Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty Four

Dalton and I stumbled out of the room, gasping for breath, the ghastly images of the desecrated coffin still haunting our thoughts. Our pursuer had raised the stakes, and we couldn't afford to delay.

The corridor provided a momentary refuge. Breathing heavily, I pressed against the corridor wall to regain composure. It felt like a lifeline, a narrow passage offering respite from the madness we had just witnessed. Time was slipping away, and more lives hung in the balance.

As we burst through the hallway door, it swung open violently, nearly tearing off its hinges. The room beyond plunged us into another macabre scenario. It was blacked out, enhancing the eerie atmosphere. Three ghostly women, frozen in their late twenties fifteen years ago, floated before us. Their faces were a gruesome sight—deformed, swollen, missing half their jaws.

The focal point was a dirty coffin on a table, emitting a thick, musky, rotten stench. Freshly robbed from the ground, the coffin was caked in sludgy, clay-like mud. Fluids of varying colours dripped onto clear plastic sheeting, the original mahogany now obscured. Violating someone's last resting place struck a chord—proof of the depths of our pursuer would sink. It had been between ten and twenty years since the coffin's occupant was committed to the ground. Dalton's face turned a shade of stale milk, the realisation hitting that the coffin might be connected to one of us, perhaps our birth parents.

"Is this for real? Never in my life have I experienced games like this." Dalton's recovery was slow, the grotesque scene testing his resolve.

"We don't have long, as creepy and downright disgusting as this is. I think the number will be—" Dalton's jaw dropped, the weight of the situation sinking in.

'Glad to see you've made it; it's quick; you could say it's visiting a loved one—only not one of yours. No, this is far more personal, opening some old wounds but a necessary evil. You're calling me a sick fuck or a sadistic bastard; I'm just a man that's shedding light on a tragic past. The kind that's involved cover-ups and lies. Too many have got on with life without a care in the world. You're about to see a hint of what got left behind. The collateral damage was caused by people who thought they could play God. Creating a pet, they could train as a weapon. Instead, all that happened was a trail of devastation, and that pet became a dirty secret blending with the real world. Now, I will burn it all down until everyone understands what it's like to lose it all. While bringing the ugly truth into the light,' -

'-Your task is to open that earthly bed and retrieve a captured memory. Within that, you will find the digits you seek. Then, it will be a sprint to the finish. I suggest you remember those numbers, assuming you make it. TikTok.'

Time was of the essence. The nauseating stench filled the room, urging us to move closer. Gripping the slimy brass side handle, I felt a dampness that made my palm slip. Dalton stood by, watching as the creaking wood revealed the toll of time on the casket.

With a forceful shove, the lid opened, unleashing a harmful wave that hit my face like a brick wall. I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed by disgust. Bitterness filled my mouth, and every instinct urged me to turn away. Fighting against the repulsion, I pulled myself up, confronting a scene from a horror movie.

A dark, charred skeleton lay within, the head separated from the body, resting on a dirty white pillow. The jagged edges across the gristle of the throat were visible. Counting the wiry strands of stray hairs still clinging to the scalp, there were eleven. An out-of-body experience gripped me. It was an adult male in his late thirties or early forties when he died, but the question lingered—who?

Between the skeletal hands, an A5-sized picture in a wooden frame caught my attention. I yanked it free; the sound echoed in the room. The face was obscured, and the picture was old. Flipping it over, the faded brown back revealed blue-inked writing: 'To Dad, love you always, Ethan, ten years.'

Pieces started falling into place. The puppeteer's name could be Ethan, and this was his father. The grotesque game was a means to drag us through a tragic past, exposing the collateral damage of cover-ups and lies.

"Dalton, Skip's story in the basement—the one with 'heads on the floor, bodies positioned in a circle.'"

"Yeah, why?"

"I think this is one body. It looks old enough. We're being toyed with by a family survivor."

"For real? Shit. We need to get out of here before it's too late. I have a bad feeling."

With '17021962 and 10' in hand, we slammed the lid shut, and a sprint ensued. Fifty-two seconds remained, and the temperature approached with combustion, the phosphorus threatening to ignite. A single-minded thought propelled me—to reach the VAT.

I moved downstairs with newfound strength and speed, leaving Dalton behind. Adrenaline surged, propelling me forward. The room was hot, steam drifting through the air. Our victim hung inches from doom, thrashing like a fish out of water. The right side of the VAT beckoned, a boiling barrier separating me from the metal surface. The black digital display flashed 'Enter Code two.'.

'TikTok Georgie, you didn't think this was a solo task, did you? Why do you think I allowed you to save a companion first? Dear Georgie, you've been behind several moves and always will be. The codes must be inputted together.'

Dalton reached the bottom, tired and leggy. Sixteen seconds remained, and we teetered on the edge of failure. Clops from Dalton's expensive shoes thundered across the floor, nearly crashing into the metal siding. Drool trailed from his bottom lip as he rushed.

'10, 9, 8...' A countdown voice roars out, different from what we'd heard.

"Quick, Dalton, on your keypad, try 17021."

'7, 6, 5...'

"I'm doing 96210," digits thumping, the tension unbearable.

'4, 3, 2, 1. Beep, beep, beep.'

Slumping to the floor, too scared to look, I remained numb. The puppeteer's identity was still elusive. 'Bang, bang, bang.'

A loud thumping on metal broke the self-pitying silence. Dalton and I looked up; the second victim stood on the VAT lid, stamping impatiently. The countdown reached zero; I was shot, and everything went black.

Climbing the ladder, I guessed the victim's identity by size—Skip. Feet on the lid crack, the sack came apart easily. Gaffer tape braced his ankles; he seemed drugged, gagged, and unsteady.

'Wow, wow, wow. Isn't this exciting, Georgie? Are you having fun yet? Your unique skills came in handy. Now, you can have a mother's meeting and see if there's any way of catching up. How many have you seen? I knew at least three died in that last room.'