by K. R. Rowe
Night had fallen and darkness engulfed her. She stood in the street; the knife still gripped in her palm, speaking low. “I’m here Noah.”
“Allie! Get out of the street!”
“Leave me alone!”
“Allie, please.” He took a step toward her but stopped when she raised the knife.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“I love you, Allie,” he said. “Please don’t do this.”
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. “That’s not true.”
He took another step toward her. “I do love you, very much. Please, put the knife down and come back inside. Let’s talk about this.”
“No one loves me.” She looked up; her eyes hollow from years of torment and pain.
She raised the knife and he froze, recognizing the hopeless look in her eyes, “Baby, no. Please don’t do this.”
“Noah needs me,” she said.
Moonlight flashed from the blood stained blade as she pulled the knife across her throat. Phillip’s body went numb, his vision spun while his world collapsed around him. All sound disappeared except the buzzing in his head and the scream tearing from his lips.
“No!”
Her gaze locked on his, terror replacing the confusion in her eyes. Grasping the reality of what she’d done, she clamped her hand around her throat, trying to stop the torrent of blood, but it poured between her fingers, coating her naked body bright red. Eyes pleading for help, she opened her mouth, but instead of words, a rush of blood spilled from her lips. She coughed, spraying a red cloud of mist into the night air. Taking a step, her knees buckled and she collapsed, her life pumping from the gash, pooling crimson between the cobblestones.
“Allie!”
Phillip ran, stumbling across the stones, desperate to get to her. Kneeling in the growing pool of blood at her side, he curled his hand around her throat to stanch the bleeding, but the wound was too deep. People filed out of their apartments, gawking but no one came forward to help.
“Oh God, Allie! No, no, no! Please don’t leave me. Someone call an ambulance!”
Beneath his knees, her blood disappeared, soaking into the stones. Suction pulled against his legs and feet, and shadows darted across the buildings around him. Desperate to get Allie out of the street, he lifted her, carried her to the sidewalk and laid her down. Her breath gurgled, eyes twitching open. Her lips parted and he thought she would speak, but instead, he watched her take her final breath.
“No Allie, no.” He pressed his hand against her throat and covered her lips with his, trying to blow precious life into her body, but several minutes passed, and his desperate attempts failed. He’d lost her, and he knew it. Holding her against his chest, he buried his face in her hair and sobbed.
“The ritual is almost complete,” he heard Mrs. Michaels say behind him.
Phillip looked up and the old woman stepped past them, into the street, the bucket of blood from the apartment gripped in her hands. Uttering a low rhythmic chant, she tipped the bucket, pouring Allie’s blood in a circle on the street.
“It is done,” she mumbled. “Sate your thirst with the blood of the sixth.”
Unexpected laughter erupted from her lips; the startling noise reverberating from the buildings in a cacophony of echoes. It rattled Phillip’s control, and he tried to shut out the sound, but it seeped into his ears and crashed through his brain making his head scream in pain. The laughter continued: a sharp grating sound scraping his nerves, raising hairs on the back of his neck.
Phillip laid Allie’s head gently on the sidewalk. Pulling himself from her, he stood and stepped away from her body. Blood coated his arms and soaked his shirt but the old woman’s laughter burned through him like molten lead, blocking all other sensations. It echoed in his head, pulling away his sanity and leaving nothing but rage. His beautiful Allie was dead, and this woman was laughing.
Mrs. Michaels smiled, gazing down at the blood soaking into the street. “She belongs to him now, and my Noah can be free.”
Phillip’s feet moved and his grief stricken body followed them into the street. Scooping up the knife, he clenched his teeth, fighting the scream threatening to tear from his lips. He stepped close to the old woman, his grief and fury distorting his voice. “You’re going back to hell.”
Her laughter changed to a pain filled shriek when he plunged the blade into her dead gray eye. She sank to her knees and sat back on her haunches, but instead of falling into the street, she curled her fingers around the knife handle and yanked it free, spilling her mutilated eyeball down her cheek. Pushing herself to her feet, she laughed again, mocking him; its grating sound bouncing between the buildings and exploding in his ears. Phillip took a step toward her but stopped when her cackling ceased.
Her cold blue eye leveled to his face. “You can’t kill me, boy.”
She charged him, the knife raised, but he stepped aside, dodging her assault. Losing her footing, she tripped, her momentum sending her reeling forward, landing on her face in the street.
“Maybe not,” he said, watching the stones buckle around her. He glanced toward Allie’s lifeless form. “But she can.”
A streetlight near Allie flickered to life, splashing light across her corpse, throwing her shadow onto the sidewalk. Her body quivered; her shadow stretching, breaking free, tearing away from its host. In a frenzy her shadow split into dozens, and slid across the stones toward the old woman. Terror filled Mrs. Michaels face, and she tried to stand, but her feeble legs gave out and she collapsed back on the stones. The shadows swirled around her, climbing up her body and pushing her to the street. Her mouth opened to scream, but the blackened tendrils filled her throat, blocking her breath. She reached out, hand trembling, but as her life faded, it fell to the stones. Her body flattened, her skull cracked, and the stones sucked her piercing blue eye from its socket.
