Habeas Corpus: Black Womb (Black Womb Collection Book 1)

by Matthew LeDrew

  “Fuh,” he huffed. It had been intended to be a much fouler word, but he found he did not have the breath with which to finish it.

  Suddenly his throat became tight and there was a sharp pain in his right side as something slid into him. He could feel the creature’s iron grip on his neck, its long nails each making their own mark. Pressure seemed to build to the breaking point in his side, but the blood didn’t flow. Whatever had made the hole also plugged it, letting the tension build and build, like water behind a dam. All at once, they pulled out, so fast that the muscle and tendons in its way threatened to pull themselves free and come with them, effectively turning him inside out. A rush of blood came as well, seeming to hang suspended in the air for a moment as Mike’s neck was released. He hit the floor at the same time as the large pool of blood, the both of them landing on the collapsed body of Cathy’s Dad.

  Fighting to keep pressure on the wound, Mike turned around to face the creature. Again there was nothing, just the soft glow of moonlight on the desk. His blood had begun to get into the tracts between tiles of hardwood floor already, making long grids as it pooled outward quickly. He already felt light-headed as he reached his free hand, still covered in his own sticky fluid, and grabbed Mr. Kennessy by the face, forcing him to look at him.

  His face was slack and lifeless, but the eyes looked right at him and were very much alive.

  “Mr. Kennessy?” he asked, gulping back saliva and blood, then wishing he hadn’t. He felt like he was saying every word with a large bubble wedged between his teeth. “David?! David, can you hear me?”

  The man’s throat moved, his Adams’ apple bobbing three times in rapid succession before his lips parted, ever so slightly. His eyes did not move in unison, one continuously trying to roll back into his head and then snapping back in quick spasms. “Cat...” he managed, then coughed up a great heap of blood.

  “She’s fine,” Mike assured him in a hushed voice. He could hear his own heartbeat all the way up inside his throat, making it hard to hear anything else. He had to resist the impulse to shout above it. “She’s at the neighbors. We have to go, David, can you walk?”

  The man seemed to try to move, but the muscles barely twitched.

  Mike reached out and touched his shoulder to move him, then decided not to. There was no telling what the Womb had done to him and he might do more harm than good.

  His throat bobbed a few times again and Mike pulled his ear close to try and hear what the man was saying. “Martha?”

  Mike’s eyes lit up with fright. Summoning all his courage, he turned back toward the darkness and saw... nothing, everything appearing clear and danger-free. There were no more bloodied lumps of the floor. The lamp had stopped moving. “I can’t see her. Where is she? And Trina, where’s...”

  “Kitchen,” he managed, his eyes getting a little wide. They looked sympathetic and grateful all at the same time somehow, and Mike nodded before turning to spit out a mouthful of blood. Trina wasn’t here, the eyes were telling him, and he thanked his blessings no matter how small they were.

  He placed a hand on the side of David Kennessy’s face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “I am coming back, okay? Just hold on and we’ll go to Cathy.”

  At the sound of his daughter’s name, Kennessy let out a long sigh of relief. His little girl was safe.

  Mike crawled across the hardwood, ignoring the searing hurt which erupted from his heel every second or so. His blood left long streaks behind him, lopping every few feet when he switched sides to crawl on.

  -clink-

  He heard the sound with amazing clarity, coming from his side this time. He started to hurry despite the pain, allowing it to feed him rather than hinder him. Each pump of agony acted as a whip, forcing him forward with every jolt.

  There was a lump lying dead against the kitchen tiles and his heart sank instantly. He rushed over to her, grunting with pain. He stretched his arm out to her, grabbing her shoulder and rolling her over. She looked at him. Her arm had been cut, but it was nothing serious. It could have been a lot worse.

  She looked away, but didn’t speak. Suddenly, her eyes moved from Mike, to behind him. They became wide with fear, her mouth opened to speak, but no words came. Slowly, Mike turned around.

