Bloodline Awakened Supernatural Thriller Series: Books 1-3

by Jason Paul Rice

  The screeching sound of stressing car brakes captured her attention.

  Emily raced to the front of the house and peeled back the curtain. A white utility van that looked like something a painter would drive sat in front of her house. She watched it for several minutes, until the driver got out.

  The driver, a bald man with thick black eyebrows and a maze of fat wrinkles on his pudgy face, walked toward the back of his van. He wore a brown robe that resembled the outfit of a monk, and was barefoot. As he reached the back of the van, he appeared to be talking into the vehicle, but the door was still closed.

  The older man, sweat covering his glistening head, turned away from the van and headed toward Emily’s front door. As he passed the mailbox at the end of the driveway, the van started to rock back and forth. Loud pounding sounds from inside the vehicle matched outward dents that started appearing on the body of the van.

  To Emily, it seemed like a wild beast was raging to escape its cage. As the sounds and denting continued, the man scurried back to the van’s rear. He slapped the back door and shouted into the vehicle again until his face reddened, then he straightened out his robe and walked toward the house again.

  Emily’s heartbeat increased with every step he took until he stood at her door. She didn’t want to answer it. She didn’t remember giving him her address. Had he drugged her with that green drink? That was the only idea that made sense to her.

  Her mind raced as...

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  She stood only feet away from the mysterious man, separated from him by about two-inches of wood, debating whether to answer the door or run and hide in her room.

  Chapter 6

  Prince’s Mountain

  SENTINEL PRESS

  Circle in the Square

  Dan O’Neill

  April 13, 1934

  Today marks the unfortunate six-month anniversary of what has become known as George Houlihan’s Massacre or the more truncated George Murders. The police aren’t any closer to solving the case right now. They are in the same place as when the first reports started arriving at the Prince’s Mountain Police Station.

  Thirteen bodies had been found in a perfect circle, with all the flesh torn from their arms and legs. The gruesome corpses were laid out in the very center of the two-square-mile plot of land known as Houlihan’s Square. All thirteen victims had suffered the same vicious outcome, and there were no survivors or witnesses.

  Officer Fred Minson, a veteran with fourteen years of experience on the Prince Mountain Police Department, said the case was unlike anything he’d ever seen. I asked him three months ago if he believed this had anything to do with the legend of George Houlihan.

  His response: “I really don’t want to believe any of that. But the more I dig into past reports, there does seem to be a pattern to these murders. Either someone has been committing all of them for almost two hundred years or this is some sick family ritual that’s been passed down over generations. I don’t have any proof yet, but I plan to find out.”

  As of this day, Officer Minson has yet to bring in a single suspect. However, he did refer me to the coroner’s report. The official cause of death was severe blood loss, but the report also said that there appeared to be knife or claw marks on the bones, indicating that someone had cut the flesh away.

  After further evaluation on the examination table, it had been determined that the marks had been caused by a razor-sharp set of strong teeth.

  This isn’t the first time the locals have uttered the name George. The first murder attributed to the beast known as George Houlihan happened back in 1821.

  Over the years, strikingly similar murders occurred at random intervals. However, the mass murder of thirteen innocent campers still has the surrounding citizens shaken.

  I talked to Prince’s Mountain resident Jerry Trembell, a thirty-six-year-old grocery store clerk. He plans to move north when his lease runs out next month.

  He told me, “I just can’t stay ‘round here no more. I don’t do for that spooky stuff, but people keep sayin’ they seen that hairy guy with blood all over him. I don’t need that to be my blood, I can tell you that. They got stores I can work in up north.”

  This column is tragically short because the answers are still eluding the investigators, amateur and professional alike. As the monthly pages fall from the calendar, the likelihood of bringing the murderer to justice is shrinking into nonexistence.

  The police are faced with two horrible possibilities.

  Is an immortal murderous creature stalking the woods of Houlihan’s Square and the surrounding areas?

  Or is it a series of copycat murders, perhaps passed down through the generations?

  Unfortunately for this small town, it has to be one of them.

  Chapter 7

  Mike

  MIKE WALKED INTO THE bar and turned right back around. He made it back outside before the door could shut.

  “Don’t try and run, you bitch-ass motherfucker,” screamed a woman from inside the bar.

  Mike knew he was going to run into this girl again so he decided to go back in and take his medicine.

  He pushed the slow-moving glass door, and the girl came running over.

  She swung her purse and smacked him in the shoulder. Mike held up his hands in defense while she continued her leathery assault.

  “You piece of shit. You stole my credit card? What kind of loser are you?”

  “Whatever, you fat bitch. Get your ass outta here before I have you rolled,” Mike bluffed, irritated.

  The pale girl with short brown hair scanned the room. “Shit, there’s nobody here that can roll me. In fact, I’d probably beat your ass, you little bitch.”

  Mike was far from a little bitch. He tried to remain calm but this wild woman was dancing on the fault line. He wouldn’t stand to be embarrassed in his favorite bar even if he had stolen her money and credit card earlier that morning.

  The woman continued berating him. “You suck in bed, and you have a tiny dick. Plus, I’ll be surprised if I didn’t catch anything sleeping in that nasty bed, too, you scumbag.”

