper clipping from the right side of the table.
            “You see,” Harry said, transferring the smaller stack, which could have been no more than three sheets thick, to his left hand as he gestured to the others with his right. “I’ve grouped these according to content. This thick stack on the left here is the actual newspaper clippings detailing the two hundred deaths. We’ve already looked at most of them, but what I found here is quite interesting.”
            “Go on.”
            “Shuffled in the middle of all of those articles, I found these three. Now granted, they are nothing more than mere blurbs, and really don’t give that much information at all, but listen to this. Do you remember that Article we read about the mass graves in Germany?”
            “Sure.”
            “Well, listen to this. I found this one folded and stuck to the back of another one of the clippings. I don’t know which paper this is from as the top has been torn from the page, but let me read it to you.”
            Scott sat down in the armchair nearest the desk, turning it slightly so that he was looking directly at Harry.
            “This is from Schlossberg,” Harry started. “It must be from some American or western European paper as it’s written in English, but I digress. Here we go.
            “The third horrible, disheveled body in as many days turned up today on the bank of the Rhine in this war abandoned rural town. State officials have declined comment. Locals fear the killings may have been by some sort of animal as there are no wounds consistent with bullets or stabbings. Local farmers are in the process of combing the heavily vegetated hills in search of what they presume to be a pack of wild dogs.”
            “That could be just coincidence. It could have nothing to do with, what was it again, a mass grave?”
            “True, but then again, what if it does?”
            Scott just sighed and nodded, leaning back in the chair as suddenly the lack of sleep crept up the base of his spine and settled into the back of his skull, making it feel hollow. His heavy eyelids drooped half way over his dark, red rimmed eyes. Stifling a yawn, he batted his lids fiercely, fighting back the swell of sleep that threatened to swallow him beneath a wave of darkness.
            “There’s another one here,” Harry said, tossing the small clipping he had just read onto the desk. “And while I have no idea what paper this actually came from, I can see that it’s an AP release. Listen:
            “Johannesburg, South Africa. Half a dozen unidentified bodies have turned up over the last few days, presumably victimized by revolutionary forces in the nearby countryside outside of Johannesburg. And while, uncharacteristically, no one has taken credit for the slayings, authorities believe they are close to apprehending the culprits. The condition of the bodies resembles that of being drawn and quartered, the bodies having been gruesomely ripped limb from limb. A thorough search of the surrounding area is being performed as authorities are unable to rule out the possibility of more similar casualties."
            “That’s where this nun was before she came here,” Scott said, leaning forward and rubbing the small balls of crust from the corners of his eyes.
            “Exactly.”
            “So perhaps there were more than two hundred deaths.”
            “Possibly.”
            “Possibly?”
            “Or maybe these deaths were just a harbinger of things to come.”
            “You’re suggesting that what we’re experiencing now is nothing more than the prelude to the actual event?”
“That’s the way it looks to me.”
“So we need to end this right now or we’re going to end up with two hundred more bodies.”
“I think so.”
The two sat in silence for a moment as Scott chewed gently on his lower lip. Harry tossed the clipping back on the desk with the other in its small pile and looked questioningly at Scott.
“There’s one thing that’s puzzling me a bit, though.”
            “Hmm?”
            “Where around here could one go to find exactly two hundred people at the same time to cause some sort of mass casualty?”
            “Where are you going with this?”
            “Think about it. There are far more than two hundred people in a mall at any given time. Air Force and Colorado College Hockey games draw more fans than that, and  
The football games are always sold out. There are countless youth league games where the numbers would approximate that, but it doesn’t fit the profile to exterminate largely children. What does that leave? Businesses, movie theaters on a slow day?”
            “Restaurants? Dormitories?”
            “Sure. You see where I’m going with this.”
            “Yeah, but that doesn’t narrow it down very much at all really.”
            “Think about it this way, though. What do we have right around this area, near to these hills where you will find anything resembling one of those things?”
            “Nothing.”
            “Right. Nothing.”
            “This entire area is almost completely residential. The nearest restaurant capable of holding two hundred people is a fifteen- minute drive. The nearest businesses of that size are just as far. All of the killings so far have been in this exact area.”
            “That could be nothing more than coincidence.”
            “Maybe, but I inclined to think not.”
            “What do you suggest then?” Scott said, rising from the chair and placing his hands in the middle of his back. Leaning backwards, the vertebrae in his back popped audibly.
            “I suggest we don’t wait around long enough to find out.”
            “I’m with you there.”
            The phone rang again.
            Rolling his eyes, Scott lumbered to the kitchen and grabbed the headset from the receiver. With a beep, the green LED display screen came to life.
            “Hello?” Scott answered impatiently.
            “Scott?”
            He recognized the voice immediately.
            “Oh, hi Sharon. What’s new?”
            “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
            “Tell me what?”
            “We just signed the contract on the last lot in the project. We’re now officially full.”
            “That sounds great.”
            “That’s it? Sounds great? I expected a little more enthusiasm than that. Are you all right?”
            “Just having a hard time sleeping is all. I’m a little under the weather and just need to take a little time off.”
            “Must be the stress. Well, don’t take too much time, with all of these plots commissioned, we’re down to your part of the deal. You’ve suddenly got a whole lot of houses to build.”
            “But that’s a good thing,” Scott said with a smile.
            “That’s what I like to hear. So get some rest and get yourself back up to one hundred percent.”
            “Thanks for the call, Sharon.”
            “You’re coming to the mixer on Saturday still, aren’t you?”
            “That’s the plan.”
            “It wouldn’t be the same without the builder there, and it sounds as though we’re going to get a really good turn out.”
            “I’ll do what I can.”
            “And you know, I was thinking, maybe the two of us could go out for drinks when it’s through?”
            “That sounds nice,” Scott said with a genuinely pleasant smile.
            It was the first time in the last three days that he had forgotten about the current situation, if just for the few seconds it took to be asked out.
            “Then I guess I’ll see you Saturday,” Sharon said, her voice positively bubbling.
            “Yeah, see you Saturday.”
            “Buh- bye.”
            There was a click on the other end and Scott hung up the phone with a twinkle in his eye.
            Walking back into the living room, he caught the sullen look that wrenched Harry’s face into a concerned knot and remembered the conversation that they had been having before the phone rang.
            “You want to go in there, don’t you?” Scott said, the faded remnants of his smile fading into the creases in his cheeks.
            “Yep.”
            “When?”
            “Do you have any plans now?”
            “I was afraid you’d say that.”


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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART THIRTEEN




SECTION 13
 
Chapters 18 and 19
 
 
XVIII
Wednesday, November 16th
3 p.m.
 
 
            Scott closed the trunk of the Cherokee, and took a step back, breathing a heavy sigh. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
            “Is that everything?” Harry asked as he bounded down the two short steps into the garage from the house.
            “I have no idea,” Scott responded from beneath raised brows as he shook his head.
            “Well then, let’s take a quick inventory and see.”
            Scott walked to the edge of the garage beneath the overhanging roof and stared out into the street. The snow was coming in waves now, sheets blowing one after the other from side to side on the rapidly blowing wind, which howled through the trees all around them. The streetlights flickered as the dark cloud cover triggered their light sensors. Everything was white, from the densely covered ground to the snow- crusted branches of the trees and roofs of the houses.
            “Shotguns?” Harry queried as he stood beside Scott, huddling his arms around himself as protection from the wicked wind.
            “Check.”
            “Shells?”
            “Check.”
            “Hatchets?”
            “Check.”
            “Knives?”
            “We’ve got the two heavy handled hunting knives with the serrated edges, and each of us has a pocket knife.”
            “Good. Rope?”
            “Check.”
            “Gasoline.”
            “We’ve got a gallon.”
            “Flame?”
            “Matches and a lighter.”
            Harry paused momentarily. “Anything else you can think of?”
            “I’m at a loss. If none of this stuff works, we’re as good as dead regardless.”
The two stood in the quiet garage listening to the snow fall. They both knew that Scott was right, and more than likely, after having seen what Matt was capable of, it was almost a foregone conclusion regardless.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Harry asked in a muffled whisper.
“Do we have a choice?”
“You could walk away right now, catch the next flight to somewhere tropical and never have to think about this ever again.”
“Could you do that?”
“I’ve been preparing for this my entire life. Since that one night where I stumbled upon those nuns slaughtering those children in that little house, it’s been the sole focus of my life. And while I didn’t choose to have to take responsibility for any of this, it was thrust upon me, and I’ve had no choice but to deal with that. If you want to get the hell out of here right now, I’ll wish you no ill will and we’ll part as friends. Heaven knows this is about the last place in the world that I want to be right now. But this is my burden, my cross to bear, and regardless of whether you’re coming or not, I have no choice but to face him… and kill him.”
Scott looked at Harry as he surveyed the storm. He looked a lot older than he had even a few days ago when they had first met. His skin somehow seemed more pale, the wrinkles more heavily defined. And there was something about the way he carried himself that had aged as well. His face was permanently affixed in an expression of pained discomfort, his weary eyes barely more than slits between the bright red rims of his eyelids. The light gray, short- cropped hair atop his head was matted and messy.
“There’s nothing like planning to kill an old friend to get an evening started.”
Harry looked at him and nodded, obviously relieved that he wasn’t going to have to do it alone. He rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder and then patted it several times before turning and walking to the side of the car.
“There’s something that you need to remember, though. And while he may look and sound like your old friend Matt, the man that we will be facing is someone completely different. Your friend died that night in that lake, maybe even sometime before. And whatever humanity he once possessed died with him. What we will face tonight in an incarnation of pure evil, a soulless monster hell bent on not only our deaths, but the eventual deaths of two hundred others. And should we fail tonight, you and I both know that it’s just a matter of time before he comes for us, and when he does we’ll die an ugly death just like the others.”
            “I know,” Scott whispered from beneath the overhang.
