Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Ninteen

'Broken Home,'

Outside my place, twenty-five Dilston Grove in Bermondsey, the porch lights spilt eerie shadows on the left sidewall—large enough to be an adult. I've always kept my work-life separate in this quiet neighbourhood where everyone minds their own business. But now, it seemed the division was about to crumble, and I didn't want trouble knocking on my front door.

The porch light cast its glow, revealing the absence of anyone waiting outside. Yet, an unsettling calm hung in the air, disrupting the rhythm of my restless heart. Mathew, by my side, seemed unaffected, cool as a cucumber. He hovered near my back, the gun in his left hand pressing into me, a reminder of the danger lurking.

As we approached the door, I scanned for the usual signs of trouble—a black sedan, a dark blue vehicle, or perhaps a white one, all common choices for those looking to make a quick getaway. But there was nothing. A beige Ford Escort next door and a green racing MG down the street; everything appeared ordinary. That lack of menace troubled me. Was it a setup, a deliberate ploy to gauge my reactions?

Mathew's heavy footsteps echoed a few paces behind me, the muzzle of the gun grazing my spine. The past forty-eight hours had raised the stakes, demanding heightened vigilance. This threat, however, blindsided me. I was too focused on what might be behind me, neglecting the danger looming ahead. I never thought someone like Mathew would so easily fool Hannah.

The night serenade of a nearby robin or nightingale added an eerie backdrop. A brisk breeze brushed past my face as I stepped onto the slightly uneven doorstep. Alexandra had insisted on relaying it a few weeks back, cautioning about tripping hazards. A supposedly quick job turned into an eternity of labour. Now, as the light fractured across the grey stone slabs, it looked nice, but the peace was deceptive.

The door stood ajar, freezing me in place—knots twisted in my stomach, signalling that things had gone south. A flashback to a domestic call from last week flashed in my mind—a battered woman on the floor, the aftermath of a violent departure. I knew an open door meant trouble.

Words drifted over my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. "You sure you want to do it?" Mathew's voice, indifferent and chilling, cut through the silence.

"Why? You're going to kill me anyway, so I might as well see," I retort, defiance fuelled by a mix of fear and despair.

"I don't give a toss either way."

"Well, I want to know first; I have to."

"It's your funeral."

Trusting my instincts wasn't easy, emotions blurring my senses. Fear gripped me, intensifying as we approached the door. Closing my eyes, I strained to hear my pounding heart. Slowly, I noticed the absence of frantic heartbeats, desperate pleas, or heaving breaths. It stole my breath away.

Inhaling deeply, I took in the cold smog and damp grass scent. Another smell lingered—a sickening, overwhelming stench of blood. Tears welled up, falling like rain. The door swung open with a nerve-wracking creak, louder and more ominous than ever. Behind it, a wall of stench hit me, potent and horrifying. Fear tightened its grip; no adversaries rushed to greet us, only silence and dread.

The door fully opened, confirming my fears. I stood frozen, unwilling to move, unwilling to face the bubbling mess of emotions in my gut. A crime scene unfolded in the lounge diner, illuminated by the blood-covered, skinless body of a woman—my wife. The gruesome sight, the textures of white, pink, and red, dripped stomach-churning fluids. They hadn't just killed her; they had savagely mutilated her, peeling away her humanity.

As my world shattered, a peculiar feeling crept in. The blood stirred something inside me, a slow burn of rage. I couldn't hold it back. Edging forward, I confronted the scene, the smell of blood growing stronger. The lounge was a canvas of horror, every inch splattered with crimson.

Then it hit me—where was Rosalind, my daughter? Wiping tears, I frantically searched, hoping she hadn't suffered the same fate. Another detail emerged—a message painted in red above the plush purple sofa: 'The Devil's Circle.'

"Don't forget this," a click, a gun against my head. The metal grooves scraped over my skull, a prelude to the impending horror.

"You don't have to do this. Isn't all of this enough? Isn't my family enough?" I plead, gasping between sobs. Everything good in my life had been ripped away.

"It has to happen."

"Please, I'm begging you."

"Too late."

I closed my eyes, bracing for the end. Silence lingered, and relief and sadness flooded in when I dared to open my eyes. Mathew lay dead, his throat ripped by 'old red eyes.' No one else was in sight, the gun lying two feet away. A void consumed me; my gaze shifted, and the horror sank in. My wife was dead, but Rosalind—where was she?

Running through the house, calling her name, I heard nothing—no cries for help, no other heartbeat. A glimmer of hope emerged—no other dead body. I flipped the note, steeling myself for its cruel message.

'We trade you—boy for your daughter. He will die soon enough, anyway. Don't come looking. Don't interfere. Or more will die, and it will all come back to you. We will watch.'

Hope battled despair as Ifaced the grim reality. Rosalind was alive, at least for now. My house was abloodbath, and I'd look guilty. I needed help praying to see my daughteragain.