The Bloodspawn

by Michael McBride

  He still wasn’t sure that he completely accepted everything about the current situation as it stood. Sure, he had seen two of his best friends brutally slaughtered, but there was almost a dream-like quality to it. Almost as though their deaths existed only in his imagination. There were no bodies lying on cold, stainless steel tables in a coroner’s lab, their lifeless corpses awaiting the final touches on their make up in the back office of a funeral parlor. There was nothing tangible about it in the slightest. All that he had were the vague recollections of what, in all actuality, were fairly traumatic moments, with absolutely no physical evidence that the bodies had ever actually been there.

  And then there was the diary and the files they had found in the little room back in the tunnel. The whole concept of a devil that wandered the earth planting his seed, with the sole purpose of that child, that bloodspawn, bringing the ultimate deaths of two hundred people was outside his comprehension. It seemed completely preposterous from just a surface view. The fact that there was an entire sect of nuns devoted to tracking and battling with this hitchhiking devil seemed like something out of an early eighties horror flick he might have seen on the USA network in the middle of the night.

  But he had seen whatever it was that had torn his friend clean in two. He had felt it down there with him in that darkened tunnel earlier in the day, had tasted its cold breath, felt it on his bare skin. Maybe he would have been able to shrug the whole thing off and go to sleep; dismissing all of the nuns’ accumulated information with the most lackadaisical shrug. But the fact remained that he had seen it with his own eyes, and whether he bought into the whole bloodspawn theory or not, he had seen enough over the last couple of days to know better than to not take it seriously.

  And, truthfully, he wasn’t sure of exactly what he was supposed to do, but from everything that he had read and seen that day, it seemed like the best place to start was to try and figure out this whole bloodspawn thing. The first question that needed to be answered was what had happened to this child that Harry had rescued from the Cavenaugh house so many years ago?

  “Harry?” Scott said, turning in the swiveling chair to face the living room.

  Harry’s head lay back on the top of the recliner chair, his mouth wide open as he wheezed heavily. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the diary, which he had been reading, had fallen from his lap to the floor. The arms of the chair did little more than prop up his arms. His hands dangled over the sides, nearly touching the carpet.

  Chuckling to himself, Scott rose from the computer chair and crossed the living room, stretching his arms straight over his head as he walked beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. He lurched up the stairs, his exhausted legs fighting him the whole way as they did little more than drag his limp feet up the steps. Rounding the corner and walking down the short hallway into his bedroom, he paused at the foot of his bed, staring down at the unmade mess of covers and thinking about just how delightful it would be to just climb under that comforter for just a few minutes, just long enough to close his eyes and… And what? Sleep? What were the odds of that?

  Feeling completely disheartened, his shoulders slouching, he knew that his only option would be to do the next best thing: take a nice, hot shower, and start the day anew.

  Shedding his button down shirt, he tossed it into the corner of the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, rolling his neck about on his shoulders, as he kicked off his shoes and socks and walked into the bathroom.

  Leaning toward the mirror, he opened his eyes wide and studied the myriad red veins that crept from the corners of his eyes into the dark irises. His heavy lids settling back down over the thin slits of his open eyes that rested deep within the dark bags beneath them, he stepped to the right, lifting the toilet seat and sighing mightily as he drained the nearly full pot of coffee that swelled within his bladder. Smiling to himself, he closed the lid, pressing the small metal handle that caused the loud whoosh that filled the room.

  The cold tile felt almost nice beneath his aching feet as the muscles slid apart just enough to allow the cool surface to soothe the tight tendons. Ducking back to his left, he opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a towel from the small stack and slung it over the brass rim of the shower stall. Turning to go choose some different, and say, clean clothes to wear, he heard a faint thump as the towel fell from atop the opaque glass shower stall, landing in a clump on the floor.

  Sighing, he whirled around as he hadn’t quite made it out of the bathroom yet. Kneeling to the floor, he swiped up the towel with his right hand. But before he could return to standing, he caught a glimpse of something on the floor.

  “Dammit,” he grumbled, wiping the small droplets of the red fluid from the tile.

  Tossing the towel back up over the top rim of the shower, he paused. He was definitely tired, he knew that, and under these circumstances there was no way that his brain was as sharp as he generally prided himself on keeping it, but he suddenly needed to figure out what the hell he had just wiped off the floor of his bathroom.

  The first thought that crossed his mind was that Harry had used the bathroom, and being an older fellow and all, and having something of a physically taxing day, maybe there was just something wrong with the plumbing. But why would he have gone into his bedroom to use the bathroom when he would have passed one on the way down the hall, and the other one was more than likely a whole lot cleaner than his personal one.

  Something caught his eye in the mirror. It had barely snared his attention from the far reaches of his peripheral vision, and it had taken him a moment to find it, but there it was, clear as day, and he suddenly wondered how he had possibly missed it when he had first entered the room.

