The Bloodspawn

by Michael McBride

  “Brian?” he stuttered.

  “You’ve got to get me out of here!” he said, releasing Scott’s shirt and turning to stare back into the tunnel.

  Scott fell to his knees, slamming the rock atop the bolt that secured the bottom portion of the grate.

  “Stay back!” Brian shouted, pressing his back up against the grate. Scott was helpless but to watch. “I said stay back!”

  The bolt was bent, the rusted threads giving slightly with each drop of the rock. Just a few more times and it would break.

  “Our Father who art in heaven,” the voice cried as the body slumped to the ground, the scrambling legs trying to propel the body backward through the gate. “Hallowed be Thy name…”

  The voice trailed off into a gurgle. A wave of warm fluid splashed through the grate, landing on Scott’s back, soaking into his hair as he slammed the rock down one final time, snapping off the head of the bolt. He whirled, facing the grate before once again wrapping his fists around the cold steel. The ground all around him was stained red, the warm fluid trickling down the back of his neck and along the bare flesh that covered his spine.

  A scraping sound echoed through the tunnel as the body was dragged away from the grate, the back of the head bouncing off the rocky surface before slipping into the shallow stream that ran down the center of the floor.

  “Brian!” Scott shouted, yanking on the grate.

  It gave only slightly with each jerk, the bank crumbling to dust around it before he was finally able to pull it free. He nearly fell onto his back beneath the weight of the grate, but was able to push it to the side at the last minute, stumbling to the right and nearly careening into the river.

  Regaining his balance, he ducked into the passage, the frigid water immediately covering his slippers and biting into his bare flesh beneath. There was absolutely no visibility. The darkness took on a life of its own, swarming around him. He ran, both hands stretched straight out in front of him so as not to run headfirst into a wall. His frozen toes snagged on something, sending him sprawling forward onto the floor, his hands splashing into the three inches of water after cracking through the thin layer of ice that covered it.

  His body landed on something soft, cushioning his fall. It had a warmth to it. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out the outline of a body, lying in the middle of the stream on the ground. The warmth from the chest flowed into his shirt, warming his own frozen skin. He placed his hand atop the body, running it through the thickly flowing blood that covered the chest, the fingertips snagging on the large tatter of flesh that stood out from the wound right in the center. Jagged fragments of bone had torn through the skin from the enormous hole in the sternum, Scott’s probing fingers sinking several inches into the chest cavity of the quickly draining corpse.

  Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled forward, catching himself on his hands before finally regaining his balance. He turned, staring down at the corpse of Brian James, the face contorted into the remnants of the last attempt to cry out, only to be silenced by whatever had ripped the enormous chunk free from his ribs.

  Wrenching his gaze from the body, Scott stared deep into the heart of the darkness that pulsed down the long tunnel, trying desperately to peel back the shadows to unveil whoever it was that slunk further away from him. There wasn’t a sound, save for the water trickling slowly beneath the thin surface of ice along the floor. He turned to stare out of the tunnel and into the night, to debate one last time whether to run back out into the dim light, or to press on into the tunnel.

  Movement caught his attention in front of the hole leading out into the night. The body that lay formerly motionless on the floor was slowly rising into the air, the arms rising out to the sides. The head rested on the shoulder to the right before falling forward, hanging limply against the chest. The flowing blood that raced from the chest of the body spilled past the pants, running over the toes of the shoes and dripping onto the cracked ice set askew atop the water. A groaning sound bellowed from the belly of the body as it hung in midair. The hands hung, palms upward, at the end of the arms, bouncing as the body finally stopped, hanging motionless against the night.

  “Help me,” a meek voice sputtered through a mouthful of blood, the crimson fluid flowing over the lower lip and splattering to the floor.

