The Bleeding Season

by Greg F. Gifune

  But I now found myself questioning what until that point had seemed a harmless discussion between two boys huddled over an old porno rag. Had Bernard simply been trying to work through his own sexual awakenings, confusion and desire like the rest of us, talking typical teen male bravado and pretending to be something he wasn’t? Or had it been a signal I’d missed—a warning that something else existed in him even then? Something dark…diseased…deadly.

  She wouldn’t tell. They never tell.

  I hadn’t thought about that afternoon in a very long time, yet the images that remained most vivid were also the most disturbing; even after all these years.

  Glancing at the desk, I noticed three more empty beer bottles sitting in a neat row. I scooped them up, tossed them into the gym bag then propped my feet up and tried to get as comfortable as one can in a hard plastic chair.

  A misting rain had replaced the snow. The night had grown darker it seemed.

  My belly warmed with brew but my mind still reeling, I closed my eyes and searched for more memories, more clues.

  * * *

  It was just after two in the morning when I saw her.

  A thick fog had rolled in off the water, making visibility a few feet at best. The street was quiet, hadn’t seen another living soul or even a car pass in more than an hour, and I was digging through my gym bag for another beer when I noticed movement from the corner of my eye.

  I stood up and looked more closely at the fog, a small lamp and a night security bulb over the interior showroom provided the only nearby light. Two powerful beams on the roof sliced a canal through the fog, illuminating portions of the lot and the rows of cars. At the very edge of the property was a woman—a woman just standing there—thin arms dangling at her sides, vines of slow-moving fog curling about her, cradling her with ghost-like fingers.

  I returned the unopened beer to my gym bag and moved around the side of the desk, never taking my eyes from her. Slowly, I slid closer to the showroom window. She was looking right at me, everything but her eyes masked in night and mist.

  And while gazing into those eyes, it came to me. She looked like the woman with the little boy at Rick’s apartment building. You here about the plumbing?

  She looked exactly like her, from what I could remember. I moved so close to the window that I was able to place a hand against it. Had to just be some hooker out wandering the streets in the middle of the night, I told myself. In that neighborhood—even at that time of night—it wouldn’t be unusual. But the woman looked sickly, and New Bedford was miles from Potter’s Cove. It seemed wildly far-fetched, and yet, deep down, I knew it was the same woman.

  And from the way she was staring at me, she recognized me too.

  Curiosity won out over fear, and I made my way to the door. I unlocked a series of deadbolts on the front entrance, the sound of them disengaging unsettling somehow in the otherwise quiet night.

  The woman was still there; arms now folded across her sunken chest.

  The weight of the nightstick on my hip reminded me of its presence as I pushed the door open and stepped into the fog. The air was brisk, a bit cooler than it should have been, and the fog seemed to dissipate somewhat. The steady thud of my heart echoed in my ears. I slowly, casually dropped a hand to the nightstick, felt my fingers wrap around the handle and tighten.

  I’d either had more to drink than I realized, or the recent events combined with an overall lack of sleep and the recurring Bernard nightmare had finally taken their toll. Or, I told myself, all of this is actually happening.

  “Ma’am,” I said through a hard swallow, “you all right?”

  The woman gave no discernable response.

  “Are you OK? Do you—you need some help, ma’am?”

  Without saying a word, the woman let her arms drop back to her sides and left them dangling there, swaying as if broken and no longer of any use to her. But something in those eyes changed. They seemed to be imploring me, beckoning me.

  My legs shuddered and I broke eye contact long enough to glance quickly across the front lot. I needed to know she was alone. The lot and street beyond were empty and still. My eyes returned to the woman in the fog.

  “Can’t be the same woman,” I mumbled. “Can’t be.” I clutched the nightstick at my side but left it in my belt. “You live around here?”

  Again, no response.

  “You lost, lady?”

  The woman turned away and drifted off.

