The Bloodspawn

by Michael McBride

  “That’s all right—”

  “I found an envelope filled with pictures. Pictures of another woman. There was also a stack of love letters. I only read the first two before I started to feel like a complete idiot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So do you really think that I care if I ever see him again? I tell you, if I ever see him again, he will rue the day…”

  “You don’t think that something might have happened to him?”

  “I’m hoping, because of he ever shows his face around here again he’ll wish that it had.”

  “Is it possible that—”

  “And the least any of you guys could have done was tell me. Don’t you think that I have a right to know if my husband is fucking some little slut?”

  “I had no idea. I really haven’t talked to Tim in a long—”

  “Well, if you ever do, you tell him that I said I hope he burns in hell.”

  She hung up the phone with a crash.

  Scott just stared down at the phone in his hand as the dialtone resonated through the kitchen. Maybe it was possible that Tim had just taken off, and everything he had seen that morning had been an illusion, but he knew that he was just grasping at straws. But there was something that was puzzling him even more.

  As he lay beneath the swirling ceiling fan, mesmerized by the spinning shadow, he couldn’t help but think about what he had seen at the old man’s house. He was confident that he had understood everything that he had seen, but the question was why. Why had Harry shown him all of that stuff, what bearing did it have on anything at this point? Was the old man trying to say that the devil walked the woods around here?

  The thought was ludicrous: the paranoia of the mentally deranged.

  Rolling from his back onto his side, he cradled the pillow beneath his right arm. The sudden shift alerted him to the pressure in his bladder. Sighing, he clambered out of the bed and across the plush carpeting that pressed up between his toes. His heavy eyes guided him through the darkness to the open bathroom door.

  Dim moonlight filtered in through the window opposite the sink, the lines of light that filed through the horizontal blinds crossing the mirror. Lining up with the toilet, he unsnapped the access hole in his pajama bottoms and stared up at the ceiling as he opened the floodgates. He yawned, his open mouth warping from side to side. Finishing the job, he lowered the lid and flushed, sliding over in front of the sink, his shadow only a black shape in the mirror as it interrupted the lines of light.

  Running a thin stream of cold water, he shoved his hands beneath it, rubbing them together. Raising his wet hands, he ran them through his hair, finishing by rubbing his eyes.

  He opened his eyes, small particles of water clinging to his long lashes. He glanced into the mirror one last time on his way back to bed.

  He froze, his heart leaping into his throat. There was another shadow in the mirror.

  The air in his lungs grew stale and he was unable to breathe. Slowly, he turned, his fists clenched at his sides, preparing for whatever might be behind him. His pulse pounded as he raised his eyes, only to find himself staring at the light blue, horizontal blinds that covered the window.

  There was nothing there.

  He had passed the point of being tired days ago, and maybe this was just his mind’s way of letting him know that it was now officially time to get some sleep. Shaking his head, he shuffled back into the bedroom, his legs still shaking. He was just about to climb onto the bed when he heard something behind him.

  Whirling, he stared at the entertainment center, the blackened screen reflecting the thin light that crept into the bedroom beneath the curtains. The top shelf was lined with spare change, his wallet and keys, and a small lamp, a VCR and DVD player stacked on the shelf beneath. But there was nothing else over there.

  Turning, he climbed onto the bed on all fours, heading toward the pillow.

  The noise came again, this time louder, like the sound of footsteps on floorboards, muffled by a thick layer of carpeting.

  Scott whirled, toppling onto his side on the bed and stared back at the entertainment center. There was a large shadow looming over the bed. He could make out the outline of a man, nearly a full head taller than he was. The shadow lingered for only a moment before dissolving into the darkness, the silhouetted visage dripping into a pool of its own blackened form on the floor.