            “But I need to know that if and when that time comes that you’ll be able to pull the trigger, or drag the serrated edge of one of those big hunting knives across his throat.”
            “I’ll be fine.”
            “If you can’t do that, you realize you could kill us both.”
            “Of course I know that,” Scott said as he turned back towards the garage, walking across the cement pad and around the front of the car.
            “Then I can count on you?”
            “Of course.”
            Scott opened the driver’s side door and climbed in, fishing the keys from his pocket and shoving them into the ignition. Harry clambered in beside him, slamming the door as he reached for the seat belt, strapping it across his chest and buckling it into the clip. Belting himself in, Scott scanned the rearview mirror and backed the car out of the garage and into the driveway.
            Enormous flakes of snow buffeted the car from all directions, swirling around it like a frosty tornado. The windshield wipers hammered from side to side as fast as they could, brushing the snow aside into two long arcs atop the windshield. The wheels grabbed for traction, skidding momentarily as Scott thrust the car into drive and headed down the icy road.
            “How much time do we have?” Scott asked, his eyes intently fixed on the road which seemed to vanish behind the swirling snow that coated the windshield, blocking the light from the headlights.
            “Sunset’s at 6:08. That gives us nearly two and a half hours to set up.”
            “Is that enough time?”
            “How long could it possibly take to bring a shotgun to your shoulder, stick a knife in your pocket, another beneath your belt and grab an ax? I think time, if nothing else, is definitely on our side at this point.”
            “But what if we’re wrong? What if he’s already there, waiting for us? What if we don’t have that small amount of time to gather our stuff? What if we never even make it out of this car?”
            Until he actually said it out loud, the possibility of his own death on that day had never really sunken in. What he now faced was the distinct reality that he may never see the sun rise again, he may never see his own home again, he may never get married or have children or go to the Super Bowl. His life may be relegated to nothing more than the next few hours.
            “There are definitely a lot of ‘what ifs’,” Harry said, turning the blower in the dash so that it blew atop his rubbing hands. “But let’s look at the facts as we know them. We have never seen anything during the day. Each time we have seen Matt…”
            “I can’t do this if we use his name,” Scott interrupted.
            “Would you prefer the bloodspawn?”
            “Anything but his real name.”
            “All right then,” Harry continued. “Every time we have seen the bloodspawn, it has been not only dark, but later in the evening. No one has died during the day…”
            “Yet.”
            Harry stopped talking and stared over at him. His furrowed brow and projecting lower jaw betrayed his sudden and overwhelming sense of frustration.
            “Sorry,” Scott muttered as he turned out of the development and headed towards the cloud- blanketed mountains.
            There were no other tracks in the deep snow that covered the road, nothing but the lines of thick trees to either side to even signify where the road was. He just stayed to the center of the channel of trees, the tires knifing through the virgin white surface. His mind raced so fast, and through so many different topics and ideas that none of them lingered long enough for his conscious thought to catch up with them. It was a jumble of concentrated fear and the onset of panic that raced by so fast that it was all he could do to grip that steering wheel as tightly as he possibly could and keep that car on the icy road.
            Harry just stared straight out the window at the rows of trunks as they drove past. It reminded him of sitting in his father’s truck as they drove past cornfields when he was a kid. He could remember vividly just leaning his head against the passenger’s side window of the old, beat up truck, watching the rows of golden stumps as they extended back as far as he could see. He had tried to look for the bright red and green heads of pheasants between those rows, making something of a game of it in his own mind. But as he stared between those quickly passing trunks, watching the gaps between them, he was looking for something far different. He was looking for the harbinger of his own death, the monster who he knew that, be it today, or years down the road, would bring him to his ultimate demise.
            Silently they rode, each of them lost in their own minds, struggling with their own demons, as the trees peeled back to either side, revealing the lone white house in the middle of the meadow. The towers of the old convent loomed over the tops of the snow- covered trees on the horizon against the mountains.
            Scott slowed the Jeep as the wind pummeled them from the side, the snow blowing parallel to the ground. Fighting for traction, Scott coaxed the car across the white sheet towards the house, driving it right up onto the lawn next to one of the barren, dead old deciduous trees to the side of the house.
            He stared past Harry through the window at the side of the house for a moment before finally killing the engine.
            “Well,” he said, taking a deep breath. “We’re here.”
            His heart already racing, his trembling hands tugged on the handle to open the door. The wind raced up to greet him, blowing masses of frozen flakes at him as he climbed down from the car and into the deep snow. Having learned from the slipper episode, he had worn snow boots, the fake fur rising from the tops of the tan gortex covering.
            Staring up into the sky, his eyelids batted at the racing flakes, as he sought to see the sun one final time through the thick, dark clouds to no avail. Every muscle, every tendon in his body was taut with anticipation causing his whole body to ache. Each step he took through the deep snow on his way back to the trunk felt like a thousand. Every fiber of his being cried with a voice of its own for him to get back in the car and take Harry up on his idea of a trip to the tropics.
            It wasn’t a matter of whether or not he would be able to live with himself if he turned tail and ran like a coward, because he knew, deep down, that he would have no problem living with that decision. He was still there because of one fact alone. It wasn’t just that he had a tendency to take responsibility for everything around him; that was in his nature. It was that he had been unable to take responsibility for Matt. He had failed to be a friend when Matt had needed one the most, and he had failed to save Matt’s life when the time had come to do so. He had been forced to see Matt’s face, his arm reaching out for him, as the car sunk beneath the frozen waters, every night in his dreams, and it was permanently engraved in the backs of his eyes so that it was there every time he closed his eyes. Matt was now his responsibility. It was because of his failures that they were there today. And in his mind, he knew that if he had found the courage to stand up to his friends for Matt so many years ago, that they wouldn’t be here today.
            “None of this is your fault,” Harry said softly, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Don’t even think that for a second. I’d like to think that this would have happened regardless. What we’re dealing with here is something far beyond our limited understanding and comprehension.”
            “I know,” Scott said as he opened the trunk, pulling out the Winchester and handing it to Harry. “Deep down, I know that. But I can’t help but feel in some way responsible.”
            Harry pulled out his jacket from the trunk, slipping his arms into the navy blue down jacket. He grabbed two boxes of the shells and shoved one into both of the front pockets of the jacket.
            “You have to push that out of your mind now. You have to focus solely on the task at hand. Think about nothing but what you are going to do when we come across the bloodspawn. If you can’t do that, then I can assure you that neither of us are ever going to come out of this house again.”
            Scott just nodded in silent agreement as he donned his own dark blue jacket and tried to shove one of the boxes of shells into his pocket, but it wouldn’t fit. Opening the box, he dumped the contents into the front left pocket of his coat. Grabbing another box, he filled his right, tossing the empty cartons back into the trunk. Pulling out the Remington, he held it in his hands for a moment. The wood on the stock and the pump were both damp with the pine oil that he could smell all the way in the back of his sinuses. It was slick with the oily coating, and he had no choice but to wipe it off as much as he could on his faded jeans. The sweat from his hands alone would make it as difficult to grasp as he knew he could bear.
            Harry didn’t even look up as he grabbed both of the pocketknives from the storage cubby on the side of the trunk, handing one to Scott before shoving the other into the pocket of his pants. Producing the other pair of much larger and far more intimidating blades, he held them out in his open palms, feeling the sheer weight of the deadly instruments. Scott snatched one out of his hands, staring at it only briefly before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket as Harry loosened his belt and slipped the end through the slots in the leather sheath.
            “You grab the rope, I’ll grab the gas,” Harry said as he pulled the can from the trunk and immediately turned to head towards the front of the house.
            Bundling the rope beneath his left arm, Scott closed the trunk and shoved his keys back into his pocket as the little voice in the back of his head questioned why he would take the time to do so knowing that he may never get to use them ever again.
            By the time Scott rounded the front corner of the house, Harry was already clambering up the rickety front steps, the wood creaking loudly beneath his footfalls. Glancing to his left, he studied the bowed wood of the panels on the front side of the house, the faded, stained wood appearing from beneath the chipped and peeling white paint. The plywood sheets that covered the windows had enormous water stains on them and they bowed and buckled as they tried to peel back from the rusty nails that held them in place.
            Gripping the wobbly black iron railing, Scott ascended the shaky front steps to the rotting wood porch, nearly bumping into Harry who stood motionless outside the front door.
            “What…?” Scott started, but the question choked in the back of his throat.
            He stared past Harry at the open entryway, the door standing wide open. The hardwood floors in the entryway of the house were damp from the snow that had blown in and melted there. The lock box lay on the floor in the middle of the small puddle. Dust swirled in the dim light that issued into the room from the thin cracks around the seal of the plywood on the boarded windows. The crumbling walls were stained with the fading letters of years of graffiti, enormous holes revealing the decomposing wiring and warping studs.
            Harry turned around and looked back at Scott, who feigned a short smile and nodded. With a deep inhalation, Harry stepped across the threshold and into the house, his damp feet squeaking on the floor as the mounds of snow atop his boots fell to the floor to mark his footprints. His knuckles grew bright wide as he gripped the shotgun so tightly that it looked as though they might split open. Reaching into his left pocket, he opened the box of shells, producing three that he loaded into the bottom, shucking one into the chamber. The wooden stock twitched noticeably in his trembling grasp.
            Following suit, Scott loaded his gun as well, placing his finger atop the safety button several times to make sure he knew exactly where it was so that he could press it in just a split second and begin firing when the time came. It felt heavy in his grasp.
            “How do you want to do this?” Scott whispered, standing beside Harry as he stared through the doorway into the kitchen.
            “We need to try to seize the element of surprise. We’re only going to get one shot at this.”