  There was a series of small red splotches, so dark they almost appeared black on the light blue horizontal blinds. He dabbed at one of them with his right index finger, recoiling quickly as it was still wet to the touch… and still warm. Lifting the blinds, he stared down at the windowsill that was covered with a splotch of the red fluid, which crawled over the molding and was running down the wall in a pair of small, crimson lines, just ready to peek out from beneath the curtains.

  He tugged on the window, but it was locked tightly, and even through the frosted window he could see that the screen was still in place, so how could it have possibly gotten in there?

  There was a small splat as one fine ball of the somewhat viscous fluid dropped from the orange peel-textured white wall to the tiled floor. His eyes followed the sound, staring at the small circle of red. And there were more, leading in a small line toward the base of the shower where he had wiped up the first couple of drops. And then he saw it, something that were he any less tired he would have noticed right away when he had first walked into the room. There, on the top edge of the brass handle affixed to the right side of the hinged, almost white looking glass, was another splotch of red. He peered more closely at it, creeping across the red spotted tile, his eyes fixed on the marking. Coming right up on top of it, he craned his head forward, inspecting it thoroughly. There were small whorls in the pattern pressed into the red mark on the shining brass fixture, and there was absolutely no denying that what he was looking at was, indeed, a thumbprint.

  Scott’s breath caught in his chest. He was suddenly quite aware of just how alone he was in that bathroom, and wishing that he had opted for the clear glass panels for the shower, rather than the opaque.

  Reaching out with his trembling hand, he grasped the brass handle, trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled outward. There was a small popping sound as the door disengaged from the magnetic seal, the glass door swinging backward with slight squeak. His eyes grew wide, his jaw falling slack. From his shaking legs all the way up and over his shoulders, his whole body started to quiver at once. Every tiny hair that covered his skin stood straight on end as he saw it, right in the middle of the floor of the shower stall as soon as he looked inside.

  Fighting back the urge to vomit, his stomach heaving dryly
, he cupped a hand over his mouth and stared down at the pile of flesh that lay in the middle of a bloody pool that slowly trickled down the circular drain beneath the showerhead. The tattered remnants of a shredded shirt clung to the chest of the body, saturated with the crimson mess. The legs were crumpled to either side, the jeans torn away from the scraped knees. Blood ran in small lines over the bare feet, dripping from between the toes.

  All he could see of the head was a mass of dark, tangled hair, the man’s chin resting in the middle of his chest. The tips of each ear appeared to have been clipped off, blood puddling in the hollows of his ears, forming large droplets at the bottom of each lobe. There was a small circular scar in the lobe of the left ear, apparently from where the hole from a piercing had healed shut.

  Shaking violently, he reached toward the man with his right hand, pressing on the forehead with just the middle finger of his hand as he leaned the head back. Staring straight into the face, he could tell at first glance exactly who it was, even though he hadn’t seen him in years. Jeremy looked exactly same as he had in high school, even without his eyes. His hair was a little shorter, and his features more mature, but there was no mistaking it.

  Ripping back his hand, Scott turned away from the body, the head bouncing several times off the chest before rolling to the right. The image of the face was engraved into the back of his head, and all he could see as he closed his eyes was the empty sockets of the eyes. The lids were sunken inward; streams of blood poured from the corners of the eyes, running through the thick stubble on the cheeks, clinging in drops at the line of the chin, hanging there perpetually as if they would never fall. The open mouth exposed the swelling tongue, which pressed on the chipped front teeth, the lips faded from their formerly dark pink as he remembered them to a more subdued, pale shade of light blue.

  “Harry…” he managed in only a meek whisper.

  He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, slowly pushing himself backward along the floor, his hands and bare feet barely able to get any traction on the slick tile.

  “Harry!” he shouted, the word booming through the upstairs bathroom.

  Unable to fight the urge any longer, he stared through the open shower door at the body that sat almost Indian style in the middle of the blue marble stall. He shook his head over and over, as if that sign of disbelief would change the fact that he was actually staring at it. A muffled whimper crept from his chest as the only other sound in the room was the light trickling of the blood dripping down the drain.

  Breaking his gaze, he leapt to his feet, turning his back on the bathroom as he raced across the bedroom and into the hallway.

  “Harry!”

  Rounding the corner, he could see the living room straight down the hallway at the base of the stairs. Harry was still completely unconscious in the chair, a small line of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.

  “Harry!” Scott shouted. He hit the stairs at a full sprint, hurdling them three at a time as he grasped the railing.

  Harry shot upright; looking completely perplexed as he wiped the saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. Squinting, he stared at Scott who was already crossing the living room floor.

  “What’s going on?” he mumbled through a yawn. He gently massaged his stiff lower back with his left hand.

  “Come on!” Scott shouted right into his face as he grabbed him by the hand and nearly yanked him right out of the chair.

  “I’m coming!” Harry snapped, snatching his hand back from Scott.

  “Jesus Christ,” Scott muttered as he raced back toward the stairs, clambering up to the hallway and ducking back into him room.