  Scott watched in horror, his feet frozen where they stood. Brian shuddered, his whole body convulsing. His eyes rolled back into his head as the unseen hands that held him in the air tore at him from either side. With one swift motion, the body was ripped in two, the insides falling with a sloppy thud to the floor as the shell was tossed to either side, landing in a heap against the base of the walls to either side.

  Whirling, Scott raced deeper into the tunnel, his eyes fixed intently on the thickening darkness, his legs churning with a will of their own. He could feel that hot breath of the apparition on the back of his neck as he reached deep down, grasping to find another level to propel him from whatever it was that skulked through the tunnel behind him.

  His footsteps echoed through the confines of the shrinking tunnel as his feet hammered on the thin ice, splashing into the frigid water below. He was drenched in the freezing fluid; his slippers soaked through and through, his pants saturated up the leg past the knee. But there was no time to think about that, no time to allow the sensation to cripple his mind. He focused solely on the sound of his heavy exhalations as he urged himself on. His chest, burning from the lack of oxygen, ached immensely, his arms and legs numbed as the muscles pumped over and over, propelling him further into the darkness.

  His squinting eyes were useless. There wasn’t even enough light to see his hand right in front of his face, let alone the twenty feet of tunnel in front of him at a full sprint. The smell of the tunnel was getting thicker, the stagnation of mud and whatever lived beneath the still water overwhelming his senses.

  In his mind, he tried to figure out how far he had run, and in what direction, but he didn’t have the slightest clue. He was just beginning to wonder if the tunnel stretched out forever when he slammed face-first into an earthen wall, his loosely-closed fists crumpling into his wrists. His legs drove out from beneath him as he became weightless. There was a loud splash, droplets of the freezing water splattering his face. His back landed squarely on the ground, bolts of pain shooting out into his body from his tailbone.

  Scrambling back to his feet, he nearly cried out in pain, every inch of his flesh screaming for reprieve, but he was able to stifle it, not knowing how close the creature might be to him. Running his hands along the wall, he found a metal framed hole, the hinges bare from where the grate had been ripped of. Measuring the width with his arm, he took a step back. It was barely tall enough for him to crawl through.

  Leaning over, he clutched his back and grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground. One at a time, he turned just slightly, throwing them away from himself to try to determine if there was another way out. One by one, he tossed them, as they ricocheted off of the cavern wall, coming back at him with nearly the same velocity with which he originally tossed them. Slowly he moved to about ninety degrees and launched one. The immediate crackle as it slammed into a wall right in front of him wasn’t there: a long pause followed before the pebble skipped off the ice, bouncing for several feet before settling.

  He placed his right hand on the wall, following it as it appeared to go straight along the same direction he had just fired the rock, running parallel with the river outside. Grabbing one more pebble, he launched it into the darkness, just to double check, as he knew that there was no room for error.

  The rock whistled past his ear, soaring into the darkness. He waited anxiously for the sound of the pebble bouncing along the frozen ground, but there was nothing. He waited a moment longer before tossing his last pebble down the invisible hallway. But there wasn’t a sound from this one either.

  Scott just stood there for a moment, wondering what the hell they had landed on that would ma
ke absolutely no sound. Suddenly, the answer became quite obvious.

  The first rock buzzed through the damp air, skipping off of his cheek before clipping his ear and bouncing off into the darkness. The second tagged him right in the back of the head as he had already whirled, his hands fumbling along the wall in search of the tunnel carved within.

  Grasping the lip of the hole, he boosted himself up, ducking his head beneath the metal rim. The floor was damp with a thin layer of ice formed over the dirt. His back scraped along the roof of the tunnel, bruising his spine, but not tearing through his shirt. Scrambling as fast as he could, he could feel the dirt pressing beneath his fingernails, building painfully.

  His heaving breath echoed all around him, closing in from the slowly lowering ceiling. The pants were the first thing to tear, followed by the skin of his knees; the thin lines of blood smearing across the kneecap.