            Scott cocked his head and winced as he peered towards the kitchen. There was a thin breeze, as cold as ice, blowing straight towards them from the gap beneath the door leading to the basement. It was barely enough the stir the piled and balled dust that littered the kitchen, blowing it like miniature tumbleweeds across the plywood floor, but it stabbed straight into his flesh, cutting deeply within to the very core of his being. It resonated in his bones with an expanding throbbing that felt as though it would snap the brittle calcifications like icicles.
            “He already knows we’re here,” Scott rasped in barely more than a whisper.
            Harry, who he could see was visibly chilled as well, nodded in silent agreement, his breath bursting from his lips in damp pillars of steam.
            The two stood there in silence, both fighting the urge to turn tail and flee as the bitter wind rolled across the floor and up their flesh to their faces where the tips of their noses chapped, turning red and threatening to snap right off of their chilled faces. Beneath the door, in that thin crack merely more than a half inch tall, they could see the darkness. It called to them and pushed them away all at the same time. It had a life of its own as the blackness seemed to move, swirling and exploding on the arctic air that gusted from beneath the door.
            “I think we need to set up down there,” Harry said, his voice dry from the growing lump in his throat.
            Scott just stared beneath the door at the darkness. Somehow, he knew that Harry was right, but he also knew that going through that doorway was going to be like stepping straight through the gates of hell.
            With a will of their own, his legs started for the door. His mind tripped over itself as it tried frantically to stir him to head the other direction, to go anywhere else in the world other than towards that cellar door. But in the end, it settled for forcing his finger to release the safety on the shotgun and slip his finger beneath the trigger guard and atop the cold steel trigger.
            Gripping the chipped brass doorknob in his hand, the rust rubbing off in the palm of his hand, Harry twisted it until it disengaged. With a quiet click, the door popped open. Glancing back over his shoulder to Scott, who clutched his shotgun in his white knuckled grasp, his pale white face fixed in a look of extreme tension, he opened the door to the cellar.
            The overwhelming scent of damp earth and mildew gusted up from the darkness, swelling all around them. There was something else buried beneath that scent. It was nothing that either of them could put their finger on, but it was something of a muffled combination of copper and sulfur, just the merest hint of their presence clinging to the backs of their tongues as they could taste it more than smell it.
            Stepping from the edge of the plywood board over the peeled edge of linoleum that was still pinned to the top of the stairs, Harry led the descent down into the cellar. The air grew increasingly cold around them with each successive step down the wobbly, rotting wooden stairs. Freeing a hand from their shotguns, both grabbed hold of the thin railing that ran down the wall, shuddering in its loose brackets as they placed weight upon it.
            Scott heard the hard scrape of gravel being ground atop stone as Harry stepped from the last stair onto the small cement landing.
            There was a sharp sting in the knuckle of his left forefinger as it snagged something along the railing. Fighting the urge to shout his frustration, he rubbed at the peeled flap of skin, resealing it to the wound with the fresh blood that seeped from beneath. Running his fingertips along the wall, he grasped hold of the object that had torn his flesh, yanking at it until he freed it from where it had been pinned between the wall and the railing.
            It had a long, thin wooden handle nearly a foot in length. Atop the handle was an oblong, heavy wooden cylinder, almost like the head of a mallet, but either end was capped with a metal surface covered with jagged, sharp pyramids of metal. Turning it over in his hand just once, he replaced it between the railing and the wall and crept down the rickety stairs to the floor.
            There was but the smallest line of light that trickled into the room on a thin beam from the side of the boarded window, a pinpoint of light resting on the dirt floor. Harry stood beside it, his form a shadow barely standing out from the darkness, the light reflecting from the polished steel surface of the barrel of his gun.
            “Can you feel it?” Harry whispered. “It’s all around us.”
            “Feel what?” Scott answered as the words tore at the parched membranes in this throat.
            “Evil.”
            Scott fidgeted as the cold wave of darkness embraced him from all sides at once.
            “It’s all around us,” Harry whispered in a thin, cracked voice. “It’s in the walls and the floor and the air, so thick I can hardly breathe.”
            “All I can feel is the cold.”
            “The cold is just the start. It feels like it’s crawling across my skin, shoving daggers through the flesh as it fights to take hold of me from the outside. And it’s tangible, like you could just reach out and grab a handful of the air as it crawls towards you.”  
            “Then this is where we need to set up,” Scott said through the dryness in his mouth as he stared at the thin line of light as it slowly dissipated. “And we’d better do so quickly because we’re running out of time.”

XIX
Wednesday, November 16th
9 p.m.
            Time meant nothing as Scott crouched in the blackened corner of the frigid cellar. The moist earth was covered with a thin layer of crystallized frost, hardening it and melting beneath his knee, soaking into his jeans. His eyes had struggled to acclimate to the darkness, but all he could see was the diffuse outline of the hot water heater and the furnace against the earthen wall beyond. His own breath moistened his chapped and stinging face as he fought with his weary eyelids, knowing that closing his eyes even long enough to blink could spell his demise.
            His heart pounded somewhere between his chest and the enormous lump in his throat, his trembling finger poised atop the trigger of the shotgun that rested atop his right thigh. His back pressed against the crumbling wall behind him, chunks of earth fragmenting into small cascades of sand and scraping down the surface of his jacket at sporadic intervals. His whole body trembled from the combination of the intense cold and the nearly crippling fear that raced up and down every inch of his skin, the goose bumps painfully erected along his flesh. And while he was uncertain which of the two factors caused the waves of shakes that seized hold of his body every few minutes, he knew that it helped to keep him attentive, helped to keep his focus on the nothingness upon which he gazed.
            Harry was in the corner of the room completely opposite his own position. He was sitting on the ground to the right of the hot water heater; his back wedged into the corner. He had to know that. He had to know exactly where Harry was as the last thing he wanted to do was to raise his gun to fire and end up blowing a hole in Harry’s chest. And Harry needed to know the same thing.
            Over the light whistle of the breeze through the seam of the window, he could hear Harry breathing, the cold rattling in his lungs from his hiding place in the darkness. And that sound was comforting, for he knew as long as he heard that he was not alone down there in that cellar. That was something that right now was worth its weight in gold as the smell of the rotting earth and the wisps of death that rolled through the darkness across the frozen floor seemed to sap the life from him. All he could do was sit there, trying to peel back the blackness with his eyes and listen to the barely audible wheeze from across the room: his only connection to life.
            Occasionally, the floorboards overhead would creak as though from the weight of unseen footsteps, but that would pass. Initially, they had both bolted up the staircase, which nearly crumbled each and every time beneath their weight. They would burst into the kitchen, the muzzles of their glistening weapons flashing in every direction as they sought to line up the final shot, but there had never been anything there. After the fourth trip to the top of the stairs, they had been forced to reckon with the fact that it was nothing more than the settling of the house. And that what sounded like footsteps was nothing more than the house itself as it continued on the long and somewhat eternal journey back into the earth from which it had sprung through the hands of man.
            Thump. Thump. Thump.
            There was the sound on the floor above. Scott flashed a glance across the room to where Harry crouched in the corner, hoping to see something comforting in his face that would allow him to rationalize the sound, to chase the fear that had crept into a ball at the base of his spine. But there was nothing, nothing but the darkness that encased Harry in the shadows. Biting at his lip, a trickle of blood spilled past his clenched teeth from the split in his chapped lips.
            And just as it had the previous four or five, maybe more as he had lost count, times, the footsteps faded into a hollow resonation above, dissipating into the sound of the breeze that trickled through the poorly sealed window.
            The house, it seemed, had come alive around them after they had settled into their positions, the walls around them seeming to pulsate with a life that was almost sentient, alternately feeling warm and then cold against his back. The air that slipped through the window sounded like the impeded breathing of a sick man, eerily reminiscent of a death rattle as they hid deep within the heart of the house.
            In addition to what sounded like footsteps above, they could hear the house swaying in the wind atop the crumbling foundation. The creaking and groaning had at one point gotten so loud that it sounded as though a tornado was passing over head, trying to rip the house free from the rusted bolts that held the walls to the cracking cement ring beneath. There were so many noises around them at times that he feared they wouldn’t even notice when Matt entered the room.
            He quickly forced that thought from his mind. While he was making a conscious effort to convert the name Matt to the bloodspawn in his own mind, he knew that was going to be impossible while he was still able to put a face to the name. There was still so much guilt surrounding what had happened so many years ago, so much pent up longing to make things right, that he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to dissociate the two. But when the time came, he knew, or at least he hoped that he knew, that he would be able to raise that gun and stare right down the muzzle over the sight at his former friend’s face and pull the trigger. Shucking back the shells over and over until he had released every ounce of the hot spray of steel pellets that the gun would offer. Deep down hoping to stand over the bloody, splattered remains and know that he had… what?
            Had what? Saved the lives of two hundred people? Maybe. But the real problem was that even if he killed Ma… the bloodspawn, he would never truly know if he had saved those lives. All he would know for sure was that he had saved his own. And would that be enough, even within his own mind, to justify murdering his best friend, even after having watched him tear apart several people, stealing their lives from them in the briefest of seconds.
            Only he would know the answer, and he knew that it would be the last thing he thought about at night, and, should he even be able to sleep, the first thing that entered his mind when he awoke.
            But that was a moot point for now; as first he needed to do nothing more than survive the night. Come what may after that, it was only academic if he never made it out of the tomb- like cellar.
            Thump. Thump.
            There were the noises on the ceiling again. Not that he had gotten used to them yet, but at least the muscles in his legs no longer tightened to the point of launching him to his feet. Trembling as he sat there, waiting for the footsteps to pass, he could hear his own heart beat within the confines of his head, echoing, as his trembling finger ran up and down the sloped trigger of the weapon.
            His chest shuddered with each quivering breath as he looked to the darkness for Harry, finding only the silence that cloaked them for a response. Slowly, the footsteps faded into that same silence, and he was able to hear Harry release a long breath that had been cooped up in his chest to grow stale.
