Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty Eight

There was no light I could feel. One hand scraped across the flaking wall while the other clutched the wooden bannister, mulling over my nightmares. Each creaking yawn of timber played out like a haunting symphony before I discovered Chris.

But hey, I wasn't barefooted this time, and I had company. My ears honed in on the whistling wind, straining to catch heartbeats, hoping for sounds beyond ours. Skip and Dalton were on a roll, but someone was down there, and their heartbeat was faint.

Dalton sparked a lighter; the little yellow flame danced as we moved, illuminating strange symbols—Latin, just like in the box in my car. I couldn't see much on the descent, but I knew we were getting closer to the bottom. The smell was getting stronger.

Call it nerves, flight or fight, a sense of impending doom. Whatever you want to call it, I was hit with a giddy feeling that turned my legs to jelly. I hoped they wouldn't escape from under me as we hit the stone, dusty floor. Like in my dream, my feet kicked through the dirt, sending a shower through the air.

"Oh my God, that's freaking vile. Can you smell that? Butcher's meat gone rotten," Dalton croaked out between retches, sickly saliva dribbling down his chin.

"Welcome to hell."

"What, Skip?"

"That Latin as we came down, it's a welcome to blooming hell."

All I could see was a looming, flickering silhouette cast by the lighter. The space felt larger than I imagined. I stood in the same spot, spinning around in a daze, letting the smouldering circle my lungs until the goose pimple chill from my nightmare came true—a speaker. Heavy iron chains pounded against the concrete, sending a metallic clang rippling through the air. Once... Twice... Three times... It was the ghost of my Christmas past.

'How does it feel, Georgie? Is anything coming back to you yet? I can always shed some light on you. Let you revel in the horror before the fun begins,' the puppeteer echoed around us, adding to my trepidation.

I stepped back, reaching for the bannister; burnt blood swirled through my lungs, and drool pooled around my gums, feeling the lust build up. Loud clicking rocks around us before a dim light flickers on. We all gasped, staring in horror; Skip stumbled backwards, falling into a craftsman's bench with a vise. Pinched within that was a bony hand, rotten, more bone than anything else. I looked around to see blood sprayed chaotically throughout, enveloping the thick dust and grime.

There were four adult-sized bodies beheaded in kneeling positions. Hands and feet were bound in chains, with the remains of thick tape melted across the mouth; they couldn't move or call for help, even if they wanted to.

They're more than decomposed and burnt, masking the clothing. The puppeteer had the bodies placed around a circle, an old etching that had been touched up to look new. There are two triangles, one upright, the other flipped. Devil worship. That's exactly how Skip saw it twenty-five years ago.

My stomach rumbled with the lure of blood I couldn't escape and the want to spew its contents amongst the dirt. The bodies were fresh, only a few days old, remains of ordinary torched clothing. My eyes were glued to the depravity, trying to understand where this game was going.

All we have so far is dead, Harkes and these unfortunate souls caught up in the chaos. I'd stared so hard that all I could see were the heads on the floor; everything else became a blur.

The jagged edges of the protruding charcoaled flesh ended short of the throaty gristle and neck cartilage. Each flailing was of a different length and width and was not made by a knife, axe, or any other symmetrical blade, at least not in the beginning. No, they made these look like claw marks again. The same was done to Lewis using a bladed glove. Was it the same one in my car, or was there another murder weapon waiting to be found?