  His whole body shuddered at once, the overwhelming reaction to the fear ripping through his flesh, crippling him as he lay on his side atop the mess of blankets on the bed. The breath that had been trapped in his lungs escaped in loud gasps, and he fought with his own flesh to make himself move. His wide, unblinking eyes stared at the edge of the bed, waiting for whatever had been there to materialize once again, but there was no movement in the slightest, not even the sparkling motes of dust reflecting from the moonlight that slipped in through the window.

  His trembling hands pried him from the bed, lifting him to his haunches as he inched closer to the edge of the bed. Peering down his nose, he tried to see the floor, to see if there was, indeed, anything there. Rising to his knees, he gazed down at the floor, the light blue carpeting swathed in shadows, but there was nothing tangible there. No swirling pool of darkness as he had expected.

  Climbing off the bed, he walked over to the dresser where he had just shed his clothes before donning his pajamas. Pulling off his nightshirt, he flipped on the light, once again slipping into the jersey he had worn earlier in the day. He tugged off his bottoms and climbed back into his jeans, stepping into the rubber bottomed slippers that lay on the floor, side by side, to the right of the oak dresser.

  Slowly, he crept through the room, peering deeply into every corner and recess, looking for any clue that might help to rationalize what he had seen. Turning to the left, his eyes still blinded by the sudden burst of light from the overhead fan, he stepped into the darkness in the bathroom, his left hand fidgeting on the wall while his fumbling fingers tried to flip the light switch.

  The line of globe lights mounted into the fixture above the mirror suddenly burst to life, the bright yellow filaments burning brightly as he scanned the room. There was the outline of a human form visible through the opaque glass of the shower stall.

  But as suddenly as they had come on, the lights in the bathroom burnt out with a loud pop, the glass from all four bulbs showering the floor with tiny fragments of glass. His feet crunching on the jagged shards, he inched toward the shower, both trembling hands open in front of him. Latching onto the handle to the shower door, he yanked it open, the magnetic seal popping before the metal rim of the glass door clanged against the bathroom wall.

  His heart seizing in his chest, he stared into the darkness, preparing to lunge at whoever was in there. But all he could see was his bath towel hanging from the showerhead, the long dark blue cotton looking black against the rich blue marble.

  Warm air traced the back of his neck, sending goosebumps straight down his spine in waves. He could almost taste the stale air is as it warmed his flesh, stale and reeking of carrion. Whirling, he stared straight into the darkened face of a large shadow, two thin slits glowing amber from the pits of blackness in the face.

  Throwing himself backward, he landed on the floor, his lower back slamming into the base of the shower. He stared up at the figure, eyes locked on the thin crescents that glowed in the center of the face.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” the figure said in a deep voice, the words tripping icily over his lips as they cascaded down to the floor where Scott lay, trembling.

  And as soon as it had spoken, the shape was gone, disappearing into the shadows. Scott was left string into the suddenly blinding glare of the light from the bedroom. He sat there for a moment, his body paralyzed from the shudder that passed over every inch of his skin, stabbing sharply into the tissue beneath. Fighting through the onslaught of tremors, Scott scrambled to his feet and dashed into the bedroom, his frantic stare scouring the room for a
ny sign of the apparition that he had seen, but there was nothing but the humming from the fan as it circled overhead.

  The voice played over and over in his head, repeating the lone line that it had uttered to the point that within his brain it sounded as if the voice were all around him in the room, taunting him. There was a familiar intonation in the voice, which sounded as though the words were drawn through a throat full of mud, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  He turned towards the bedroom door, which was still closed tightly.

  There was a loud cracking sound from behind him. Spinning, he faced the wall of windows. The curtains swelled as a gust of wind tossed them into the air from where they had rested against the cold glass. He bounded over the bed, grabbing the shades and yanking them to the side. A long crack splintered across the center of the window, the sound of splitting glass filling the air as the crack continued to widen, the frigid winter wind seeping through the minuscule gap.

  Something caught his eye, a dark shape cast against the snow-covered lawn below. He could feel the eyes from the shadow staring up at him from below, their intense stare burning straight through him, searing the backs of his own eyeballs. Their eyes locked in a captured gaze for only the briefest of moments before the shadow turned, slowly crossing the lawn toward the line of trees at the very edge.

