Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twelve

'Officer Morris 1962'

The claws had reluctantly receded, leaving a residual sting in their wake. Simultaneously, the gut-wrenching contortions of bone and muscle pain gradually lessened. If only I possessed the knowledge to command the enigma within me—referred to as 'It.' There was an undeniable sensation of something growing inside me, a relentless force attempting to assert control, an aberration of nature. Whatever 'It' was, it loomed ominously.

I grappled with a primal, animalistic rage—an unsettling force seeking release. It went beyond the common thread of aggression in all of us; another consciousness or aspect of myself sought liberation. A mere whiff of blood triggered an overwhelming response, inundating my mouth and plunging me into levels of fear previously unimaginable. How much longer could I stave off this impending takeover? I didn't know.

A disturbing realisation crept in—the unsettling feeling that time was running out before everything that defined me would be consumed and overridden. The rational facet of my mind became a passive observer. For the moment, I maintained control, navigating the stairwell with trepidation, every sound amplifying, causing my hackles to rise. The doctor's observation proved correct; my limp attested to muscle damage despite my attempts to conceal it.

Persistently, echoes reverberated, unnerving and grating. I pondered the notion that my pursuer could adopt any guise. A fanciful thought crossed my mind, accompanying the attempt to fathom the transformation of a charred child into a healed form or the inexplicable disappearance of fifteen stitches from my leg. How could I explain these anomalies to my sceptical colleagues? These puzzles paled to the mental scars imprinted by the night before.

The haunting images persisted, refusing to fade—the horrifying eyes leering at me. Even the reflection in a window made me startle. Frightened, bereft of clothes or support, shadowed by the unexplainable, I glanced over my shoulder, finding nothing but an empty void. How had circumstances deteriorated to this extent? The absence of officers on watch confounded me, particularly after my stint in far less threatening scenarios during guard duty.

The revelation of the healed child, concealed by a sheet, astonished me. The duty officer's indifference violated protocols, leaving me to question the integrity of the entire police station. If they were compromised, I faced dire consequences. With no official recourse and unwilling to endanger my family, I found myself alone and vulnerable, compelled to protect the child. As I approached the children's ward, anxiety twisted my stomach, fearing the red eyes lying in wait.

Hesitating at the door, I focused on the other side, filtering through the ambient noise for signs of danger. A wave of relief swept over me as I discerned only the melancholic beeping of machines. Seizing the opportunity, I adopted the role of a doctor—albeit a counterfeit one—unfamiliar with the hospital layout.

A stethoscope on a nearby trolley became an accessory to my ruse, seamlessly hanging around my neck. The deception felt oddly natural as I scanned the rooms, each marked with a patient's name on a whiteboard. The mystery deepened as I contemplated the burnt bodies, the charred child in chains, and the peculiarities of the fire's origin. Something was amiss, a puzzle piece eluding me.

The sterile path remained eerily calm, perhaps too much so. Was I unwittingly walking into a trap? If I were in Baldy Locks' shoes, this would be one of the first places I'd investigate. The absence of people around, perhaps deterred by the pungent odour of TCP, heightened my suspicions. Memories of my mother's hygiene obsession and emotions stirred by each room intensified my internal turmoil.

The scent changed dramatically as I neared the end, becoming overpoweringly strong. My nostrils flared, and the drool in my mouth sought escape through the cracks in my lips. Pain returned with every step, accompanied by a loud clicking sound echoing through the walls. My hands hovered on the brink of eruption, and an impulse to scream overwhelmed me.

Dark black-grey claws emerged painfully, blood streaming to the floor. My body ignited, fears materialising, and control slipped away. The intoxicating aroma of blood signalled death, compelling me forward. The sweet iron scent swirled through the air, awakening a ravenous hunger. It took little to spark my lust—an intense desire to feel crimson juices coating the claws, to shred through flesh as the rage boiled over. Conflicted thoughts warred within me; the police officer in me sickened, yet enduring, through these disturbing inclinations.

My bones crunched and contorted, a beacon pulsating with allure emanating from the last room on the right. Standing in the doorway, I witnessed a sprawling pool of blood, a headless body in a white coat at its centre—a doctor. As I looked up, everything ceased abruptly. Pain, hunger, and rage vanished instantly, leaving only the claws and throbbing muscles. My gaze fixed on the window, and dread surged within me.

The menacing figure from the previous night, with blood-curdling eyes, held a decapitated head—a gruesome trophy. Flayed skin fluttered in the breeze, and red juices cascaded down. I recognised the face—the shiny dome of Doctor Baldy's locks. The devil in disguise had eliminated one problem but replaced it with another. How could I explain this? I couldn't fathom a response, and with blood inching toward my toes, my mind went blank. The figure before me seemed indifferent to the impending discovery of the doctor or a routine check on the boy. All I knew was that being around those red eyes had caused the pain to recede, the claws retreating to the sound of curdling jelly.