  There was a sharp pain in his right hand, followed quickly by another in his left and he recoiled in pain. He dabbed at his palms with his fingertips. He could feel the wounds, but there was nothing sticking out of the flesh. It had felt like glass piercing the thick skin on his palms. Carefully, he ran his fingers along the ground, trying to find what had cut him so that he could just move it and hurry on his way. There was a rattling sound as his right hand knocked a small stack of whatever littered the floor together. He ran his fingers over the surface, noting the curves and the… fur?

  He tapped down the object, feeling the long, hairy tail coming from the back end of the creature. They were rat carcasses.

  Running his arm across the floor, he could hear the bones clattering against one another and slamming into the wall, their deteriorated forms falling apart. The floor was positively littered with them. The brittle, aged bones had more than likely snapped beneath his weight, the jagged tips forcing their way into his palms. Using his forearm like a brush, he shoved the skeletons, the tattered flesh and fur hanging from random connections, to either side.

  A thin line of darkness appeared in the pitch black ahead of him, a beacon of light coming through the small tunnel. It grew lighter and lighter as he forced himself on, his hand finally grabbing for the floor, but finding nothing but air. He toppled forward out of the tunnel. His hands landed first before his head slammed into the dirt floor, the rest of his body rolling over his neck, his back slamming squarely onto the ground.

  Wincing in pain, he forced his eyes open, staring around the dark room. Thin rays of light passed through the seals around the boarded windows. It wasn’t much, but he was able to make out enough of the outlines of objects to figure out what they were. A tall, cylindrical object loomed over him, long pipes issuing straight up and into the ceiling. It was a hot water heater; making the taller, rectangular one a furnace.

  Rolling onto all fours, he pushed himself to his feet, the dust and dirt from the floor sealing the wounds on his palms and bare knees. Limping, he followed the dull outline of what appeared to be stairs straight ahead, his footsteps echoing off the rotting wooden planks as he slowly ascended, the shredded flesh on his right palm wrapped tightly around the banister, tugging him upward. Shouldering the door at the top of the stairs, it fell back, swinging with a squeak into the adjacent room.

  His heavily falling, weary footsteps pounded on the plywood floor, booming like thunder. The room beyond this small, dark cove was much brighter, light prodding into the darkness from all around the plywood sheets that covered the windows, clouds of dust lingering within the thin rays arching toward the faded wood floor.

  Inching forward, his eyes fixed on the door in the wall straight ahead of him. He reached out for the doorknob as he closed the last five feet. The knob was cold within his hand, the brass ball soothing the tears in his palm. He twisted the knob, the breath finally starting to replenish itself within his chest.

  The knob wouldn’t budge.

  Shaking it, he yanked it backward, but it was sealed in place. He stopped, whirling around the room, and searched for any other way to get out. The windows had been boarded, but they had been sealed from the inside, the bent nails ringed around the boards. Stumbling, he grabbed onto one of them, taking a moment to slide his fingers over the top of the wooden plank, making sure that he had a good, secure grip.

  He spun; his heart pounding in his chest. He still clung to the top of the board. There was something in the room with him. He could feel it now: a thin line of ice creeping up his spine, the dust in the room swirling around the unseen form of the body that knifed through the still air.

  Turning back to the window, his breath coming fast and furious past his lips, he yanked on the board, the nails screeching as though they were being pulled from metal. It bowed inward, buckling along the middle. Bracing his feet on the wall, he pressed down on the bending sheet of wood, using his own weight to free the plywood from the wall.

  Tossing the sheet aside, he leapt onto the windowsill, oblivious to the fragmented glass that gouged into his already sliced palms, rolling out and dropping from the window into the snow. The wind roared through the valley, the snow driving in sheets as he cradled his clawed hands against his chest, staggering towards the road buried beneath the snow in the middle of the field. He looked back over his shoulder, only briefly, but long enough to recognize the house that he had just escaped from. It was the same house that haunted his dreams. The words were barely visible on the sign, the overhanging drift of snow covering the top half of the letters, but he could make them out all the same.