  Turning, Scott leapt from the bed, darting across the room and bursting through the closed bedroom door. He hit the hall at a full sprint, leaping down the stairs at the end as he turned and sped towards the kitchen. Slapping the pin that held the door brace in place, he pulled out the stopper and unlocked the sliding glass door, throwing it wide. He bounded out onto the deck. He could barely make out the dark form of the shape against the dark outline of the row of trees, the branches barely even bending as the figure passed through.

  Leaping down the snow-heaped stairs, the coldness snapping at his exposed ankles and soaking into the cloth slippers, he pounced onto the lawn. His breath burst from his lungs in plumes that trailed behind him as he sprinted across the virgin snow, focusing on the thin gap in the trees where the shape had merged with the shadows. Throwing up his hands in front of his face, he hit the line of trees without even slowing, the needle-fortified branches grabbing at his clothing.

  The skin on the backs of his hands peeled back in lines, fresh blood piercing through the cold, red flesh as the hurdled through the thick undergrowth. Feeling a sharp pain crumple the toes on his right foot, his elbows landed in the snow, his face ramming his hands into the snow as the frosty powder filled his ears and covered his forehead and hair. He floundered there for a moment, fighting through the pain and the cold, trying desperately to regain his feet.

  His right foot, the toes bloodied and twisted, fished through the snow for the slipper that had fallen from his foot when he had tripped. Finally slipping his bright red foot into the snow-packed shoe, he pushed himself to his feet and stared into the small clearing in front of him.

  The shadow stared at him for the far end of the clearing, watching him for a moment before merging into the wall of branches beyond. The thin moonlight that slipped through the cloud-infested sky made the field in front of him glitter, the carpet of snow uninterrupted by even a single footprint. His eyes scanned the mass of foliage for anything that would betray the fact that there had been something there. But there was nothing. Only the thin wisps of powder that kicked up from the frozen earth, dancing in unison before slamming into the scrub oak, rattling the branches.

  Racing through the small meadow, piles of powder kicking up behind his heels, Scott dashed into the next wave of trees, staring down at his feet, his arms covering his forehead, trying not to trip over the twisted trunks of the scrub oak. Only the most ambitious rays of light crept through the dense canopy, the darkness swelling from all sides. The sleeves of his shirt snagged on the barren branches of the brush, the needles from the long, intertwining branches ripping at the bare skin on his forearms.

  The frigid night air nipped at his bare skin, his running nose stinging mightily. Slowly his flesh began to numb. His hair, dampened from the falling snow, froze atop his head, the individual strands clumping together as they crystallized. The blood in his feet throbbed, pounding painfully, with each step into the deep snow. But still, his body forced his weary legs to run, his chest burning from the lack of oxygen in the thin, crisp night air.

  Bursting through the edge of the forest, he tumbled down a small hill, his body becoming weightless. He slammed down on his right shoulder, his face landing only inches from the freezing water along the icy bank of the river. The stones that littered the bank had torn through the shoulder of his jersey, his lacerated and bloody skin burning like fire, the snow that covered him from head to toe doing little to soothe the screaming wound.

  Rising to his knees, he winced back the searing pain and stared down the bank of the river. There was no sign of the shadowy figure. The wall of trees on the far side of the river was unbroken by anything, save the clouds of snow that gusted past, the wind ripping the flakes along the surface of the water. The babbling of the water filled drowned out all other sound but the high-pitched scream of the wind shredding through the branches of the evergreens.

  Staggering to his feet, he cupped his right shoulder with his left hand, pulling it free only long enough to inspect the blood that coated the damp surface of his palm before replacing it, cradling his open wound tightly beneath the firm pressure. His mouth hung wide, his lungs fighting through the crisp breeze to attain the oxygen that they desperately needed. His ankles rolled over the stones hidden beneath the snow as he stumbled on, heading upstream toward the mountains.

