Cold Blood by Jack M.

Whenever I look back, my mind panics. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the shadows. Whenever I am in silence, I hear the screams. Whenever I am alone, it feels so fresh in my weary thoughts.

The howl pierced the evening air as the skies began to bleed a dark crimson and a cold chill fell upon a serene Earth. I sat up immediately from resting in the tent, my nerves on overdrive throughout my body. The only thing eerier than the howl was the deathly silence of the forest after its echo. It arose again and turned into a slow whining as it slowly faded away.

“What was that?” My friend Mark almost whispered outside of the tent. I stood on uncertain feet and got outside where the other three paused, wary.
“That wasn’t any wolf.” Alex put down the firewood in his hand. Josh beside him was breathing heavily.
We shared a nervous glance as Mark began to walk north. “Come on, let’s go see.” Josh and myself, leaving behind a reluctant Alex, followed him.

We made our way through the forest; thick trunks and dense ferns could not hold back a thriving curiosity. The sun had almost set when we found the rocks. An intricate pattern in which a great number of boulders stood.

“My Lord…” Mark’s eyes grew wide, navigating through the formation. He bent down and grasped what looked to be a rock, but it was far from. My veins grew cold. He brought the object closer: a pale skull, wide eyes, sharp teeth, and long horns.
“Put it back, man, it has nothing to do with the noise we heard.” Josh’s voice was not the same.
“How do you know?” I inserted, but we all knew the howl didn’t matter at all now.
“Come on, let’s look at it in the firelight,” Mark’s words made apparent the dim light we stood in. We nodded and sullenly trudged back to the camp.

The fire danced to the sky, leaping joyously in a tangerine dream. I tried to keep it in my focus, but my eyes were drawn to our finding. The skull sat on the rock as we discussed our opinions on the matter. Only one thing was agreed upon, it was not human or animal. Three of us decided to abandon our wilderness trip and take it to the town the next day. Alex was adamant in disposing of it.

It was late when we all retired to our tents, and I don’t know now if I even fell asleep. Nighttime surrounded me and loosened my mind. I was half awake when my heartbeat began to slow, my breaths short. In a slow slur, deep, distorted sounds surrounded the tent, shaken by the wind. My thoughts were tainted with sights my mind still refuses to bear. A dark shadow of a figure I could not describe stood within its own malice. I couldn’t see it, but it was somehow in my thoughts. The slur turned into a low moan. “Filius du Insuadibilis quisnam havi inficio torin du meus hadie per vestri gelu cruor. Pitiful parvulus quisnam teneo nusquam du immortalis. Me vos sino in vestri to vamor. Je sum Messor.” I sat up, my heartbeat heavy in my ears. The sound grew louder and louder as I rushed out of the tent. Immediately, my eyes caught sight of the skull, and a deep sounding drum filled my mind. I was snapped from the trance as I saw Mark and Josh outside as well, looking around in fear.

“You hear that too?” Mark’s words were quick.
I nodded. “Where’s Alex?”

I stood alone in the midst of the trees, faint calls of Alex’s name around me. The forest was cold, unusual, and different. The summer moon’s glow heavy enough to break the canopy. I was about to return to the camp when I heard a scream to my right. Racing through the trees, I found myself in a clearing, Mark and Josh staring in the distance. As I stood next to them, I could see a figure, on the cliff before us, silhouetted against the full moon. The figure was Alex. Just barely in the light, he turned to us and I could see a tear stream down his face. “ALEX!”

“He’s coming…The eyes! They speak to me! …I will not let him take me…” I could hear him moaning. Deep inside I knew I could not have saved him, but I still blame myself to this day. With one last cry, he dove to the lake below. The hollow sound of bone cracking the rocks filled the night.

At our camp, we were panicking, numb in shock. We didn’t know why, how, or what made him do it, but he was gone and we could not explain. Together, we decided the daylight would clear our minds and retired once again to solitude.

This time I know I did not sleep. Within an hour, the demonic slur commenced. It filled my mind and my veins ran cold. It was not until I heard the screaming that the voices stopped. I ran out of my tent to see Mark holding a crying Josh back from the skull.

“Get rid of it! He knows it’s here!” Josh broke past Mark and grasped the skull. The drums grew louder and louder. I couldn’t make them stop. What happened next remains a blur in my mind. Mark’s eyes grew in a wild fury and flame as he pulled out our knife and thrust it into Josh’s stomach. The boy let the skull drop as he stammered around, a questioning expression across his face, finally falling to the ground. Breathing one last time, I choked on my fear and I screamed.

“What the hell are you doing?”
Mark stood, panting. He was not himself; eyes black and endless, stare, unqualified.

“You cold blooded son of a –.” The words fell from my mouth as he lunged at me and struck my head with a rock. There I lay, unconscious.

Who knows what time I came across my senses, all I remember was the moon setting in the west, an eerie moon, the light from it bringing uncomfort. I lay there, hoping it was all a sick dream. It wasn’t. I stood slowly. The fire embers were cooling and Josh’s body was stiff. I slid the knife from his stomach biting my lip. It held with it, a frightening chill, stained with the Devil’s crimson. Mark was nowhere to be seen, along with the skull. I felt sick. My mouth was full of acid, my head was pounding, and I was freezing. Walking around to clear my head, to my pure disgust I found Mark, hanging from a tree by his belt. The endless eyes were gone, replaced with those of pain and innocence. I began to vomit; the world was spinning and the wind rushed around me. I could hear voices, lonely cries within the gusts: weeping. Once again, the drums filled my ears, the slur beginning, “Filius du Insuadibilis quisnam havi inficio torin du meus
hadie per vestri gelu cruor. Pitiful parvulus quisnam teneo nusquam du immortalis. Me vos sino in vestri to vamor. Je sum Messor.”

“WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” I screamed violently. The bloody knife was cast in the moonlight, the only way to rid of the pain. I pulled it to my stomach as the fire seared through me and the world began to blur, the slur of voices, slowing. My focus turned to the low hill to my left. On a pure white stallion sat a dark, morbid figure in black robbing, its eyes, unexplainable in any mortal words. In his arms was the skull. Looking into the eyes I could not breathe. I fell to my knees, heaving on fear and crying.

The slur began to fade into understandable words, a low whispering demonic voice, “…son of Adam who hath tainted the skull of my underworld with thy cold blood. Pitiful child who know noth of immortality. May thee suffer in thy own ignorance…I am The Reaper…”
The words echoed in my mind as I let out a weak scream. Lying on the soil, I gently placed my hand to my stomach. From the wound, the deep liquid crimson seeped…cold.

I don’t know now who found me, I don’t really care. I woke up in a hospital almost a week later. I told the story once; they think I’m insane. Mark, Josh, Alex…they were never found, not even their bodies. No evidence whatsoever. There were even campers in the same forest that night who claimed they heard nothing.

One of the doctors told me the area we were on was once the site of a rock formation, once a place of pagan worship, beyond their architectural abilities; however it was destroyed in 1864 in a battle of the Civil War in which every soldier died.

So they don’t believe me? I don’t care. But some nights, when I’m lying in my bed, the wind will weep and outside my window will be the white stallion, the Reaper on its back, and my blood will turn cold.