  I stood there, frightened, despising my weakness. “Are you lost?” I asked again, louder this time.

  The woman continued on and slipped away into the fog, one final glimpse of her visible through the rolling clouds before they swallowed her completely as she reached the other side of the street.

  With a deep breath, I held the nightstick tight and started across the lot after her.

  CHAPTER 7

  The fog thickened and embraced me from every direction, a giant specter with no beginning, middle or end. I moved to the outskirts of the lot, aware that the dealership was well behind me now and that from somewhere back there the two showroom roof lights were cutting the darkness and fog. Yet, what little light I could discern seemed to be coming from a solitary streetlight just across the width of road separating my position from the beginnings of the abandoned factory. I hesitated, waited for my eyes to adjust, and listened. There was no sign of the woman, and although the normal din of the city was still evident in the distance, it was quiet here, and but for the slow rolling fog, utterly still.

  I held my ground for a moment and listened to the argument raging in my mind, wanting to forget all this and return to the relative safety of the dealership, but knowing I wouldn’t, knowing I couldn’t. I slid the nightstick free but kept it down against my leg as I stepped from the curb and crossed the street.

  The fog parted, and I continued on to the far curb and what had once been the factory driveway. An old security and information hut sat boarded up and slowly dying a few feet from the beginning of the property, a long section of heavy though rusted chain still run across the lot entrance to prevent trespassers from driving too close to the abandoned building beyond. I pulled my flashlight from my belt, flicked it on and gave a slow sweep of the area. The beam was powerful but did little other than illuminate the fog, so I switched it off, returned it to my belt and allowed the streetlight to guide me.

  Once I’d reached the chain I crouched and walked under it. The dark, ominous carcass of the factory stood before me, most of the long vertical windows blown out, the few panes still intact covered with the impenetrable filth of years of neglect. Decades before, those same myopic windowpanes had been blurred instead with sweat, while shadows, faceless and vague, submitted in silence. But I was certain those ghosts were long since exorcised. Something else was haunting this place now.

  Or perhaps, only haunting me.

  The thin layer of snow still blanketing the area had begun to melt, trickling and dripping from the factory to the pavement below. The windows on the first floor were boarded shut, but the large front doors had rotted and mostly fallen away, setting the mouth of the building in an eternal yawn.

  I leaned closer to the opening. A partially rotted wooden plank that looked like it had fallen from above and landed there ages ago was wedged diagonally across the doorway. From within the enormous vacant structure I heard the echo of dripping water followed by a faint scratching sound. I reached again for my flashlight, aimed the beam at the plank and darkness beyond. Squatting at one end of the plank was an enormously plump rat. Making odd grunting noises, it sat back on its hind legs, reared up and bared its teeth.

  Startled, I took a step back but kept the beam trained on him. The light reflected off his eyes, causing them to glow, two red orbs cutting the night. The standoff continued until finally, after a few contemplative sniffs, the rat turned, waddled to the end of the plank, and dropped down into darkness.

  The acids in my stomach churned and I belched, tasted beer. Despi
te the chill in the air perspiration had beaded along my forehead, and my mind began to clear a bit. What the fuck am I doing? I looked back over my shoulder. The fog was so thick the dealership across the street was completely concealed by it, though the rooftop lights were just barely visible above the haze.

  Something moved behind me.

  I spun back around toward the factory, the flashlight in one hand, my nightstick in the other, both leveled in front of me and sweeping across the doorway in unison. Just beyond the rotted plank, partially shrouded in darkness, stood the woman.

  Our eyes met and I offered a subtle nod.

  She took a few steps deeper into the building then looked back at me.

  I felt myself moving forward, swinging a leg over the plank and climbing through the doorway as if I no longer had complete control over myself. The flashlight flickered and extinguished. The darkness mixed with a soft cool breeze, the fear welling up in me in a single frantic rush as I shook the flashlight. The beam returned, casting a pool of light ahead of me, but by the time my eyes had adjusted I realized the woman was gone.