  Every inch of his frozen flesh cried out for warmth, his trembling hands frozen into claws. It was all he could do to force his body to move forward, knowing that his only other option was to slink back home, not sure of the exact direction in which he had run. Contest: I have inscribed copies of both Species and The Legacy (first one in gets their choice) to give away to the first two people to email me at michael@mcbridehorror.com and tell me what they think of The Bloodspawn so far. Really. Now back to your reading… -M

  The fierce wind carried with it another sound, a vague, muffled sound that was barely strong enough to draw attention to itself. As he pressed further, straight into the torrential breeze, the sound grew louder, separating itself from the howling of the wind.

  It was a voice, a human voice, riding along the flow of air from some hidden location upstream. They were pained, tortured cries, growing more intense with each passing second.

  The bank of the river rose higher to his right, leaving him only a thin line of bank to tread between the wall of rock to his right and the raging waters of the half-frozen river to his left. Echoing through the channel, the cries intensified, filling his ears and the noise congealed, forming unmistakable words.

  “Someone help me!” the voice cried into the night.

  Scott quickened his pace to a gallop, traversing the rocky bank as quickly as he could without sending himself headfirst into the frozen waters from which he knew he might never be able to crawl free. He placed his right hand on the steep bank, the sandstone crumbling beneath his touch, sending miniature avalanches of sand cascading down about his feet. Long, rugged roots broke from the surface of the bank, jutting forth right in front of his face. He barely saw them in time to duck or swat them away from his face. The voice sounded as though it was right in front of him now.

  “Help me, please!”

  He was right upon it now, the wailing coming from all sides. Ground-level branches from the trees atop the bank above draped down, the long, needled branches covering the surface of the bank, only the bottom portion visible above the snow-drifted ground. The muffled voice called to him from some hidden location. His scraped and frozen hands ripped back the branches, the voice sounding clear as day. Holding back the branches with his elbows, he thrust his face close to the bank, exposing a rusted grate built straight into the bank of t
he river.

  The voice funneled through from the cavernous tunnel beyond, the darkness entombed within so thick that it appeared impenetrable. Beneath the wailing voice, he could hear the padding of footsteps: uneven as they splashed through the ice-covered drainage that slid down the middle of the tunnel into the river.

  “Is someone there?” Scott called into the tunnel, his fists wrapping tightly around the grate; his flesh turning a faded color of rust as it flaked off in his grasp.

  “Oh, Jesus!” the voice called. “Please, help me!”

  Scott could see the faint outline of a darkened form limping toward him, barely discernible from the darkness that surrounded it.

  Splish, splash. Splish, splash.

  The man within stumbled on, falling to his knees several times before slowly pushing himself back up to his feet, a little slower each time.

  “What’s happening?” Scott shouted, yanking on the grate, trying to pry it from where it had been drilled into the sandstone. The grate rocked slightly, lines of sand tumbling down the slope from the secure bolts.

  “Get me out of here!” the voice shouted, the figure nearly to the grate.

  Scott scanned the ground, finally grabbing a large rock from the bank and raising it into the air.

  A hand burst through a hole in the grate, lines of blood streaming over the knuckles as it grabbed for him.

  “Stand back!” Scott yelled, slamming the rock down on the top bolt over and over, his fingernails bending back.

  “He’s in here!” the voice screamed, quivering. “You have to hurry!”

  The sound of the rock landing atop the steel bolt echoed through the darkness of the tunnel as he slammed down the stone over and over. There was a loud ping when the bolt snapped, the gate groaning as it settled backwards into the tunnel, it’s rusted metal edge dragging across the sandstone.

  Another hand appeared from the grate, grabbing him by the shirt and tugging him up against the grate. He stared through, into the darkness, the face of the man trapped within only inches from his own. In the dim light, he could only partially make out the features on the man’s face, but that was more than enough for Scott.