Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty Seven

They were the devil and angel on my shoulders, one saying go for it, the other telling me it's not worth it. I was in the middle, questioning how it had come to this. Was my Helen alive? What did I see in her coffin? He had to be playing with my emotions to put me off guard. There's no way someone comes back from the dead. That's what I would've been saying had I not survived or heard Matthew was alive, at least according to his passport.

Our way in was a ten-by-five-foot concealed entrance with a hidden entry system. The display turned green; the code worked, and a panel sprung forward. My hackles jumped, a sixth sense feeling; what's behind that panel is far more off than we can imagine. It felt like death, different and a lot.

"We have to." I moved forward, pulling the panel open. Cut off from the world, how the place in Surrey was. There used to be grass where I stood. The space in front of the house had died. I see another ghost, a young bloke in his mid-twenties with short-cropped hair and clothing resembling a sixties disco, drifting back and forth over the brown grass. He seemed troubled; I could hear his whispered voice, heightened anxiety, repeating the same phrase.

'I need to tell someone; this isn't right; this place is bad,' Dalton caught me staring into space, knowing better than to think it was nothing. He moved to my side, placing a firm, reassuring hand on my shoulder. How Skip sometimes does before the nightmare starts.

"What have you seen, matey?" he spoke quietly, hesitancy trailing at the end. I could understand why; we all knew we were on hiding to nothing.

"Depends. Is seeing another ghost okay?"

"Another?"

"Afraid so. If you only knew what I saw at the other place."

"Should've guessed that was the case; saw that blank expression a few times." Chalking it up to another blip along our journey. Ignoring the ghost, moving closer to the looming broken home, decayed foliage bordered the dirty White House, burnt-out low window to the left, glass blown out with boards inside.

Musty dampness whipped past my face, haunting a place I wouldn't want to be in at night. Skip nudged beside me, looking over my shoulder to the right. I saw a dirty, dark wooden hatch with weeds wrapping around the edges. His face had turned Casper, flitting between it and the house; up ahead is a crumbling black door atop five steps. Skip was fixed on the wooden hatch; I wasn't ready yet.

Sometimes, the simple route is the best. That hatch no doubt led to nowhere nice and can wait. I was busy eyeballing the round brass door handle. Swinging helplessly from it was another recorder, undoubtedly another of the 'Ac-DC used electronics' accessories.

'Home sweet home, for some at least.' Another loudspeaker, the voice was coming from my low left; all I saw were rotting bushes, weeds, and a bundle of rubbish. Breathing in, I soaked up the earlier stench, shuffling sideways, learning from past mistakes like the puppeteer said he had. Understanding that nothing is ever as it seems.

At least three days old, there's another smell surrounded by buzzing flies, scrounging to whet their appetite. Decomposing flesh is what I've found; it's buried beneath the inconspicuous bundle—the unbearable stench of another dead body being carried on the autumn breeze.

Dalton found the recorder, clumsily ascending the few steps to retrieve it. Whether I liked it or not, my body moved towards it and played back the opening message. I look at him and wonder where this ranks in his tenure, especially considering his affiliation to the 'devil's circle. ' Did I have his full support, or did he run to them as soon as we were done? I want to think he wouldn't, but as the minutes tick by, there's a feeling in my waters there'll be another twist, and we won't see it coming.