  I stepped over a small pile of rubble and garbage and did my best to ignore the array of gut-wrenching smells. I swept the light about, searching for her, but found only a graffiti-covered wall and floors thick with debris. Scratching and then a scurrying sound I recognized as more rats momentarily distracted me, so I swung the light around.

  Down a long and narrow hallway to my right, I saw a glint of light but no sign of the woman.

  I carefully crossed the room, following the light at the end of the hallway. It led to another room, smaller and in even worse shape. I stopped in what was left of the doorway and saw a single candle burning on the floor, garbage strewn from one corner of the room to the next. The horrible stench of human waste filled the stale air.

  The flashlight shook in my hand. I shut it off, returned it to my belt and gripped my nightstick with both hands. As I moved into the room, the flickering candlelight lapped the walls, casting shadows like thrashing demons. The woman was kneeling on the floor in the center of the room, holding something and rocking slowly. A dirty syringe, a spent book of matches and a blackened spoon lay scattered nearby. My eyes shifted; she was holding a boy in her arms—the same little boy who had hidden behind her leg at Rick’s apartment building—but now the boy was lifeless. Cradled, arms and legs dangling, his head lolled to the side, rested in the crook of the woman’s elbow, mouth open, small, swollen tongue protruding, eyes wide but seeing nothing—long dead.

  Sinking deeper into madness, I shortened the distance between us. The woman’s head turned to reveal a face tormented and dirty, eyes bloodshot and terrified, cheeks hollow, dark skin pockmarked.

  She glared at me like I was to blame, slowly rocked her dead son in sickly thin, needle-ravaged arms, and whimpered softly.

  “You here about the plumbing?”

  “No, ma’am,” I answered.

  She looked away, eyes gliding to the far wall as if she’d seen something else, something more. Lips moving silently, she continued to rock the boy in her arms.

  My eyes darted about the room, following the edges of light provided by the candle to the far wall, where painted in either red paint or blood were odd symbols that looked almost like hieroglyphics, hastily smeared about. What was once the door to the room had been suspended between two small stacks of chipped cinderblocks, forming what appeared to be a makeshift altar of some kind. Something lay beneath it in a heap on the floor, dark and unmoving, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

  The woman moved, diverting my attention back to her. She laid the boy on the filthy floor gently and with great care then began to pull at the belt holding her robe closed. Bony fingers worked furiously until the belt was undone or torn loose, and the robe had fallen open. She slid one hand beneath the boy’s head, pulled it closer and leaned over him. A single small and emaciated brown breast fell free, the nipple elongated and raw.

  She held the boy close, guided her nipple to his lips and pumped the loose skin along her breast, lips again moving rapidly but silently.

  “Lady,” I managed, “Christ—lady, let me—let me get you and the boy out of here.”

  She looked up at me. “You here about the plumbing?”

  “No, I’m not here about the goddamn plumbing!”

  Her eyes rolled back in her head as if she’d lost all control of them, and her body bucked, throttled by phantom hands.

  I stood frozen as a small appendage emerged directly from the cracked skin along her nipple. At first I thought it was a long hair.

  But then it moved.

  Another matching thing broke through the skin, moved in time with the other along the boy’s lips, as if searching for purchase. The woman’s hand tightened around her breast, and as her nipple burst the shelled back of what appeared to be some sort of beetle or cockroach squirmed free, followed by another and another. As they bled from her onto the boy’s mouth, forcing their way between his lips and disappearing between them, I realized the hair-like substance had been an antenna. The insects continued to gush from her in impossible numbers, overflowing in the boy’s mouth like renegade parts of a single clicking, pulsating mass.

  I reached blindly for the wall behind me, doubled over and somehow managed to choke back the vomit gurgling at the base of my throat. I staggered back, steadied myself against the wall, and looked at her.

  She was still kneeling next to the boy, but no longer holding him.