            There was a scraping noise now, like small pebbles being dragged across the ground. It was muffled at first, but grew louder with each passing second until it sounded as though those pebbles were dragged into the very room.
            His left hand gripped the oiled pump of the shotgun so tightly that he could feel his bitterly cold, chapped knuckles split painfully as tiny globules of blood formed at the jagged seams. He could sense it all around him, taste it on his dry tongue and smell it in the cavities of his sinuses in his head. 
            They were no longer alone in the room.
            At first, he hadn’t heard it, but now, beneath the whistle of the raging wind through the crack around the window, he could definitely tell it was there. It was a rasping wheeze, not unlike that which had comforted him from across the room as it had passed Harry’s lips, but lighter, barely audible.
            Frantically, Scott tried to see anything that stood apart from the darkened room, but there was nothing at all.
            There was a click from the far corner of the room as Harry disengaged the safety on his shotgun, the pump rattling slightly against the steel tube.
            So Harry had heard it as well, or sensed it maybe, at least that verified what Scott thought he knew. Every muscle in his body tensed uncomfortably as he slowly slid up the face of the wall behind him, the crumbling wall giving way to a clattering avalanche of dirt that came to rest in the backs of his shoes.
            Slowly, he raised the shotgun so that he was staring straight down the barrel into the center of the room. Holding his breath, he waited, listening for any sound at all that would give away the location of the presence that was with them in the room.
            There was a loud boom, and the bright yellow flash from the muzzle of the shotgun straight across from him in the darkness, lighting the room like a single strobe. And in that brief fraction of a second, he had seen it: a shape darting across the room and then disappearing back into the suddenly more intense darkness that surrounded them.
            Without hesitation he fired his own weapon, the butt of the gun kicking into his shoulder as the flash of light momentarily blinded him. There was the loud metallic ping as the spray of pellets ripped through the hot water heater, peeling back the metallic cylinder and exposing the hollow tube within. But there was no other sound, no whimpering or screaming as he had expected, or at least hoped, to hear. Nothing but the almost painfully loud silence that swarmed his ear drums.
            With the suddenly heavy shotgun still poised against his shoulder, he stared into the darkness, as every muscle in his body began to tremble almost uncontrollably. There was a quiet click, and then another as Harry replaced the spent shell in the chamber with another that he had pulled from his jacket. Scott had forgotten to do the same, but with his body nearly convulsing through no choice of his own, he feared lowering his muzzle for even a second as that might prove to be just enough time for whatever was down there with them to tear his through clean out.
            He could still hear the breathing echoing lightly in the small cellar, a distinct third addition to their ensemble of hoarse rasping. But it was light as the breeze that swept across the floor, coming from all around them at once, making it so there was no hope of pinning down a location.
            There was another flash and a boom, followed quickly by another, and then another as Harry emptied the contents of his gun into the room. The pellets slammed into the wall to Scott’s left, tearing chunks of the crumbling earth from the wall, exploding them into a cloud of debris that littered the room. Dust swelled all about them, choking their lungs as the air found itself a texture.
            He had seen nothing in the flare from the muzzle that time, nothing but strobe images of the hot water heater he had opened like a can and the large metal box of the furnace. There had been no image streaking through the flash as there had been before.
            There was the clatter of shells falling atop one another as they landed on the floor, rolling across the ground as Harry frantically tried to grab at them. The loud sound of the pump being drawn back quickly echoed through the room as the shells clacked against one another in Harry’s hand as he forced them into the bottom of the gun as quickly as he possibly could.
            Scott advanced towards the center of the room, his shuffling feet barely inching across the dirt floor. His eyes fixed intently on the corner where Harry fumbled with the gun trying to load it more quickly than his frozen fingers could accommodate.
            A muffled gasp issued from that corner, then the choking sounds of a picked throat fighting to gain air. The gun clattered to the ground in the darkness, the muzzle striking first, before the heavy stock finally swung to the ground. With an ear-shattering boom, the gun discharged with the impact from the landing, the cloud of pellets singing past Scott’s ear before slamming into the wall behind him.
            His breaths coming more quickly in pants from his shuddering chest, Scott stepped with more authority through the room, intently fixed on the tip of the barrel as he crossed. Finally, in the midst of the wave of choking sounds, he lowered his barrel, knowing that if he fired the weapon into that corner he would shred Harry like the hot water heater.
            Lowering the gun to the ground, he allowed it to fall from his hands to the earth with a clatter. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he grabbed tightly onto the handle of the thick hunting blade. The jagged, tearing edge ripped a line through his jacket as he pulled it out and clenched it tightly in his hand.
            His breaths quickening with a fearful determination, Scott lowered his shoulder and threw his arms out to the sides and charged into the corner with as much speed and ferocity as he could muster. Slamming into something soft, he left his feet, pinning whatever he had run into against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of whoever it was he had hit.
            There was a loud gasp from beneath him as he floundered around, trying to get off of whatever he had ferociously tackled. The body below him slapped at him in a panic, trying to toss him from atop it. Landing on his back, Scott quickly leapt onto all fours, grabbing a hold of whatever he could on the flopping body.
            “Get off!” Harry choked out, fighting to fill his lungs with the dusty, dank air.
            Scott hopped back, whirling back towards the room as he could feel whatever else was in there with them was close. Laying both palms on the floor, he rapidly ran his hands in arcs across the frozen dirt, trying desperately to find the gun he had laid down. The hunting knife was pinned between his open palm and the dirt, scraping loudly across the rock- encrusted surface as he dragged it.
            And then he felt it.
            Something grazed the back of his hand, barely touching the skin but rifling through the hairs that stood on end. It was a cold touch, as though he had raked the back of his hand across a line of icicles. Allowing the knife to stay exactly where he knew that it would be on the floor, he turned over his hands and attempted to feel whatever it was that hung in the air above the ground.
            There were five distinct swellings at the base of whatever the object was. Five frozen, rounded digits, the tips of which were adorned with a sharp, hard coating, rested atop his open palm as his fingers traced the backs of what Scott knew instantly were the callused pads of the bottoms of toes.
            Still cradling the end of the foot in his right hand, he slowly reached with his left for the knife he had laid down only a moment prior, gripping it tightly in his clenched fist. With a loud groan, he raised the blade into the air, driving it straight through the top of the foot. Warm fluids spilled out into his cupped right palm, slipping through the gaps in his fingers, trickling in streams onto the dirt floor.
            His hand slipped from the handle of the awesome weapon as he tried to quickly pull it free in preparation of another rapid strike. The jagged edge had apparently locked onto the array of bones within the center of the foot, lodging itself there.
            There was no sign that he had inflicted even the slightest amount of pain as there wasn’t a howl or a cry, just the wave of blood that cascaded into his hand as the foot finally rose further into the air to where he could no longer feel it. Now, he had absolutely no idea where whatever he had stabbed had gone.
            Flopping back onto his belly, he pawed at the ground, searching violently for the shotgun that he knew had to be somewhere close by. His fumbling fingers traced the frozen earth, searching in vain for the weapon that suddenly felt as though it would never again rest against his shoulder.
            There was a sudden tug on the back of his jacket as he felt himself cleaved off of the floor. His dangling arms and legs flopped helplessly above the cold turf, what little he could grasp peeling back the tips of his fingernails and lodging itself deeply beneath the nail. Something resembling a growl pierced the silence from somewhere just above him as the sudden feeling of weightlessness overwhelmed his senses.
            He flew through the air for what felt like close to a minute before finally slamming shoulders first into the wall of the room, a shattered layer of dirt falling from the wall and into his hair. A bolt of pain rocketed through his shoulder blades as the back of his head snapped back, slamming into the wall before slumping forward atop his limp neck onto his chest. His legs lay flat on the floor, stretched out in front of him across the dirt. Fighting against his eyeballs as they wanted nothing more than to just roll back into his skull and embrace but the momentary darkness of the oblivion that beckoned from the unconscious, he pushed himself from the ground, sliding against the wall to his feet.
            His head lolling slightly on his neck, he peered through the darkness, flashing dots marring his vision, hoping to catch a glimpse of either Harry or whatever it was that had pounded him against the wall.
            There was the thunder of footsteps, racing up the wooden stairs towards the kitchen. Whirling, he caught but the briefest of glances of Harry’s darkened form as it raced diagonally up the wall. The door opened with a bang, slamming backwards into the wall as the footsteps were immediately above his head on the plywood floor.
            Trying to shake off his sluggishness, Scott lumbered towards the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing and using it as a crutch to pull himself up the stairs. The spider webs finally beginning to clear in his jumbled mind, Scott stared around the kitchen, looking for any sign of movement, but there was none.
            There was a sudden whistling sound in the air, like some large object knifing through the air towards him.
            The object slammed into Scott’s chest, knocking him clean off of his feet and into the air once more. He landed squarely on his back, the weight of the heavy object slamming down atop him, forcing the air from his lungs. A sharp pain issued through his back as he tumbled backwards down the stairs and into the cellar once again. His body flopped like a rag doll as he rolled down the stairs, finally slamming onto the small, square cement pad as the bottom, the heavy object again landing squarely on his chest.
            Rolling out from beneath the unmoving lump, Scott wallowed on the earth fighting for even the smallest gasp of air. His eyes rolled to be back of his head, his fingers bent into wicked claws at his sides as he raked at the dirt, clawing for just a single breath.
            Harry moaned from beside him from where he lay in a heap at the base of the stairs. There was no other sign of movement, but at least a moan meant that he was still alive.
            “So you came here to kill me,” a voice said from the darkness, echoing all around them in the small room.
            Finally, choking a gulp of air past his dry trachea, Scott rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to find the strength to stand.
            “I expected better from you, Scott.”
            Finally, stumbling to his feet, Scott looked frantically around the room for the origin of the voice. He knew, as he had recognized from the first syllable uttered, that it was Matt’s voice.