  Something cold and metal slammed against his face, sending him back against Cathy’s mother. Blood streamed down into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. For a moment, when he felt blood trickle down his neck and chest, he thought that the monster had cut his neck. Red, coppery liquid streamed from his nose into his mouth. Mike squinted into the darkness surrounding him. First his vision doubled, then everything to the left tilted to the left until he wasn’t sure what he was seeing anymore. He saw a sharp edge gleam against the faded blue light. It was curved and stained with red. For a moment it was all he could see. He still couldn’t see the Black Womb, but he didn’t have to see it to know that it was there. The sounds of scuttled, hurried steps and the clicking of that tongue of his as it thought were as good as fingerprints to him. It was Xander. It was the Black Womb.

  That clinched it for Mike. It could only be the Black Womb, not that it mattered now. The blade came down faster than Mike could see and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sharp pain before death. Nothing. He opened his eyes to see the killer had lowered his weapon.

  “You have already been harvested,” he said. The voice sounded exactly like Black Womb’s, rough and gritty. Mike blinked once and the monster disappeared into the darkness.

  He heard a sound from Mrs. Kennessy, but before he could react, Black Womb had him in his strong grasp. The Womb forced Mike into a pantry and pushed a large table up against the door with ease, vanishing again.

  Mike slammed his body into the door to little effect, then tried again. All the while, Black Womb’s words kept ringing in his ears: already been harvested.

  Suddenly, as if a light went on his head, he realized. My appendix. That freak-show’s already got a piece out of me, so now he’s after... Cathy.

  He started banging harder.

  Cathy shivered violently against Sandra Davis’ breast, sobbing despite all her best efforts to stop. Her heart still pounded so hard that it made her chest twitch with every beat, pumping enough fear through her body to give her a migraine. She had known the woman holding her for as long as she could remember, used to stay at her house as a child when her parents went out of town. Her cinnamon-scented perfume brought her back in time nearly a decade and reminded her of a place where she felt safe. It did not make her feel better, but instead proved how different her life was now compared to then. The contrast between the two made her want to throw up even more than she already did.

  Sandra stroked Cathy’s long black hair, her nails tickling against her scalp as she made soft shushing sounds like those made by softly flowing waves. Under different circumstances, they might have put Cathy right to sleep. “It’ll all be okay,” the old woman said in a hushed voice.

  Cathy turned her head up briefly and examined her woman’s face. Her silvery hair was dull in the glow of the forty-watt lamp in the corner, and her lips that were always ruby red stood out so much from her milky white complexion that they might have been fake. The nightgown she wore was sky blue and had flowers printed all over it, just like every other piece of clothing she owned. Everything about her spoke to her sweetness and honesty... but her eyes shone with tearful pity, giving her away. Her lip quivering, Cathy buried her face into her blouse again.

  Across the room in a rickety wheelchair that looked as though it had been manufactured during the first World War, John Davis glanced at Cathy and frowned before turning back toward the window. He poked apart the plastic strips of his blinds so that the Kennessy’s blackened doorway was just visible, squinting to try and see any movement that might be going on inside. He thought he saw something flash, then quickly flutter about, but wasn’t sure. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be and his doctor thought it might be glaucoma, but they were sti
ll waiting to get the tests back. His old service revolver lay on his deadened lap and he brought his hand to it every few minutes, as if to make sure it were still there.

  “Is he there yet?” Cathy sobbed, stammering out every syllable as bubbles of mucus joined the tears on her face. She held Sandra in close, making her ribs hurt. She didn’t complain.

  Cathy’s voice was so wracked with tears and adrenalin that it took John a moment to process what she had said. When he did, he nodded at her solemnly, forcing a smile onto his thin, heart-shaped face. It made his large ears wiggle a little, something that had always made her giggle as a child. “Not yet honey, but I can hear the sirens coming.”

  She sniffed twice, then continued the same broken moan she’d been making for the last ten minutes, mumbling something about Xander in a voice so inhuman neither of them understood a word of it.

