Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty Three

My fingers traced across every ornate groove and bump of the lid; it was so old, a dark grey, made of a material like metal and another unknown substance that resembled bone. The mixture of symbols around the edge-raised embossing gave the impression that they served a purpose; I'm yet to find out what that is.

Hooked, like in the diner, I was looking at the moon, sun, and a dog shape that I'm sure was a wolf, but the person and other symbols I still didn't understand. It was vaguely resembling Latin. The blood-red half-moon shape jewel in a circular blackish band sucked me in. With the moon skimming its surface, it glistened, producing a mesmerising glow that locked my gaze at the diner.

This time around, there was no shadowed beast, but the pull was undeniable. Unique yet strangely familiar, giving me a sense of belonging, resting on its four clawed paws. The decorated symbols on the sides were similar—a few could pass as English. Fiddling, some parts felt loose. They did more; I could push them down. Row by row, I worked my way through, five lines down on all four sides. Grabbing the notepad from my pocket, I jotted down each symbol letter I could press down. Time wasn't on my side, hearing my name in the distance and not out of fondness.

Oh, I was regretting my curiosity now. Being out in the open had me vulnerable and on edge. Glancing around, making sure no one was nearby—no one was watching. The blue light carnival is still in full swing. I could no longer hear Skip's voice or Warren Whitlock; I heard something else. They were circulating my description and details as a person of interest. Then came the registration number. Dropping my pen, I'd pushed my luck far enough. I was too close not to catch a wandering eye if anyone looked this way. Nine. That's how many I have found so far. One looked like a reversed 'E', a crooked 'T and A' keeping my lights off; I rolled backwards with the minimum of revs, trying not to alert.

Ever so slowly across the damp road. Gravel crackling beneath rubber, I wheeled forward, lights off still and nervously looking in my rearview. I watched the crowd fade into the distance and further down the embankment. So much is going through my mind; where could I go? If they've been to my flat, someone will watch for real this time. Skip's house would be one of the first places they'd look. My options were limited. Scotland was looking increasingly likely to be my way forward. All I had were the clothes on my back, spares in the boot, my wallet, and a freaky box.

'So, what's the next move, Georgina?'

A Velcro chill cuts across my shoulders as a haunting whisper breeze behind me. A tentative glance in the mirror causes a shudder. That's all I needed driving from a dead body in the night's black. It was Chris; he looked like shit, the same as my nightmare. Decaying flesh oozing blood from his eye sockets. Chris's jaw swung loose the way it had at the crime scene. This time, he was less menacing and more death-warmed up. Ironic as it was, he was... Well... Dead. I shook my head, not wanting to embrace the elephant in the car. Thinking of the logical next move was where my mind should've been. Instead, I had the insane urge to respond.

"What do you want? You're not real, a figment of my imagination. Right?" I hope I wasn't going crazy, but he would disappear. 'Even if I was a figment, would that make me less real? I need you, Georgina, to help me find peace.' It was my turn to be left, with my jaw hanging open. How could I help someone no one else could see, let alone find peace? I couldn't even handle what was going on with me. Every time I attempt to get on track, something else happens, like a dead body.

"How do you know that? How do I do that? I've been trying; all I find is more trouble,"

'Denial. That's what you're in, denying seeing me so you don't feel insane. It's not like you didn't see the dead as a kid or draw them?' How did he know that happened? I've only just been hit with the revelations. Is Helen a ghost or a memory?