            “I thought that even after all of this time that there was still a connection between us, a bond that we’ve shared since long ago. But I guess I was wrong. I guess there’s nothing left for us to share but this brief moment.”
            A dim pinpoint of light appeared directly overhead in the center of the basement, the small ball swelling larger and larger until it finally took on the pear shaped form of the old light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The M- shaped tungsten filament snapped and popped as it glowed bright yellow, filling the dust coated globe.
            While it was barely enough light to see his swaggering shadow on the floor, it was more than enough to allow him to see the shadow of the enormous form that floated in the air nearly directly in front of him. Stabilizing himself, he fought with his aching chest, trying to summon a few words of rebuttal, but nothing would come.
            He watched as the immense outline of the form glided over the earthen floor beneath the light, finally coming to rest right in front of him. He could feel Matt’s warm, damp breath on his face, could nearly taste the carrion that festered between his yellowed teeth. Staring into the darkened face, he could see nothing but blackness. Clenching his fists at his side, he waited for his opportunity.
            “There’s something you need to know,” Matt whispered, his rasping voice still seeming to come from all around the room.
            Scott just stared blankly into the black pits where the eyes should have been.
            “Shane cried like a little girl before I snapped his neck, begging through the tears for his life.”
            His lips tightening against his teeth, Scott raised his right fist and swung, striking Matt right in the center of the face. And before he even knew what he was doing, his left followed, slamming just to the other side of where the last blow had landed. Then his right rose again and then his left. Again and again his swung, the soft tissue of Matt’s face feeling like nothing more than a side of beef as he hammered at it, the skin splitting wide as blood raced to the surface.
            “Stop it!” Matt cried in a voice that sounded as though it was ten years younger, like the voice of a teenager.
            Scott staggered backwards, allowing his tightened fists to fall to his side, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the ground. His mouth dropped as he stared towards the face once again; this time the shadows peeled back to allow him to view the bludgeoned face.
            It looked nothing like he had seen it look over the course of the last several days, the yellowed, decomposing flesh on the face appeared flush with color. The eyes, which had been little more than dried orbs, cracking and blistering had been replaced by softer, whiter eyes that seemed to glimmer beneath the dim light with a coating of tears. The cracked blue lips were now fuller, engorged with blood as they fleshed out. To either side of the bloodied, broken nose, blood ran in streams down the pink cheeks.
            His right ankle rolling as he stepped atop a rock, Matt fell to the ground, landing on his rear end. Still moving backward, he dragged himself across the dirt, his eyes unable to look away from the face that hovered above him. His back met with the wall as he still fought to drag himself further but to no avail.
            “Matt,” he gasped, the cloud of dust he had stirred clinging to his darkened lips.
            “Please, Scott,” he sputtered through the blood in his mouth, still in the voice of a child. “Please help me.”
            Scott just shook his head, unable to vocalize the sudden swarm of thoughts that raced through his barely comprehending brain.
            “Oh, God, please. You have to help me.”
            Slowly, Scott slid his back up the wall; both hands pressed to it as he shied away from the overwhelming image that hovered just a few feet away.
            “Don’t listen to it,” Harry whispered from across the room. He had just now been able to clamber from the floor to his knees. In the dim light, Scott could see that his forehead was covered with blood, matting his light gray hair. A thin stream of red ran straight down the bridge of his nose before rolling to the side and clinging to the edge of his split lip. He cradled his right arm against his chest, the bone protruding straight through his ruptured flesh. Wincing, he staggered to his feet, each pained breath bringing with it a wave of pain that rippled across his face as tears burst from his eyes.
            Scott whirled back to the apparition, staring intently into the face of the friend that he had known as well as he had known himself so many years ago, and for an instant, he was once again that same child as well.
            “Please help me, Scott,” Matt whimpered.
            “What can I do?” Matt choked through the tears that ran down his dirt- covered cheeks from his shimmering eyes.
            “Don’t listen!” Harry shouted. “That’s not Matt! That’s not your friend!”
            Matt’s young eyes locked tightly on his own as Scott felt himself step from the wall towards the cloaked figure.
            “Don’t do it!” Harry screamed from the other side of the room, but his words appeared to fall on deaf ears as, entranced, Scott took another step forward.
            “I never wanted this to happen,” he whispered, staring into the familiar eyes of his old friend. “All I wanted was for all of us to get along.”
            “But you abandoned me when I needed you the most,” Matt said, the corners of his lips bending into a snarl. His arms raised to either side, his fingers bending into claws.
            His face soaked with tears, Scott took another step forward, his face now less than a foot from Matt’s.
            “It’s all my fault,” Scott whispered as the tears clung in drops at the line of his chin.
            But as he watched, the light in the eyes that had been there but momentarily faded. Where there had briefly been life, there was now nothing more than the promise of death as the eyeballs faded back to the cracked, yellow marbles that had been there before. The formerly fleshed face reverted to the tautly stretched, dried face that resembled the mummified remains of an unearthed Egyptian.
            Feeling his jaw drop to his knees, Scott could do little more than watch as the clawed hands were raised even higher, peaking briefly before whistling through the air towards his head.
            “No!” Harry shouted as he lunged through the air, tackling Scott at his midsection like a blitzing linebacker.
            The two slammed to the ground, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. The jacket tore away from Scott’s shoulder as it was the first to land, bearing the brunt of the load. His head bounced off the ground twice as they slid before finally coming to rest.
            Matt roared from the center of the room as the house rattled atop its foundation.
            “Get up,” Harry sputtered through the blood that filled his mouth, clinging to his teeth.
            Grabbing Harry by the collar of the jacket, Scott clambered to his feet, stepping backwards into the dense shadows as he dragged Harry along the ground. Turning from the enraged apparition he yanked on Harry, trying frantically to pull him from harm’s way.
            “Do you think there’s any prayer for you!” Matt shouted in a voice no longer his own. It was demonic in its tone, resonating from every molecule in the room. It was a combination of what sounded like a thousand damned voices all crying out at once through the one mouth.
            The shadows sprung to life, the darkness twisting and writhing in pained ecstasy as it tugged at their flesh.
            The slick collar of Harry’s down jacket slipped from his hand, his head landing on the hard ground with a fierce crunching sound. Scott immediately bent over, trying to grasp onto anything with his hands, but before he was even close, Harry was gone.
            He slid across the ground towards the center of the room on the waves of shadows, his right ankle caught firmly in the tight grip of the bloodspawn.
            Scott was helpless but to watch as Harry was heaved feet first into the air, where he dangled in front of the black cloaked monster. Blood seeped from his open mouth, running along his upper lip and over the rim of his nose as his face reddened with the sudden rush of blood towards the gravitational pull. The look on his face betrayed the pain that he was in, but there was something in his eyes: a glimmering look of understanding that almost brought with it something of a smile.
            “No,” Scott whispered as he reached out desperately with both arms.
            Harry closed his eyes, a peaceful look of bliss trickling across his face.
            “No!” Scott shouted, lunging through the air towards Harry’s dangling body.
            A clawed fist burst right through Harry’s chest, sending a spray of fluid throughout the room. Bone and tissue littered the floor as a wave of crimson fluid poured from the hole that had been punched straight through his lungs and ribcage.
            Smiling, the bloodspawn grabbed hold of Harry’s spinal cord, ripping it straight out the back side and allowing the mere pile of spent flesh to slough from the bone, falling into a heap on the floor. He stood there, triumphantly holding the red length of clustered bone above his head into the air.
            Scott slammed into him, right in the hips, but before he even knew what was going on, he had been clubbed on the back of the head several times with the remnants of Harry’s shattered spinal column. Feeling the tight grip on the back of his jacket, he was suddenly hurled through the air. There was little more that he could do than just throw his arms out in front and prepare for the impact with the furnace that was coming directly at him.
            There was a loud boom and a metallic crunch as he slammed into the furnace, the sheet metal buckling against his momentum. Slamming to the ground, something heavy, with a sharp edge, fell atop his head from where it had rested in the dust atop the furnace, tearing a seam beneath the hair in the flesh on his head.
            Wincing in pain, Matt grabbed the object as it bounced to the ground, the bloodied edge still damp with his own viscous filling. He stared down at the red, rubber- coated handles, the blackened, dust- covered cutting blade of the garden shears dripping in red. Slipping his fingers into the prefabricated loops, he held it out in front of him as the bloodspawn floated above the ground straight towards him, its toes barely an inch from the ground.
            Scott’s fear widened eyes, stained by lightening- like red streaks, fixed on those of the bloodspawn, pinched tightly beneath the lowered brow as the face curled into a snarl. Swinging the clippers through the dank air, he succeeded in slicing through nothing but air, caught in his backswing by a hooked claw that grabbed him by the center of his chest, seizing hold of a handful of shirt and cleaving him into the air. Raising its bloody fist into the air, the curled fingers dripping with the dark blood from Harry’s core, it prepared to drive that same hand straight through Scott as well.
            There was a sudden shift of the thin breeze in the room, growing in ferocity as it swept from one side to the other, circling the center of the room as though on the verge of creating a cyclone. There was a whispering on the wind, quiet at first, but growing in intensity as it whistled across the breeze. It wasn’t a single voice, more like a combination of several that all spoke at the same time, not one standing out above the others.
            The bloodspawn turned frantically in the direction of the blowing wind, cocking its head so that its ear was directly in the path of the growing breeze. A look of confusion dripped down his face as his cracked lips mouthed words that Scott could no more decipher than the words that whispered through the cellar.
            Seeing his opportunity, Scott capitalized as the breeze had provided the distraction that he needed, opening the shears as wide as he could get them and clamping them down on the exposed wrist of the bloodspawn at the end of the hand that held him in the air. With all of the strength that he could summon, Scott squeezed his hand together, the sharp blades slicing straight through the dried, yellow skin that extended from the frayed edges of the decomposing shroud, crunching audibly into the brittle bone beneath.