  John checked the safety on his revolver to make sure it was off, then turned back toward the window. His chair squeaked from the sudden motion, the pin on each wheel making a soft clicking sound as they snapped into place and prevented him from rolling involuntarily.

  There were no sirens, of course. He knew better than most that the only police in Coral Beach would be all the way on the other side of town at this time of night, patrolling the stretch of highway between here and Coral Cove. He pushed the palm of one strong hand against the worn rubber wheel, moving a little closer to the window. Again it made the same clicking sound, a little louder this time.

  Cathy nearly jumped out of her skin, pulled Sandra closer and forcing the wind out of the older woman’s lungs in one quick huff.

  “Just the chair,” John smirked, winking at her from over his shoulder. “The police will be here soon.”

  The soft-glowing lamp in the corner flickered twice, sending sprawling, sputtering shadows across the walls before it went out entirely, along with every other light in the Davis’ home.

  “Not soon enough,” Cathy said quietly in a dead voice, sitting up in Sandra Davis’ lap as the last memories of light faded from her retinas.

  There was another metallic click as John pulled back the hammer of his revolver, bringing it to eye level as he wheeled away from the window and closer to the girls. His unseen face had become taut and expressionless, his lips becoming invisible thin lines across the bottom of his face. In his mind, he was instantly twenty years younger, could walk and see perfectly, and could still fire off three rounds in less than a second.

  -click-

  It came again, with no reason this time. He glanced from the girls to the kitchen, searching for some explanation for the sound and finding none. Swallowing hard, he pushed his chair another inch forward, his palms sweaty and shaking.

  Something slammed against the front door and he spun the chair on a dime, aiming the pistol at it. Whatever it was had been so hard and violent that it continued to shake the walls of the house almost ten seconds later.

  Cathy nudged away Sandra’s attempt to pull her closer again, swallowing back a mouthful of moisture before she could speak. “Mike?” she said finally, her voice small and wet.

  John raised a bushy eyebrow towards the door, tapping his tongue against the back of his teeth for a moment contemplatively. “Mike?” he called out, his voice loud and authoritative in a way Cathy had never heard before.

  There was another thud, louder than the first. Light was seen as the door moved in for a split second then settled back into its frame.

  “Mike, if that’s you say something or knock normal, son,” John yelled again, closing one eye to aim as he raised the gun again.

  There was a long, tense moment when nobody breathed. Cathy refused to blink as she awaited some response from Mike.

  There was another thud. This one so hard it cracked the wood around the deadbolt.

  John fired the gun twice, creating two forty-five-millimeter holes in the door instantly. The light from the street shone in in two long lines as burnt gunpowder wafted its way out of the barrel, floating into the atmosphere and dissipating slowly. For a moment their ears rang loudly, then there was no sound. His hand throbbed with a dull ache. He’d forgotten how much the gun kicked, as well as how his heart raced with every shot fired. When he was sure this was over he’d have to take one of his pills to slow it back down before his angina acted up. Even now he felt that pain in his chest, like the world’s worst case of indigestion just a few inches too high to actually be that.

  He turned his head back towards the girls again, smiling at them even though he knew they couldn’t see him through the darkness.

  -click-

  John’s eyes went wide as all the hairs on Cathy’s body stood on end. She could almost see his opaque yellow claws tapping against the door.

  He turned back around and pulled back the hammer again, willing the joints in his trigger finger to bend again.

  -clink-

  -clink- -clink-

  Sandra stared into the darkness, pulling on Cathy’s shoulder again. This time the girl relented, laying her head against her throbbing heart, and for a moment Sandra forgot who was comforting whom.

  Cathy didn’t sob or moan now, made no sound at all. She willed her eyes to take in more of the light, trying to see what she already knew was there. Her head twitched from one side to the other every few moments, her mind continuously tricking her into thinking she saw the aquamarine eyes of the Black Womb in her peripheral vision.