  An idea for escape struck Mike. He would tell everyone he had cancer. He’d scream it out. People would start falling over each other to tell him how sorry they were. If he let that little secret out, this girl would apologize, and he would probably never have to buy a drink in this town again. Sympathetic beers for the rest of his days.

  But Mike held onto a shred of pride and didn’t take the easy way out. He just stood there by the door of his favorite bar and let the girl he had sex with the night before give him the business. Before long, she finally ran out of breath and energy, swung the brown strap of her leather purse over her shoulder, shoved Mike aside and stormed out.

  Mike’s friends, Billy and Scott, were sitting at their usual table in the back corner and laughing their asses off. The open room had a long, straight bar against the wall on the right-hand side, and tables with chairs haphazardly scattered around. A beat-up black and red dart board hung in the right corner, near the end of the bar, and Mike and his crew always sat in the left corner at the only round table in the place.

  His friends were still laughing at him as he approached. Mike kicked out an old wooden chair and sat down. “Shut the hell up. It don’t matter ‘cause I got her to buy me drinks all last night and I got some cash outta her. Joke’s on her, and she’s just lucky they wouldn’t let me use the credit card or she’d be a broke-ass bitch on top of it all.”

  Mike’s breathing was finally returning to normal after the unexpected embarrassment. He grabbed a white plastic Miller Lite cup from a stack in the middle of the table and poured himself a beer from the pitcher next to the cups.

  The foam rose perfectly to the top, threatening to spill over yet ultimately sitting still like a good dog. Mike rubbed his index finger on his nose and dipped it into the foam. He watched the fluffy white froth disintegrate, then chugged about half of the warm beer. He set the cu
p down and looked around the bar.

  It was still early. The bar was empty. Other than his table and some regular degenerates at the bar, the place was deserted. Nobody was even playing foosball, which was rare for this bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air and the jukebox played Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen in the background.

  Kyle strolled through the front door and walked over to their table.

  “So, what? You didn’t crumble, did you?” Mike asked.

  Kyle chuckled as he picked the pitcher up and chugged the last quarter of it. The meathead burped, and said, “I ain’t no bitch. I told ‘em we went in them woods with him and he musta run away. They didn’t even try to press me on that.”

  Mike took another drink of the metallic tasting House Draft. He was convinced they took all the old beer left over at the end of the night and put it into a special keg, and called it House Draft. It was never cold, even straight out of the tap.

  Mike stood up, pointing and talking with his hands. “They tried to stick me with a bunch a questions about Gary till I turned it around and told those pigs they need to worry about finding out who killt my mom and stop asking me questions ‘bout what I’m doing.”

  Despite the blatant lie, Mike managed to sound tough in front of the guys. He had been extremely nervous during the routine questioning and stuttered through most of his answers.

  With a strong right hand, he grabbed the empty pitcher from the table and walked up to the bar. He slammed it on the stained counter and made eye contact with the fifty-five-year-old bartender. The thick woman slowly waddled over like it was a major inconvenience, and said in a sour tone, “Nother House?”

  Mike smiled and nodded.

  As she grabbed the pitcher, the bloody scab on the back of her hand stood out to Mike. She tilted the clear plastic pitcher at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing the foam run off and down the silver drain pan below, then steadily raised the pitcher as it filled until it stood straight and tall and full of suds.

  She put it on the bar and pushed it as far toward him as her short arms allowed. The tide of yellow lager moved back and forth after she stopped and foam jumped up over the edge. Mike held out a wrinkled five-dollar bill.

  Disgust spread over the bartender’s pale face as she snatched the bill from Mike. She turned around and punched the number pad on the register until the tray flung open with a ring. She took two bills out, turned around and threw them at Mike.

  Mike loved $3 Pitcher Night. He scooped up the two dollars and replaced them with two quarters.

  “Cheap motherfucker.” The bartender mumbled under her breath as Mike grabbed the pitcher and returned to the table.

  Mike and his friends downed pitcher after pitcher, and mixed in some shots here and there. The bar began to fill up, and Mike looked through a haze of cigarette smoke at an attractive brunette at the bar. Her perfect makeup featured purple lipstick, and her designer clothes along with the golden barrettes in her long, black hair gave her a classy look. Much too classy for this bar.

  Chapter 8

  Emily

  EMILY PUT HER THIN lacy sleeve over her nose to avoid the second-hand smoke. She remembered coming to this dive when she was underage. Right now, she felt relaxed and refreshed from a nice nap. She rested her elbow on the dirty bar and tried to get the older bartender’s attention, but the woman was at the other end.

  Emily was clearly overdressed in a deep purple cami and see-through, long-sleeved mesh overlay embroidered with floral patterns on the belly and flared sleeves. The scalloped hem bled into her black shorts, and the outfit was tied together with a gaudy golden belt just above her wide hips that accentuated her ample breasts.

  She thought about the offer that Tucker McSeamus had presented her earlier today. Fifty thousand dollars to dig up a broken piece of an amulet sounded like music to her ears. That was until he had told her where the excavation would be taking place. She didn’t want to go into Houlihan’s Circle.

