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.
Turning, he walked back into the living room, and knelt next to the cushion beside Scott’s head. He ran the towel over Scott’s forehead, wiping away the cold lines of water that pooled beneath his hairline, dripping toward his brow. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, only interrupted by a wheezing, dry cough every couple of minutes. He couldn’t remember whether he was supposed to bring him back to temperature rapidly, or if he needed to do it slowly. It had been more than fifty years since he had actually practiced medicine, but he knew that prudence was the best course of action when it came to any form of treatment.
The color slowly rose in Scott’s face, the turnip-red, chapped skin fading to a more pinkish hue, the bright blue rings that rimmed his eyes tapering into a more normal brown. Crawling alongside the body, Harry peeled back the blankets that covered the toes, checking the fluorescent-red digits for frostbite. While not obvious at first, as the toes warmed beside the fire, he could tell that they were going to be fine.
“Thank heaven for small favors,” he said, covering the feet and creeping along the floor to where Scott’s