            With a howl of pain, the bloodspawn dropped Scott to the ground before he was able to complete the cut. The hand dangled limply from the wrist, which pumped out blood in spurting arcs. The wrist was visibly bent; giving no support to the hand that twitched and fidgeted as nothing more than bone fragments and the few tendons that hadn’t been completely severed held it to the rest of the body.
            His lips peeled back from his yellowed, jagged teeth, his head snapping away from the wind so that he could stare directly through Scott as he scurried backwards along the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake. That intense, cold stare knifed right through him, chilling him to the very bone as he scrambled to his feet behind the furnace, trying to use the giant metal box as a shield between them.
            “I’m going to rip you in two!” the bloodspawn growled as he suddenly shot through the air at Scott with a speed and ferocity never before witnessed.
            Lunging backwards, Scott slammed into the wall behind him, banging his already stinging scalp against something hard projecting from the earthen wall. The bloodspawn ripped through the furnace with its bare hand, shredding the metal casing on the front as though it were nothing more than tissue paper.
            Taking his eyes from the bloodspawn only long enough to turn to face the wall, to see what had jabbed him in the back of the head, his heart began to race so quickly that everything else seemed to be in slow motion. Scanning the darkened wall, he caught the briefest of reflections from the powerful steel blade that was buried in the wall. The white, ivory handle was coated gray with dust. Without a single thought as to how or why there was a knife sticking out of the wall, Scott grabbed the handle. Squeezing it tightly in his right hand, he leaned a shoulder against the wall to use as leverage to pull the wide blade out of the wall that had apparently encased the blade for quite some time.
            He fell backwards as he finally pried the knife free from the wall, slamming into the furnace with a loud bang. Whirling, tears bursting from his eyes as the pain in his back blossomed from the tear in his flesh from the corner of the unit. Scanning the dimly lit room, he tried to find the bloodspawn, who had apparently just vanished.
            There was nothing there but the settling dust and the thin breeze as Scott stepped out from behind the furnace, his vision frantically tracing the room from one side to the next and then back again, but there was absolutely no one there. He stepped slowly towards the center of the room, the sound of his footsteps as the raked the sandy floor echoing throughout the hollow cellar. His pulse exploded through his body, beating so loud that he could hear it throbbing in his temples, could feel his heart in his chest, pounding so fiercely that he feared his ribcage may no longer contain it.
            His rapidly panting breath plumed in white clouds from his parched mouth, dissolving into the dust that hovered in the room like a thick fog, masking the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Reaching the center of the room, he stopped and spun in a circle, trying to see anything that resembled a human form hiding in the blackened corners.
            With a thin crackle, the light bulb that dangled nearly directly overhead slowly faded, the filament glowing orange momentarily before fading into the darkness that swelled from all sides.
            As his eyes had grown accustomed to the light, there was absolutely no way that he could see anything, other than the faint impression of the glowing filament that scarred his vision no matter where he looked. Holding the knife straight out in front of him, he tried to compensate with his other senses, listening as intently as he possibly could to the muffled sound of the breeze that filtered in from around the window, hoping to discern even the slightest sound from the dim whistling.
            Pressing forward, he inched across the floor, his right foot colliding with something lying on the floor. Kneeling, he kept his head facing forward in case any movement were to somehow catch his eye. With his left hand he felt at the floor, his fingertips running over the soft, fleshy surface of the object that had nearly sent him sprawling to the ground. As his fingers rifled through the dampened, sticky hair, he knew right away what he had encountered and leapt into the air to get to his feet. Panicking, he wiped the wetness from his hands on his jeans, trying hard to fight back the wave of nausea that gurgled from his stomach, the sudden smell of the disemboweled innards that coated the floor rising up, accosting his senses with its putrid stench.
            Cackling laughter filled the air all around him as he choked back his body’s inherent, automatic response.
            Cringing, he stood perfectly still, his frightened eyes flashing through the darkness praying for something, anything to stand out from the blackness.
            The laughter continued, mercilessly booming from everywhere at the same time until it seemed to surround him, closing in on him as he flashed the blade from side to side, trying desperately to slash through anything that may come close.
            “Don’t have the stomach for this, I see,” a deep voice said from the darkness that surrounded him.
            “Why are you doing this?” Scott whispered through the tears that poured down his cheeks.
            More laughter echoed through the room.
            The sound of raking gravel came from the side of the room just to his right. Whirling, he stared into the darkness trying to peel it back if only for a moment as he held the shaking blade out in front of him in his trembling hand.
            The light sound of falling sand landing on the ground was barely audible over the hum of the wind, but Scott could tell it was coming from the same direction. Focusing on nothing but that side of the room, he eased forward, the sound of the cascading sand trickling down the face of the wall still in his ears. Slowly the sound changed. The falling sand was still there, but it no longer bounced down the face of the wall, it just fell straight to the floor as the sound came closer to him, growing louder and louder in his ears until finally and without warning… it stopped.
            Scott stood there towards the middle of the room, his head cocked towards the wall where the sound had come from.
            He could feel someone in the room with him, could sense the heat from their body in the cold room. Opening his mouth, he tried to quiet his own breathing in an attempt to silence everything that he possibly could. Trying to calm the heavy rising and falling of his pounding heart in his chest, he breathed very slowly and deliberately, becoming in tune with each of the waves of shadows that rolled from the walls, swirling like the onset of a fog all around him.
            The knife quivered at the end of his outstretched arm, reflecting the small line of light that crept into the basement from the cracked seam of the window, flashing as he jerked the blade slightly from side to side.
            He could taste the decomposition on the bloodspawn’s breath on his lips, his tongue, could feel the warmth of the acrid breath on his bare flesh, but he couldn’t see it. Barely able to discern the outline of his own arm in front of him, he stood motionless, surrounded by nothing more than his own dry wheezing.
            There was a dull splat, like the sound of a drop of water that had been clinging to a faucet finally falling to the basin. He looked around, fighting with the darkness for even a fleeting glimpse. But there was nothing.
            Shivering, his knees began to knock, his arm growing weary from being held straight out. Inching closer to the wall, all of his senses in tune for even the slightest movement, or the softest of sounds.
            There was the splat again, somewhere close to him in the darkness.
            Creeping even closer to the wall, he held his breath, the sound of his own hammering heart pounding in his ears. He licked the dried dust from his parched, cracked lips, fighting back the tremors that crept up his spine.
            Something hit his face. It was warm and wet, and slowly running down his cheek. His mind churning with the onset of panic, his instincts took over, seizing hold of his body. He brought the knife clenched tightly in his right hand towards his body, wrapping his left hand over his right to solidify the grip. With as much force as his body could generate, he leapt into the air, slamming the tip of the blade upwards towards the ceiling.
            There was a sickening crunch as the blade met with soft resistance, a waterfall of the same warm fluid falling straight down on his head from above. Batting his eyes against the wave of blood, he held his breath and closed his mouth tightly so as not to inhale any of it.
            Landing back on the floor, he could feel an enormous weight on his arms, the blade still sticking within the limp form that he had pinned to the ceiling.
            His legs buckled beneath him as the weight bent his arms, landing squarely on the top of his head. Releasing the handle of the knife, he thrust his arms behind him in a futile attempt to catch himself as the weight of the body slammed down on him, crumpling him to the floor.
            Trying frantically to scramble out from beneath the squirming pile of bleeding flesh, his right hand caught on the ivory handle, latching on tightly. With his left, he followed suit, grabbing that knife so tightly that his fingers felt as though they might break from the pressure that they supplied, he yanked upwards, all of the muscles in his arms tensing uncontrollably. Grunting, he tugged, and tugged, ripping the tearing edge of the blade through the flesh, cracking through whatever bone dared to resist.
            There was a fluid filled gurgle from the cold lips of the face that was pinned atop him, right next to his ear as gushes of the warm fluid issued forth, splattering across the side of his face. Yet still he cranked that knife upwards, tearing through the all too frail humanity until one by one he could both feel and hear the thin ribs as they snapped. The soft tissue of the lung beneath tore to the tune of the breath whistling through the hole on the chest rather than from the lips that no longer drew life near his ear.
            With a crack, the knife met with the clavicle, knocking the blade out of his grasp as with a groan, the inside of the creature poured out all at once, covering the entirety of his clothing and spilling out across the floor.
            Gagging from the rotten stench of the innards that rested atop him, Scott flopped out from beneath the body and rolled across the floor, the dust and dirt clinging to the crimson fluid that soaked his skin and clothing. He lay there for a moment, exhausted, his heart beating so fast he feared it might rupture as he stared through the darkness at the outline of the form that lay strewn across the dirt. There was but the slightest of glimmers from the mummified eyes, the fluid seething across the floor more than eager to soak it up.
            No sound came from the body, not the slightest sound of air being dragged into the open chest. The fingers twitched to either side of the body, rattling momentarily against the ground before curling into the throes of rigor mortis.
            Crawling closer, his hands and knees thickening with the bloody mud atop the floor, he lowered his head, staring intently into the rapidly bluing face of the cooling corpse. The eyelids were fixed back beneath the sockets, the marbled eyeballs drying and splitting. The open mouth gurgled slightly from the settling of the organs.
            Closing his eyes, Scott rolled onto his back, exhaustion having taken its toll on his weary body. His breath slowed, his pounding heart returning to something resembling the more regular fearful thundering as he seemed to melt into the ground, the tension that had literally tied him in knots slowly seeping out from him tensed muscles.
            Scott opened his eyes and stared up at the blackened ceiling for a moment before rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up to his feet. Wiping his muddy hands of his wet jeans, he realized the futility and just shook them at his sides as he limped across the dirt floor towards the stairs. Hitting the landing, he grabbed onto the railing and prepared to pull himself up the rickety old stairs.