  Emily wracked her brain trying to figure out if she had any friends that would help her. She quickly came to the harsh realization that she had abandoned her lifelong friends over the past few years while she had concentrated on the company. Emily looked down the bar at the sloth-like bartender and debated reaching into the cooler and grabbing an energy drink.

  A heavy scent of cheap hairspray cloyed her nostrils as the bartender worked her way down the bar. Emily eavesdropped as the female patron two seats down shouted, “Hey, Karen. How are you tonight?”

  The flushed-faced bartender palmed some sweat off her forehead and wiped it on the hip of her tan shorts. “I’m good. Busy. How’re the kids?”

  The woman leaned up on her barstool and said, “They’re okay. Hey, I heard Mike and Kyle was with Gary last night right before he got killed. Is it so?”

  The bartender leaned over the bar and lowered her voice but Emily could still hear her. “Sounds like it. They were picked up by the cops earlier. I heard them talkin’ about it. They don’t seem too spooked about it, though.”

  The woman replied, “Poor Gary. I went to school with his mum. Constance didn’t deserve this right now, with the divorce and all. I say they all should have their heads checked for going into that haunted, godforsaken place.”

  An alarm went off in Emily’s head. These guys weren’t scared to go into the Circle. She fanned away some smoke that smelled like cloves and ordered her beverage, then drank it standing up by the corner of the bar as she plotted what she wanted to say.

  Emily still didn’t understand why the tarot card reader had been standing over her when she had woken up from her nap. A calm ran through her veins that even the energy drink couldn’t excite. All the inner hysteria from earlier had vanished into the good night.

  She heard shouts from the table in the corner of the room. “I’ll eat it for five bucks. Shit, I’ll do just about anything for five bucks.”

  A slow smile crept across her lips as she looked back for the bartender. She ordered another energy drink and two pitchers of Budweiser. She slid the handles of the clear pitchers together and grabbed them off the bar. The unexpected weight caused her to almost drop the pitchers, but just a little spilled over the sides.

  She walked over the guy’s table and set the pitchers down. She smiled at the one name Kyle, and then at Mike. “You boys thirsty?”

  The two young men eagerly nodded their heads, and their other friends went to grab the pitchers from her hand.

  But Emily said in a shrill voice, “Sorry, this is just for these two. Can we talk privately?”

  Mike and Kyle looked at each other and agreed before sending their friends away. Mike picked up one of the pitchers and poured three beers. He slid one over to Kyle and placed another in front of Emily before blowing the foam off the top of his beer onto the ground.

  An awkward silence ensued until Emily abruptly said, “My name is Emily.” She extended her right hand and felt the powerful grips of both men. “Do you have names?”

  They both announced their names, and Emily decided to get to the point. “I hear you guys went into Houlihan’s Circle last night. I think that’s pretty badass.”

  Kyle puffed out his chest and shrugged his shoulders. “No big deal. I don’t know what everyone is scared about.”

  She took a drink out of the big Red Bull can and said, “You two sound perfect to help me make some easy money. That is unless you guys were lying about being scared.”

  Kyle said, “The hell we are. At least I ain’t.”

  Emily turned to Mike and asked, “What say you?”

  The phrase sent a chill up Mike’s back. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  She smiled gently and moved closer to the table. “I have an opportunity to dig something up and get paid a handsome reward for it. I am looking for a few boys to help me with the effort. I am willing to split the entire amount with you guys.”

  Kyle asked, “And what do we gotta do?”

  Emily casually said, “Just dig up an old artif
act from under the ground. It shouldn’t be more than three feet below the earth. I just need two strong men to help. My digging skills are lacking and I need to handle something else while you two dig it up.”

  Mike asked, “How much?”

  Emily paused for dramatic effect as she looked around the bar and held her head near the middle of the table. Mike and Kyle instinctually leaned closer.

  “Five thousand dollars. Half of the total amount.”

  Emily knew she had them by the instant gleam on both of their faces. She tried not to smile as Mike and Kyle whispered in each other’s ears. They turned to Emily.

  Mike asked, “What’s the catch?”

  Emily took another sip of the energy drink. “No catch. For real. If you guys aren’t afraid of anything. The area is in the middle of Houlihan’s Circle.” She tried to casually drop in the last line, but both young men’s faces turned to stone.

  The excited gleam that had graced their faces only moments before had been scrubbed away by those last two words.

  “I thought you two weren’t scared. I guess I can find someone else.” Emily pushed her chair out, stood up and grabbed her drink, hoping to be stopped.

  Kyle bit. “Now wait a second. We can do it but we’re going to need more money.”

  Emily sat back down and said, “Nope. I’ll just find someone else to do it. Five grand to dig a hole is a pretty good job.”

  Mike said, “Six grand or you can grab a shovel. You ain’t gonna to find anyone to go in there for less.”

  Emily wanted to fight him, but she knew he was right. A small part of her was confident that these guys would still do the job for five grand but she didn’t want to risk it. She also felt like giving them more would make them feel like they had won the negotiations and forty-four thousand dollars to be the ringleader of this circus was sufficient.