Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Seven

I was standing at the foot of an old-fashioned basement entrance with double wooden doors; I had only ever seen it in movies or on farmhouses. There was no padlock on this one, giving me a way in if I dared. Common sense was telling me to back the fuck off and wait. Bravado told me to stop pussyfooting around and get down there. Lives could be at stake.

Even if in the deep recesses of my limited intelligence, I knew they were already gone.

The charred flesh stench was too pungent for them not to be. A matter of how many, and pray to God no kids. That cut deep and longer; I don't enjoy taking work home. But something like that would be what I see when I look at my baby girl. I hovered my hairy knuckles over the door to feel for heat; it seemed okay. The devil on my shoulder tried to nudge me forward. While the angel was too busy downing a pint to care. Still crouching, I paused, thinking no good would come of it. Then came a moment that caused ice to grate across my panicked skin.

'Hhhhheeeeelllllllpppp,'

A faint, bone-chilling whisper croaked through the cracks in the doors. They sounded young, struggling. Barely any reverb in the throat; they had to be slipping away. I gripped the edge of the door, splinters slicing deep in my haste. The first one crashed open, letting loose a gust of pent-up dust, followed by death's overwhelming, stomach-emptying smell. There was no turning back; I was all in. The second door followed suit. I cupped my mouth as I found the first step. I nearly stacked it, but stumbled my way carefully down a few.

The croaked whisper came again, a static shock to my system. It was always possible, but it felt unexpected. A dim flickering glow pierced through the darkness and the stench of death. At first, I thought the fire had spread far quicker than I imagined until my tired eyes focused—on the flickering glow of a candle flame. The lower I got, the more of them I saw scattered. Each flapping of light whipped shadows across the decaying walls. The smell was so strong yet not fresh. No, I was inhaling wave after wave of decomposing flesh.

'Hhhhheeeeellllp,'

The voice came from the shadows to the right; my feet slipped into loose debris and a glass bottle, causing me to jump. The far wall straight ahead was flaking white, the flame dancing away. Within its glow, what I can only describe as freaky, dripping red paint drawn in a circle. A picture of a snake/serpent looped, head crossing a forked tail at the top. Halfway down, it had dragon wings. Why would someone draw such a thing? A cult? It wouldn't be the first time. Moth to a flame, I was sucked in. Shuffling closer, the flicker seemed bigger and the shadows less. It stopped me dead in my tracks. I wished the bloody angel had done its job and persuaded me not to go.

The light lashed downwards, casting over a horrific view. Kneeled to the floor was the body of a man, decaying black flesh; any remaining blood seeped and pooled. I say remaining because the head was missing, frayed, rigid neck flesh and necrosis set in. My eyes dart downwards, seeking the head; my stomach was fighting to keep its contents. A metallic aroma blended with the stench, another familiar smell. Blood.

The edge of my boots stopped mere inches away from a crimson pool. I looked up to compare. The picture wasn't in paint; it was also blood. An unknown suspect slaughtered this person and used their blood. The darkness made it hard to see other wounds; a chopped head was enough. The body looked to have surrendered. I turned to look elsewhere, forehead clapping against a light cord. My hand clutched, clearing my lungs and slowing my frightened yet racing mind—the cord pings with a loud click, and the bulb spasms to life. I wished I'd kept it off.

Questioning my sense or grip on reality would be an understatement. I had forced my way into a basement of horrors. Blood sprayed throughout, enveloping the thick dust and grime in its path. At least four adult-sized bodies were scattered, all beheaded in kneeling positions. The bodies were much more than decomposed; they burnt—more likely to mask the wounds, but not because of the house fire. The suspect placed the bodies exactly where they wanted them; looking down, etched onto the uneven floor, was a circle.

Including two triangles, one upright and the other flipped. Devil worship or some relatable satanic nonsense. Crikey, the number of weirdos in the world hoisting boards, saying, 'the devil is coming, the end is near,'. It beggars belief how dedicated they are; this was different. The situation frightened me. Sweat dripped from my face; I frantically spun from side to side.

I lost my sense of knowing what to do. The more I looked, the more I saw horrifying symbols on the walls that I didn't know. Being a betting man, I would say religious—taking me back to the earlier thoughts of devil worship. Jars upon jars stacked on shelves containing liquid, and... well... They were harvested organs and preserved.

'Hhhhheeeeellllp,'

'Der-dum, der-dum, der-dum, der-dum,'

My heart was thumping two to the dozen through my ears. The whisper cut across my horror, reminding me why I'd stepped downstairs. Only I got hit with the urge to walk away. To skip through the dirt and break away as quickly as I could. What if the voice was a trap? I was lured to my death by the actual killer. Who'd hung around knowing the attention would come? It's a twisted thought but was not inconceivable.

Suppose the blooming angel had put down its pint long enough to slap the devil senseless? I would've stayed out. The voice could be a survivor in need of saving. My ears home in, following the beacon. Splash after splash of dried blood ripped across the floor. The further I shuffled, the more the blood looked like rounded prints, bouncing a ball in the paint—a glance at the bodies. Where were the heads? I could hear the clunking of chains. No more candlelight, relying on my senses to guide me.

A shuffle across the dirty floor made me pause. My eyes focus on the silhouette of a tiny figure—the size of a child — matching the spooky whisper for help. I took a small step forward, wary of what may lurk in the darkness. A slight haze of red pierced the blackness, eye-shaped. My feet stuck to the floor; I felt a draft whistling past my neck, sending a wave of goose pimples rippling over my body. I was well out of my comfort zone; the bodies were one thing, but an animal with red glowing eyes was another. I couldn't speak; life experience hadn't prepared me for anything like this.

I should stop and radio despatchwith an update. What would I say? How could I explain? The fire was a crimescene; what I'd found in the basement was a murder investigation. They neededto know about the bodies. A niggling feeling deep inside was urging me to wait.To find out more. To understand what the red glow and the whisper belonged to,even if it was nothing good. Fighting off the chill of fear, I shuffled forwardsome more. My foot scuffs, rattling debris across the floor. It was a spare oldcandlestick holder. The kind that belonged on a mantlepiece. Thankfully, thecandle was still intact.