            The stairs wobbled beneath his weight as he advanced, creaking and groaning as he worked his way towards the kitchen. Pausing, he glanced back over his shoulder towards the dark lump that lay in the middle of the floor below, cloaked in the shadows.
            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, a tear creeping from the corner of his eye.
            Sniffing, he clambered into the kitchen and crossed the plywood floor towards the open front door. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor, which was still damp from the snow that had blown in from the storm. Crossing the threshold, he stepped out onto the porch and lumbered down the stairs to the lawn.
            He stopped and stared up into the night sky. The thick mass of clouds overhead had parted just enough to allow for the dim light of but a few stars to shine down from the night sky. The enormous flakes had dwindled to tiny balls of ice, slowing from the blizzard rage with which they had once fallen to a mere trickle of flakes.
            Lowering his head, he rounded the corner of the house towards where he had parked his car, his eyes catching on movement at the line of trees far across the open field of white straight ahead. Walking around the wide trunk of the dead maple, he stared towards the start of the forest as a shadowy form stood as but a silhouette against the darkened trees. His eyes fixed on the shadow as it just stood there, watching him in return. And then, with a flash of movement, the form was gone, replaced by the crashing sound as the underbrush was hammered beneath pounding feet.
              A large buck bounded from the wall of trees, prancing into the field for just a moment, its eyes reflecting the starlight with a golden glare. Its large rack cast a long shadow across the white snow, as it stopped, its eyes flashing one final time before streaking across the field and disappearing into a grove of pines.
            Nodding, Scott turned to the vehicle and slowly fished his keys out of his pocket. Turning them over and over in his hand, he stepped to the driver’s side of the vehicle and looked into his open palm for the key to the door. His flesh was stained deep red, dirt and dust crusting the fluid into a caked mess on his skin. Glancing down at his clothing, he debated for the briefest of moments whether he really wanted that on the seats of his car, but that logic seemed more than a bit silly to him as he popped the lock and hopped into the car. Bringing the engine roaring to life, he flipped on the headlights and stared at the yellow rays of light that flooded the field from the car.
            Slowly, he shoved the gear into drive and gripped the wheel, turning out into the field and heading back towards the road. Finding the groove in the road from his tracks from when they had driven here earlier in the night, he pressed the gas, gaining momentum as the car headed for the forest on route back to his house.
            A bleak look was etched into his pale face that was splotched with the quickly drying blood. His eyes fixed blankly on the road ahead as his dry lips slowly sealed shut. Unblinking, he watched the two lines from the tire tracks in the snow- covered road in the glow of the headlights. The only thought in his head was of grabbing a shovel so that he could come back and bury his friends.

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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved. 

PART FOURTEEN

 
SECTION 14
 
 
Epilogue
Saturday, November 19th
10 a.m.
 
 
            Scott stared out the second story window from the bedroom across the hallway from his own. He had converted it to an office long ago when he had first moved in, but rarely used it. Most of the time he spent working at home was at the drafting table he had set up in the living room as it felt far less confined beneath the vaulted ceiling and with the light from all of the windows all around. This room was more of a professional looking storage area.
            There was a small desk, the same one that he had used growing up with his parents, in the corner of the room. Atop it sat an outdated computer, which had been state of the art only a few years ago when he had upgraded, but since had fallen far behind the cutting edge. A printer, with a combined fax and copy function, rested on top of a small silver filing cabinet next to the desk, the drawers stuffed full of building contracts. The majority of the business paperwork was kept at his office downtown, but it had been quite some time since he frequented that locale. He did the majority of his dealings by phone as he had an accountant to deal with the finances and a great set of managerial assistants to deal with the day to day maintenance.
            Scott had brought the cordless phone up into the study with him as he was expecting a call. He had just tossed it onto the paper tray in front of the printer atop the small stack of faxes he had accrued over the last week but hadn’t yet bothered to look at.
            There was a tall oak bookcase in the corner, filled with old textbooks he had been unable to sell back at the end of his final term in college. At least five years of architectural digests lined the shelf beneath. There were all sorts of books he had saved from his youth, hard- bound tomes that his parents had read to him growing up, along with the four thick volumes of old yearbooks from high school, and the thinner ones from junior high. Aside from the sparse furniture, and the stacks of unopened boxes in the corner of the room, it was quite barren.
            Scott craned his neck so that he could see all the way towards the park. The real estate agency had set up the circus looking tents next to the large gazebo, a row of smoking grills burning in a line in front. People filled the street, clustering into small groups as they inhaled their hamburgers and hot dogs from paper plates. The snow had been cleared from the basketball court, the baskets only recently having been added, as groups of small children tried with all of their might to get the large balls even close to the net.
            The snow, which had been close to knee deep only a few days ago was now completely melted from the streets and sidewalk, with only glistening patches remaining on the lawns and the recently laid sod of the park. As far as Colorado weather went, that was the norm, snow one day completely out of the blue, and the next it was gone leaving but a small reminder of the ferocious storm that had brought it. And today, they had lucked out with the weather. The sun shined brightly from directly overhead as just a few white, fluffy clouds dotted the sky.
            Sparrows chirped madly as they foraged the bare spot in the lawn, plucking out seeds and then darting back into the masses of pines where they had been weathering the storm.
            It was the perfect day for the picnic. And while the heat was only in the high 50’s, he knew that he couldn’t have asked for anything more.
            All of the lots had been contracted, and even without hiring additional help, which during the winter months never proved to be very difficult anyway, they should have the entire neighborhood completed within six months. The bank was happy, the Realtors were extraordinarily happy, his new neighbors were happy, and given the circumstances that surrounded the last chaotic week of his life, Scott was contented with being all right.
            He had spent the entire night burying Harry and Matt, side by side, in the earthen floor of the house. It wasn’t as if he could have just shown up at the cemetery with two bodies asking for burial. There would have been far too many questions, most of them involving the police and questions that he couldn’t answer, at least not in a way that they would understand. The way he saw it, Matt’s life had ended in that house so many years prior, that it was only fitting that it be his final resting place, and Harry had devoted the majority of his life to fighting the evil that they had banished from within. He did feel badly about not giving Harry the proper burial that he deserved, but he knew, deep down, that Harry would approve.
            Laughter filled his ears, even through the closed window as more and more cars lined up, one behind the other along the curb near the park, as more families strolled down the street, pushing strollers, holding hands, on their way to the barbecue. From his vantage, it looked like there had to be close to a couple hundred people filling the street. It was a smashing success, and even from afar he could feel a genuine sense of community from the revelers.
            At some point, he was going to have to make an appearance over there himself; after all he had to get back into his normal, everyday life. What better way to do that than with a group of people who all at least liked him momentarily, as none of their walls had begun to crack, none of their foundations settling. And there was a certain young Realtor over there that he really looked forward to getting to know a little better.
            For the first time in what seemed far too long, a smile crossed his lips. With the guilt over what happened to Matt and Harry, he wondered if he would ever be able to smile again, but he had reached at state of equilibrium with it. He had never asked to be involved with that situation, but he knew that he handled it the best that he could. In his mind, that thing that stalked the woods wasn’t Matt, his friend had died more than a decade ago in that lake. And while he still wished that he could go back in time and somehow change the past, to actually free Matt from that sinking car, he knew that he couldn’t. Wherever he was now, Matt was surely better off.
            In the final moment of his life, Harry had looked at peace, and that was how Scott chose to remember him. While they had only known each other a matter of days, there had been something of a kinship that he knew he would always remember, and would honor Harry with that memory for as long as he lived. But now the time had come to move on. He had taken measures to provide himself with a semblance of closure, something that would allow him to just push the whole thing to the back of his mind and insert himself back into his normal, everyday life.
            The ringing phone startled him from his trance.
            Giving one final, almost sentimental glance out across the street towards the park, he turned from the window and walked around the desk, snatching the phone from where it rested on the printer. A few of the white pages fell from the tray onto the floor as he brought the phone to his ear.
            “Hello?”
            “Scott?”
            “Hey, Greg, how’s it going?”
            “I was just calling to let you know that everything is in place and we’re ready to level this sucker.”
            “Thanks a lot for taking care of this on such short notice.”
            “Just remember that you owe me. You know how much trouble I could get into for not running this through the City Planner’s office.”
            “Oh, yeah.”
            “Well, you had said that you wanted me to call you when everything was in place and ready to go, so…”
            “Thanks, man. When you think of how I can repay you, you just let me know.”
            “I think we’ll start with a couple of rounds for me and my boys.”
            “You got a deal. Just name the time and place.”
            “Did I say just a couple of rounds, what I really meant was the first twenty or so rounds.”
            “You’re pushing your luck now.”
            “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
            “Certainly not.”
            “Well, I guess I’d better prepare to do this thing. If you need anything else, I’m at my cell phone. Seems a shame to demolish this old beauty, but you’re the boss.”
            “Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it.”
            “No prob, man. Catch you later.”
            There was click as Scott held the phone out in his hand with a look of satisfaction on his face. Pressing the “Off” button on the phone, he dropped it onto the desk and sat down in the folding chair that had been pulled beneath the desk.
            The retirement home had jumped at his offer to buy the Cavenaugh house as apparently they were having some sort of financial troubles. He had offered far more than the house was worth, and had asked for very little of the land in the process. They had been all right with the fact that his sole intention was to demolish it as he claimed he wanted the land for a potential retirement home of his own. Moving fast, so as not to give any of the historical preservation societies time to formulate their actions, he had hired an old friend who he had worked with once before back when he had first entered the business to demolish it.
            Truthfully, the easiest option would have been to drag out a wrecking ball and just hammer it to the ground, but that would take more time and coordination. And time was something that he was short on. There was also a part of him that felt that house was better suited going out with a bang in a big ball of fire. That was the one thing that was going to help him put this whole thing behind him. And whether that house was the source of the evil or not, it was certainly a physical representation of it in his mind, and he knew that once that house was nothing more than a pile of rubble that he would be able to move on.