  John lowered his revolver slightly, turning his chair so that he faced the girls while keeping his eyes trained on the hallway that led down to the basement entrance. That was where the killer had come in through, he was sure of it. He lowered his gun slightly, the hand that held it shaking. It stopped after a moment as he turned away from the hall toward Sandra and Cathy. His heart-shaped face drew down in a frown that seemed to melt his features, his eyes small and dark underneath his bushy eyebrows.

  “What is it, John?” Sandra whispered, leaning in slightly to make sure she was heard.

  He opened his mouth to respond, blood dripping from it in a long trail into his lap as his gun dropped to the floor and slid underneath the couch. The blood looked as black as the Womb’s in the moonlight as more spewed out, his mouth still moving without a sound as he tried to tell them something. “Run,” he managed to force out, as a shadowy figure stood up from behind his chair.

  Cathy’s eyes went wide in paralyzed fear as she looked at it, backlit and powerful behind John’s body.

  It shoved something forward from behind the chairs brown leatherback and John’s chest exploded outward, spraying Cathy and Sandra with hundreds of tiny droplets of blood spatter.

  Sandra screamed as they both scrambled to their feet, running past the killer and into the hallway, bumping her shin into the end table as they went.

  The killer made no movement to intercept them, the blackened head turning only slightly to watch as they went.

  John finally fell to the floor in a heap, the thud of his form shaking the house. Blood still oozed slowly from his mouth as he forced his head up, feeling his energy ebb slowly out of the hole the killer had made in his lower back. Somewhere deep inside him, the spiteful cop who enjoyed Gallows Humor chuckled at the monster that had cut into him. Joke’s on you, flyboy. Ain’t been able to feel anything that low for fifteen years or more.

  He could see the brown grip of his gun poking out from under the couch just a few feet away, the gleam of the engraving on its base shimmering out like a beacon. Grunting through gritted teeth, he thrust a hand forward, grabbing onto the coarse fibers of his carpet and pulling himself forward. Every inch was agony, each leg providing thirty pounds of dead and useless weight.

  The killer stepped out from around the chair without a sound, walking over to where John crawled. The murderer lifted a heavy heel and brought it down into the center of John’s back with slow, deliberate pressure.

  John tried his best to stay up but buckled quickly under the force. “Bastard,” he grunted.

 
There was a deep, animalistic grunt from the shadows as the killer twisted his heel quickly.

  John screamed so loud his ears blocked out the sound as he felt something in his back twist and then snap. His eyes stared at the barrel on his weapon, his fingers literally touching its smooth material. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he realized he could not close his grasp as the numbness he’d lived with for almost two decades seeped its way up from his waist and into the rest of his body, from his neck on down.

  With bony fingers, the killer grabbed him by one shoulder and whipped him around, leaning in until their faces almost touched.

  He wanted to scream, to close his eyes and never open them again until it was over... but found he couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all to even swallow the nervous sweat growing in his mouth. He watched with unblinking eyes as the killer went to work slicing a long gash in his right side. Saw as the cold, sharp-nailed hand sunk into him and started to rummage about his intestines, feeling nothing, not even the warm blood that came out of him in buckets.

  He felt nothing for the next few minutes, until a drowsy feeling came upon him and he drifted off to sleep with his eyes still open. He was thankful for it.

  Sandra pulled Cathy into the master bedroom, trying hard to ignore the sounds she heard in the living room as she slammed the door shut.

  “Whatdowedowhatdowedowhatdowedo...” Cathy repeated continuously, her voice back to that low, wet moan it had been while she’d been pressed against Sandra’s flower-covered blouse. Her hands were cupped over her nose and mouth as she breathed in and out too fast to ever get a real lungful of air. She was trying not to pass out, but the top of her head had that floaty feeling that usually came a few moments before it happened and her eyelids had started becoming heavy.

  Sandra grabbed her by the shoulders, giving the girl one good shake to bring her back to reality. “We’re going to get out of here and help John.” she said, not even convincing herself as tears tumbled across her withered features. “We’re going to help John and everything’s going to be okay, okay?”