  The insects were gone. Her eyes, now unnaturally wide, began to bleed.

  “What…what’s happening to me?” I asked.

  She lunged for me with inhuman speed and clamped her hands onto my forearm. Her grip was painful and possessed greater strength than she appeared to have, and the moment her flesh made contact with mine, I felt a surge of energy explode through me like an electrical shock. My body jerked to rigid attention, and as my head fell back I heard the sound of my nightstick bouncing along the concrete floor.

  Horrible flashes of unspeakable carnage flickered through my mind like an old 16mm film. Faces, such hideous, boil-covered, bloody grinning faces; growls and guttural laughter; fire; the screams of nameless beings engulfed in plumes of brilliant orange flame and blood. Teeth—fangs—ripping at slabs of human meat, what had once been people hanging upside down and gutted like cattle. Depravity—depravity like I had never seen—and all of it gushing through me in a single violent stream, disintegrating into a shimmer and a wisp of fog, trailing away from my vision like a spiral of cigarette smoke snaking toward a ceiling.

  But there was no ceiling, only dark sky and thick fog.

  I was outside again, standing in the middle of the street between the factory and the car dealership. My nightstick was on the ground at my feet, but the flashlight was on and clutched firmly in my left hand. Heart racing, I crouched down, retrieved my baton and bolted for the dealership.

  Consumed by the fog, I struggled to maintain my bearings, running as hard and as fast as I could despite the burning in my lungs and the ache in my legs. And although I could not see it, I knew the evil was still there, still with me. There, in the fog, chasing, circling me, calling to me in low, tortured growls.

  CHAPTER 8

  Three days. Three days of confusion and disbelief, of vague memory and flashes of terror. Three days of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was night or day beyond shades pulled shut, of drug-induced sleep, of groggy submission even when I was somewhere near consciousness. Three days of trying to convince myself I had not gone utterly insane.

  The owner of the dealership had gone to work that morning to find me gone without explanation, the door unlocked and the desk where I’d been stationed littered with a pile of spent beer bottles. Nino had tried several times to contact me via the two-way but I hadn’t responded. I’d left the dealership and driven back to Potter’s Cove, parked out in front of Rick’s apartment building and waited for him to come home from the club.


  At about four o’clock he pulled in and I met him on the street. Concerned, he invited me in but I declined, and asked him instead about the young black woman and her son who lived in the first-floor apartment when you first walked in.

  That apartment was empty, Rick told me. Had been for months since the last tenant, a single middle-aged man had moved out. Then she was a squatter and had broken in and was staying there without anyone’s knowledge, I’d insisted, because I’d seen her the other day. She’d spoken to me the other day. Her son had spoken to me the other day.

  Near total emotional collapse, I explained what had happened, and it was then that Rick insisted I let him drive me home. I agreed, but only after he promised he’d find out what was going on in that apartment.

  I vaguely remember Toni thanking Rick before putting me to bed, then laying there, exhausted and spent, straining to hear their voices in the kitchen until I’d drifted off into something similar to sleep. At some later point she appeared with a prescription from her boss, pills that would relax me and help me sleep, she promised. Trust her, she’d said, and I did.

  Now, three blurred days later, I found myself parked across the street from Battalia Security’s home office, a small storefront space on Acushnet Avenue, one of the main drags in New Bedford. I sat in the car and watched the place until I felt ready to wade into what I knew would be an unpleasant situation at best.

  A pair of tiny bells over the door signaled my entrance. I moved to the front desk where Marge, the receptionist, secretary and occasional dispatcher sat, headset in place, long acrylic fingernails tapping a keyboard. She saw me and offered a tentative smile. “Hey, Al.”

  “Hey.”

  “How you doin’, hon?” she asked quietly. “You OK?”

  I nodded. “Nino in?”

  She cocked her head toward his office at the end of a small hallway behind her, the door closed. “He’s waiting for you, go ahead in.”

  * * *