            Greg Danson, who worked in demolitions for a living had to be one of the nicest most well adjusted people he had ever met in his life. He was just like a little kid when he lined up those charges. A sparkle would come into his eye and he was once again a ten year- old kid shoving an M- 80 into an anthill.
            The only time he had been available had been a Saturday morning, which he generally never worked, but he had made an exception and called it a personal favor. But Scott knew that he just loved his job so much that he would look for any excuse to prolong his workweek. In fact, he hadn’t charged him the overtime rate, settling on half- rate with a favor to be named later. And any favor that he should require down the road would be well worth it.
            All Scott wanted right now was to see that house burned to the ground.
            Smiling once again, he could feel a swell of peace rising in his chest. As soon as this was over he would be able to move on.
            Bending from the chair, he grabbed the small stack of papers that had fallen from the tray on the printer. Sorting them so that they were all face up, he glanced down at the top one. It was from the People Network.
            His brow furrowing slightly, he began to peruse the pile looking for the cover letter. Snatching it from the middle of the pile, he moved it to the top and read it aloud.
            “Mr. Ramsey: Is this your idea of a joke? It doesn’t matter, I guess, since we’ve already billed your credit card.”
            Scott’s brow furrowed as he reread the cover letter, making absolutely no sense of it at all.
            Tossing it aside onto the desk, he grabbed the faxed transmission and began to read what appeared to be an adoption form.
            “Subject: baby boy,” he mumbled as he read. “City: Colorado Springs. State: Colorado.”
            He scanned past the information pertaining to the issuing agency as well as the preparer.
            “Father: Unknown. Mother: Unknown. Status: Orphaned. Description: Child was taken into custody as a ward of the state under extreme circumstances. Hair Color: Blonde. Eye Color: Hazel.”
            He paused.
            “But Matt’s eyes were light,” he mused, before reading the form once again. “Distinguishing Marks: Birth mark on the right forearm.”
He immediately glanced down at his exposed forearm, staring with intent scrutiny at the small scar from where he had once had the birthmark. His heart began to pound as he turned back to the paper.
            “Adoptive Parents: Dean and Susan Ramsey.”
            The stack of pages fell from his hand, fluttering to the floor, as his jaw dropped. Thousands of conflicting thoughts raced through his brain all at the same time as he struggled to come to grips with what he had read.
            “It can’t be,” he stammered.
            There was a creaking sound behind him as the door to the study slowly opened. A dark shadow moved across the floor as a darkened form appeared in the doorway against the light from the hall.
            “You have to accept it,” the deep, cracking voice said. “Embrace it… my son.”
            Scott whirled and stared at the shadowy form as it breezed into the room across the floor. A wild mane of matted hair was pressed beneath a dark hood, the face shielded in shadows as the figure approached. His arms were folded across his chest, his hands disappearing into the wide sleeves of the tattered shroud, which danced about him on an unseen breeze. Slowly, the figure stopped right in front of him, the bare, cracked and blistered feet floated inches above the ground.
            Slowly, the man raised his head as the light from the room crept beneath the hood.
            His eyes were yellowed and cracked, as though in one of the furthest states of decomposition. There were no retinas, no irises, just the faint swelling where they had once been. The skin was stretched tightly over his skull, all of the muscles and tendons protruding through the taut flesh. His lips were peeled back from his yellowed teeth that looked to be made of wood, his nose nothing but an almost skeletal looking triangle in the middle of his face. The neck bulged and swelled as he spoke, the tight skin constricting against his prominent Adam’s apple.
            “Now you understand,” he growled.
            Scott just shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.
            “Who… who are you?” he stammered, scooting the chair backward until he ran into the desk.
            “You already know.”
            “You’re the devil.”
            “In a way.”
            “What do you mean?”
            “I am one of many who have walked the earth since the dawn of time, since long before the conception of your religions. We have been relegated by what you would call your God to eternity on this rock until we have collected enough souls to finally end this life, to die, if you will. But we can not take them by our own hands, as we are powerless to do so. We can merely stand by and watch.
            “Once we have sent the required number of souls to our master we will finally turn to dust, and our days on this earth will be at an end. There are more of us than I can count, all of us competing for enough souls to release us from our infernal damnation. Wherever you find death, you will find one of us, standing in the shadows waiting to claim the souls of the departed.”
            “But what about the number two hundred. Where does that fit in?”
            “That is my trademark, if you will. I do not have the patience of the rest of these demons, to wait contentedly at the side of the road for a traffic accident, or to bide my time for a century waiting for a decent war. My dealings are of a higher profile. They attract attention. Having competition from an opposing force makes things… more entertaining.”
            “What about Matt?”
            “He gave his soul willingly for vengeance, and got just that.”
            “What do you want from me?”
            The figure just laughed, a loud booming recourse that filled the entire house.
            “I wanted to congratulate you.”
            “Congratulate me?”
            “On achieving your destiny.”
            Scott stared down into his lap as his stomach churned with each passing second looking at the abomination that stood before him. He feared what might happen if he were to look up.
            “What are you talking about?” he asked.
            “The two hundred souls you are bringing me.”
            “I don’t know how you could possibly think that I would ever do that!” Scott shouted, leaping to his feet and stare the demonic creation directly in the yellowed eyes. “How in the hell do you think that I could possibly…”
            He stumbled backwards, his legs feeling like wobbling noodles beneath his weight. Everything became fuzzy as he swayed from side to side in the midst of a dizzy spell. His mind fought to grasp what he already knew to be true as he finally fell to the ground.
            The monster’s loud, booming laughter echoed throughout the room, settling into Matt’s skull where it seemed to linger eternally.
            Breathing heavily, he hopped to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest as he dashed towards the window, slamming his forehead into the glass as he stared off at the group of people gathered for the barbecue.
            “Get out of there!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, unlatching the window and sliding the glass back to reveal the screen covering. “Get away from there!”
            But there was nothing but the sound of happiness and laughter from the frolicking group of party- goers.
            “You have to stop this!” Scott shouted, whirling and sprinting towards the devil, taking hold of a mass of the cloth that covered his chest in either hand and shaking it violently.
            The man just smiled, his graying gums spreading from his yellow teeth in a menacing grin.
            His eyes widening as a sense of panic set in, Scott whirled and grabbed the phone off of the desk. Bringing it to his face in his trembling hands, he pressed the “Caller ID” button and then the down arrow. The last number to call showed up in the middle of the screen and he immediately pressed dial, praying that it wasn’t too late to stop Greg.
            The phone rang once.
            Twice.
            Three times.
            The voice mail picked up after the fourth ring as Scott spiked the phone into the wall, breaking through the drywall with a cloud of powder.
            “Help!” he shouted, whirling around the room looking for anything at all that might be of some assistance.
            Snapping back to the creature, his teeth bared ferociously, he growled, “Stop this.”
            “I cannot do that,” the deep voice answered.
            “Fuck!” Scott shouted as he brushed past the monster and dashed into the hallway, hurdling the stairs into the entranceway. A chorus of laughter filled the house as he burst through the front door and out onto the lawn.
            The wet snow that still coated the lawn in patches seeped up between his bare toes as he raced across the wet grass, bounding over the curb and onto the street. Pebbles and grains of dirt dug into the pads on his feet, stinging as they pierced the flesh, but he had no time to even notice.
            A block away, he could see the herds of people milling in the street, oblivious to what was about to happen.
            “Get away from there!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he hopped over the curb on the other side of the street and onto the muddy mess of yard in front of the skeletal house covered with tarps.
            His feet sunk deeply into the mud that seethed between his toes as each step became labored, his balance tedious.
            “Get away from there!”
            There was a loud explosion that echoed down from the hills above. The ground rumbled beneath his feet as a cloud of smoke appeared above the trees that lined the foothills, against the blue colored Rockies.
            “No!” he shouted, as the ground seemed to drop out from beneath him.
              Falling to his face on the muddy ground, he scrambled forward, clawing at the thick mud in a futile effort to regain his feet. The ground still trembled, a loud groan filtering his way from the explosion.
            Scott was helpless to do more than watch as the street ahead split wide open, starting at the entrance to the development, heading straight down the middle of the street towards the park where the groups of people all stopped what they were doing to stare up at the cloud of smoke billowing from the distant trees. They swayed on their feet against the rumbling earth, some of them starting to run, others frozen in time as they felt the earth split open between their feet.
            The asphalt crumbled atop the fragmenting earth as the street fell into the old mine shafts. Bodies that had once been in the center of his view slipped beneath the earth amidst a chorus of screams.
            Smoke and dust filled the air above where the street had once been, blocking his view of the park, which had suddenly fallen silent. The shuddering ground subsided as Scott was finally able to push himself to his feet.
            Sprinting as fast as he possibly could, his heart hammering through his pained lungs, he raced to the edge of the sidewalk across from the park on the edge of the crumbled street. Falling to his hands and knees, he stared down into the canyon of broken asphalt at the mess of twisted and shattered bodies that littered the smoking ground.
            The spray from a snapped water main doused the whole area in a heavy rain, wetting down the clouds of dust as the brown droplets of water settled to the earth. Tears streamed from his eyes as he clenched them shut as tightly as he possibly could. There was a hollow ache right in the center of his being.
            Forcing his eyes open and fighting a wave of choking sobs that burst from his quivering lips, Scott climbed over the lip of the canyon in the road, lowering himself to the ground to begin to sort through the corpses to see if there were any left alive.
            A shadow crossed over him from above as he knelt by the first badly twisted body. He looked up just in time to see the big, brown eyes of the large stag beneath the heavily forked antlers atop its head. The eyes glimmered momentarily in the midday sun before the animal finally whirled and bounded off out of sight.
            Turning his attention back to the piles of rubble that he now sorted through, Scott wept as he searched for any sign of life.

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