Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty Seven

Dwelling on the symbols, what normal family carves a message on the staircase? Then again, life isn't normal. I could feel the house breathe, and it sounded fragile, the wind whistling through, causing it to yawn. I decided on upstairs first, carefully keeping my footing to the edges with the most support. Every timber squeal made me feel I could crash through while imagining I was walking the steps in my nightmare. It was damp, smelly, and burnt, but there were still some. Without the carpet, I wouldn't have.

My hand brushed across the smoked walls as I walked, fingertips feeling the thick, gritty dirt and torching left to rot for years. There was so much sadness and fear trapped within its frailty. I could sense it. I could feel it. In the first picture, up close, was a dark frame. The colour before, I couldn't tell. The heat had broken the glass, and flames had bubbled the photo paper. Black blisters had destroyed the faces, but there were four shapes, two adults and two children—one younger than the other. Going by the sizes, there is a difference of only two years. It made me think back; I couldn't remember being in any family photos while in foster, even as an adult. I hated my picture. But I have no lovingly captured moments as a child with parents. I'd planned to change all that when our baby was born. I wanted to be the father that I couldn't remember having.

A few spaced a couple of feet apart as I climbed the steps. I am still trying to figure out what I was hoping to achieve; my goals would've been different if the house had survived and I'd found someone living here. I was trying to save a wasted journey, hoping to unlock some deeply entrenched memories as a toddler. Based on a morbid story, one that I had yet to decide if I believed or not. I mean, what does a child remember, anyway?

The place was wreaked of burnt matchsticks. A million of them all lit at once. Reaching the landing, it was worse than the downstairs. So much worse. I couldn't even figure out where the point of origin would be, other than it was somewhere upstairs. To start, it didn't appear to be a quick hit-and-run. No, this had the makings of a coverup, ensuring the fire reached the right places to burn everything in its path. There was another smell coming through, though—an accelerant—petrol or similar.

Someone walked over to my grave. A chill grated down my back, soaking in the devastation with every step I took. Something bad happened here, for sure. Long after, they kidnapped the boy. But why? The pictures show another child; maybe those people returned and left no witnesses. There were four rooms: one to my right, one halfway down the hallway, one opposite and another at the end.

I was drawn to the one halfway down, a pull to see. It was a child's room, not fitting the older of the two. It had been fire-damaged, but the door had been closed enough to keep most of the fire out until it was extinguished. A lot was intact and neat looking. A shrine that the family didn't want to disturb, hoping one day they would get the child back, the same way Skip had hoped for his little girl. I say 'they' and 'the child' out of a subconscious reaction that will continue until I get definitive proof.

Moving on, looking at the room, my emotions were stirring, yet as I went to walk forward, I noticed more carved symbols around the frame. Remembering the one downstairs, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Chris. Let him translate. He wasn't there, but the words popped into my head.

'See-through different eyes,'

It made me think of the red glow—a deep breath like I did at the front door. My heart sped up; my stomach knotted. Then it came—the blood-red haze. At first, a veil was over my eyes, but I knew I needed to be different, to stop fighting and embrace it. That would be the only way to use it to my advantage. I needed to know more.

The glow became a much lighter red, almost normal, yet different. I saw things differently. The symbols glowed a bright berry red mixed with green, as did the wooden frames. The threshold seemed different, too, and was made from other materials. I ran my hand over the edge; it felt solid; the closer my head drifted, I picked up a scent from the wood, not the burnt coating—a rotten berry-like tinge, almost stale fruit. I've not known wood to smell that way, let alone glow.