Behind Phillip, a gathering of onlookers screamed in terror and a myriad of sirens sounded in the distance. Sinking to his knees, he dropped his head and vomited in the street.
Chapter 28
Flowers
Rush kept his distance, standing a few yards away, letting him have time alone with his thoughts. Phillip couldn’t smell the flowers. He barely felt them gripped in his fingers. They’d bloomed from the place where her blood had spilled. They were hers and he wondered somehow, could they bring her back. Cold and numb, his handcuffed wrists matched his spirit. He stood in the storm’s deluge, rain pouring from his drooping hat and splashing to his mud covered boots. His body chilled, not from the cool February wind, but from the shit this worthless life had shoveled him—and her.
He dropped the flowers at his feet, too weary to kneel, too disillusioned to care. Their petals scattered, decorating the mud atop the newly filled grave. A cold chill touched his neck through his thick woolen collar. A shadow passed in his peripheral vision but when he turned to look, he saw nothing. Not long ago, he would have turned away and shrugged it off, but not now—never again.
Of one thing he was now certain, monsters were real.
Allie didn’t deserve this. She’d been alone in life, now alone in death.
Whispers circled around him, the words lost in the crisp cool wind. Storm clouds churned in the forlorn sky, and he pulled up his collar and turned to go. He trudged past his old boss, not looking up, and climbed into the back seat of the waiting police car. Staring through the window across the rain soaked graveyard, it reminded him that death was certain, but everything else in his life was a crapshoot. Glancing down at the handcuffs clamped around his wrists, he’d cursed his lack of control. Although he’d assaulted the old woman, he hadn’t killed her, but he still had to answer for his actions.
The curse was complete. He’d tried to save Allie but failed, and now guilt ate him alive. If it took him a lifetime, he would free her spirit. Although Isabella Michaels was her first, Allie would need more.
“I don’t care if I go straight to hell,” Phillip muttered unde
r his breath. “I’ll bring you the blood of the sixth.”
* * *
Rob Lawrence cracked a self-satisfied smile. Having solved the case, he’d earned his promotion. He’d known it was her all along, and a search of her apartment turned up blood on her shoes belonging to the stabbing victim. Being the only evidence, the other murders couldn’t officially be linked to Allie, but the department’s assumption went unspoken. The case was closed.
She’d killed them all, and he knew it.
He flipped down his visor and smirked in the mirror. The biggest murder case in over ninety years, and he’d solved it. Having been in the hospital for almost a week, he thought the E. Coli infection would kill him. Those first few days back at work was embarrassing, but he’d faced his demons and had gotten through it. The fact that he’d nearly shit himself to death didn’t matter much anymore. Whether it’d been E. Coli or not, he still thought the old woman had something to do with his illness. In fact, he was sure she did, and he was glad that Phillip had stabbed her in that freakish gray eye.
Phillip Chambers. Lawrence chuckled, almost feeling sorry for the guy. He was either blinded by love or just plain stupid.
He glanced toward the second floor window across the street. The pretty blonde he’d been following was almost ready for bed. Pulling his binoculars from their case, he watched her slip her shirt over her head and slide into a frilly white nighty. He shifted in his seat, pants tight and uncomfortable against his growing excitement. Once she changed, he’d make a trip to her door and ask her a few questions. Maybe she’d invite him in.
Something caught his attention on the street. A feminine form appeared in the shadows, and Lawrence squinted, rubbing his eyes for a better look. Although cloaked in black, the woman appeared nude, but he couldn’t distinguish her features. He smiled; a woman alone, a dark corner—exactly what he needed right now. He stepped from the car but the figure had vanished. He took a few steps to where the woman had been, but nothing was there except a cool sensation crawling up his pants leg. Like a hand with cold fingers, it inched up his thighs and curled around his erection.
What the fuck!
He stumbled backward but the thing in his pants squeezed harder. Fumbling with his belt, he panicked, trying to get it unfastened. Unzipping his pants, he yanked his underwear to his ankles, falling backward on the street trying to get them untangled. Looking down at his stomach, he froze, eyes widening as he watched black tendrils creep up his torso. Their presence grew heavier, pinning his shoulders to the stones. Beneath him, skin tore from muscles and sucked to the stones. Bones popped through his skin, but before his backbone snapped, he lifted his head and watched his genitals twist from his groin. His screams gurgled through the shadows crawling down his throat, and his vision clouded to black.
THE END
About the Author
K. R. Rowe is a multi-genred author who spent her childhood in the scenic city of Chattanooga, TN and still resides there today. Her father was born and raised near Tellico Plains, in the heart of Tennessee's tract of the Appalachian Mountains. With her mother's South Carolina heritage, her southern roots run deep. From a very young age, her overpowering love of the mountains continues to draw her to them. When not tied to her desk, her free time with her family is often spent enjoying any activity that can take her far from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and into the peace of the mountains.
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