  “The Cavenaugh House.”

  And there was a shape in the window; the long hair from the head blowing about the darkened head on the swirling wind. He could feel the weight of the shadow’s stare, raising the hackles on his neck and shoulders. And there was one thing that he knew for certain at that instant, if whatever that was had wanted to kill him, it could have easily done so already. For whatever reason, it wanted to play with him, to somehow engage him in its macabre game.

  Turning back to the road, he hobbled toward the line of trees, praying for them to shelter him even slightly from the arctic wind.

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  THE BLOODSPAWN

  Michael McBride

  © 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved.

  PART SEVEN

  Part 7

  IX

  Monday, November 14th

  1 a.m.

  Harry awoke with a start. The howling wind screamed through the trees, the upper reaches of the bare branches of the elm scraping along the roof. There was a hollow pounding, creeping through the house, barely audible beneath the snow slamming into the wall behind his head like dirt in a windstorm. He rolled out of bed, his bare feet stinging from the cold floorboards, and crept through the darkened room. He stood in the doorway, intently listening as he fumbled along the wall for the light.

  Catching the switch, the fixture burst to life overhead just as a loud thump came from the front door. Running down the hallway, he turned into the kitchen, breezing through it and into the living room. He crossed the thick carpeting, heading straight toward the front door. Wrapping the cold knob tightly in his hand, he twisted the deadbolt and yanked the door inward.

  A crumpled body fell into the room, landing on the floor. He could barely make out the number nineteen on the back of the snow-crusted shirt, the face lying flat on the floor.

  “My God,” Harry gasped.

  Reaching down, he placed one hand beneath each of the armpits and dragged the limp body inward, slamming the door shut. He rolled the cold figure onto his back, staring down at the face. Scott’s eyelids were closed tightly, a thin layer of ice having formed on his long lashes. The ice-matted hair was buried beneath a layer of snow, the bright red ears in direct contrast to the white that covered nearly every inch of the body. Ice clung to the stubble on his face,
giving him the appearance of having a thick white beard.

  Dragging him across the floor, Harry pulled him to the base of the moss-rock fireplace, yanking a cushion from the chair and bracing it beneath Scott’s head. He ran to the hallway, throwing wide the thin door of the closet and tugging down a stack of blankets from the top shelf. Racing back into the living room, he stripped the wet, frozen shirt off of Scott’s chest, and yanked the torn, snow-covered pants off, tossing them into the corner of the room. Wrapping Scott tightly in the blankets, one layer after another, he hurried to the side of the fireplace, pulled several logs from the stack and shoved them into the fireplace, then dashed back into the kitchen for a pile of newspaper.

  Shoving the paper beneath the stack of logs, he grabbed the box of matches from the right of the pile of wood and threw back the sliding sleeve of the box, the matches falling all over the floor. Grabbing one, he scraped the white tip of the wooden match along the surface of the rock wall. The flame burst from the tip of the match, a tuft of black smoke filling the air around it. Covering the flame with his cupped hand, he lowered it beneath the soot stained rack, holding it still as the flame ignited the paper. The fire crept up the chimney; the bark on the logs crackling as it slowly charcoaled, the flame rising along the light pine, the individual fibers peeling back as they began to burn.

  Satisfied that the fire would continue to burn, he raced to the kitchen, glancing down at Scott, his chest rising and falling very slowly. The snow in his hair had begun to melt, spilling over his forehead like lines of sweat. Harry pulled the teapot from the sink, dumping the water he had been soaking in it down the drain. Throwing back the handle on the sink, he filled the can with water, rushing it to the stove and turning the knob on the burner to high. Throwing back the cabinet door directly above the stove, he grabbed a box of tea, pulling out a couple of bags and dropping them into the pot, closing the small circular lid and raising the wooden handle. He grabbed the small towel that hung from the handle of the oven.