  He could hear Harry’s muffled footsteps on the plush carpeting as they reached the top of the staircase and turned down the hallway towards his room. Stopping at the doorway, he leaned against the trim staring back toward the bedroom door. He knew he couldn’t stand to look in there at his old friend again.

  “What is it?” Harry asked, the sleep finally wearing off, along with it the incredible grumpiness.

  “In the shower…” Scott stammered, his voice trailing off to a whisper. “In the shower.”

  Harry walked past him and into the bathroom, his shoes squeaking on the tile.

  “What?” Harry asked, his eyes scanning the glass enclosure.

  “Right there, on the floor in the stall.”

  “Is that real marble?”

  “What?” Scott asked, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily before whirling and stepping into the bathroom behind Harry.

  Pushing him to the side, Scott walked right to the edge of the shower and stared through the open door.

  There was absolutely nothing there.

  Not a single drop of blood could be seen on the marble surface, the brass drain shining as though freshly polished. His eyes covered the floor, looking for any trace of the droplets of blood that had freckled the tile only a moment prior, but there was nothing. Shoving past Harry once again, he grabbed the horizontal blinds, noticing immediately that there were no splotches on the blades. Throwing them upward, he stared at the windowsill only to find the white trim looking just like new without the slightest hint of the crimson that had traced lines across the painted wood.

  “Did I miss something?” Harry asked.

  Turning, Scoot just stared at him, his mouth opening and forming words, but no sound came out. His brow furrowed as he paused, then quickly turned and stared out the window.

  “It was there. I promise you. It was there just a minute ago.”

  “What?”

  “Jeremy… an old friend. He was in my shower.”

  “Well,” Harry said, unsure of what to say or believe. “Where is he now?”

  “There!” Scott shouted as he stared out onto the snow-covered lawn. There was a wide dark streak running straight through the center of the yard toward the line of trees. He could barely see a pair of bare feet at the edge of the undergrowth, but only for a split second as they were dragged out of sight into the darkness beyond.

  Bounding out of the bathroom, Scott grabbed a pair of shoes from the floor and slipped his bare feet straight into them, grabbing the button-down shirt from the floor where he had tossed it, slipping his arms into the sleeves as he ran out of the bedroom. He hit the hallway at a full sprint, grabbing the wall to keep from slamming into it, not even bothering to button up the shirt. He leapt the stairs, landing in the entryway, his whole body functioning on pure instinct.

  Unlatching the lock, he slid back the sliding glass door and bounded out into the blowing snow. The channel carved into the accumulation was still there, the powdered mass of flakes melting back from the warm red stain as whatever new flakes fell atop it fizzled into water. His eyes followed the line of flattened snow to the edge of the forest as his legs slowly began to move forward.

  There was something on the wind, an unnatural scent of sorts. It was almost like a mixture of sulfur and copper that he could taste as well as he could smell. It was all around him, yet seemed to be resonating from within the confines of the closely packed trees that led back into the wilderness. And he could feel him there, too, watching him with stoic eyes as he crossed the lawn and peeled back the first layer of undergrowth, entering its domain.

  The sound of the whistling wind dissipated into the night as he pressed deeper into the pine grove, the only audible sounds were those of his heavy, labored breathing and the needles of the branches as they caressed one another, scraping from side to side as he passed beneath. It became increasingly difficult to follow the trench through the forest. It shifted from side to side as it meandered through the maze of trunks, the redness fading to a pale silver on the white ground as there appeared to be no more of the red to stain it.

  An owl hooted in the upper reaches of the needle-covered branches above, its long feathers clapping together as it rapidly took to flight.

  Scott finally stopped, leaning his hands on his thighs. He doubled over in an effor
t to catch his breath. Steam swirled in bursts from his ruby red nostrils as his eyes scanned the thin lines of darkness between the closely packed trunks, peering through the masses of green and browning needles for anything resembling a human form. Granted, there was a large part of him that really didn’t want to find whatever it was that he had chased out here into the forest, but there was another part that just had to try to force some form of resolution. He couldn’t keep doing this night after night with no end in sight. He couldn’t just lie awake waiting for whatever monstrosity stalked the darkness to parade the slaughtered corpses of two hundred of his friends in front of him, if that was, indeed, the whole point.

  And there was a part of him that wanted to prove that it was nothing more than a dream, a bad dream that he just couldn’t see the way out of. If he could just track down whoever this was out here in the night, he might be able to wake up, because, after all, there was absolutely no way that this was his friend he had watched die right in front of his eyes so many years ago. Regardless of what the diary may have insinuated, or what Harry had seen at that house in the valley, he needed to prove to himself that his deceased friend Matt wasn’t skulking around in the shadows taking his revenge in the form of a garish bloodbath.

  Wiping the crystallized drops of sweat from his forehead, he jogged deeper into the woods, dodging the branches and trunks. They came at him with surprising speed, his tautly-wound reflexes spring-like in their reactions. The hollow thud of his footsteps atop the frozen ground resonated within his head, hammering like the thumping of the blood through his temples. His brow furrowed with a will of its own and his churning legs slowed to a walk, and then finally stopped all together.