Blood

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


A man's flashbacks of a strange childhood with his grandparents.

Submitted: December 21, 2017

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Submitted: December 21, 2017

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I looked down at the pile of curdled blood at my feet on the dusty stone floor and then back up at the bloody piles of bones on the workbench, finally setting my eyes on the red-stained knife in the hand of my grandfather.

"You.. and Grandma... cannibals?!" Grandfather gave me his usual stern look he used when I had done something wrong. "Now boy... you're making a mighty big assumption, and I've half a mind to take off my belt."

Tears started running down my face, and I felt my vomit creep up inside me as I fought my gag reflex. "I'm not stupid! I saw that preacher come in, I was watching from across the street while I was playing outside! He never left!" In a flash, his belt was off and he whipped me the face, the long strip of black weather scraping across my open eye. "Boy! You keep your mouth shut! You're plenty young and there's lots of things you don't understand yet!"

"You killed him!" Another whipping in the face, and I was on the floor bawling.

"I'm going up, but when you're done crying, come back up from the basement and eat dinner with us."

Flash forward four years, and I stand before the graves of my dead grandparents, my family around me weeping. But that's just because they don't know what I do. Days, months, and eventually years passed, but the image of the Jehovah's Witnesses's bones on the basement work bench still left me scarred, every detailed etched clearly into my mind. There wasn't a day that it didn't pass my mind.

Every night I tossed and turned, and when I did sleep all I had was nightmares. My foster parents couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, and neither could the doctors, so they did what they thought was the best thing they could do for me. Put me on antidepressants.

The nightmares ended, but now I was a brainless zombie, and nothing seemed to be worth talking about anymore. Eventually I couldn't take it any longer, and began flushing them down the toilet, covering my mouth with another pillow at night so that my parents don't hear me cry out in my sleep.

Tonight, I eventually fell asleep, and when I dreamed that I was alone in the basement with Grandpa, and I was three years old again, playing with an antique train set.

"Hey, Duffin... Grandpa's been working on a project for you.."

"Really? What is it?!"

Grandpa smiled warmly. "I made you a new train." We both got up and I started running towards his workbench. "Watch out for that nail on the floor!" But it was too late, and my foot went right onto it, the nail going straight through and impaling it. "Duffin, dang it! I told you to be careful!" 

Blood was gushing from my tiny foot, and I was too much in shock to scream as I stared blankly at the ceiling. "Agh, your foot! Hold on, I'll fix it up!" He pulled out the rug to reveal a small trap door, carrying me down on one of his arms before he started to put a bucket under my foot as I blacked out.

I woke with a start back in my bed in my now dead grandparents' home, alone in my bed and drenched in sweat. And then I remembered what I dreamed. No, it was just a dream... But I don't know, what if I had somehow recovered this childhood memory? How long were my grandparents like this? The thought alone put a lump in my throat, but I knew I had to do this. I had to know the truth. Pulling off my blankets and listening them quietly shuffle onto the floor, I opened the door, looking down the hall towards the basement stairs.

Once I got down, I looked around at the basement I hadn't dared enter in years, and saw the same rug that I had seen in the dream. I have to do this. Pulling the rug from its spot in the floor, a small whimper slipped from between my lips as I looked upon a small wooden trap door with a metal door knocker for a handle.

I turned the handle. 


© Copyright 2018 Zach Reynoldson. All rights reserved.

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