Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty

In the quiet solitude of a lonely five-by-five-foot, light brown fence, a bright red phone box stood six to eight feet behind a meticulously trimmed grass verge. Despite the strain, I arrived with a mere ten minutes to spare, my destination marked by the intersection of Denham Way. This lonely road led to a treacherous, muddy path.

The phone box caught my eye as I contemplated the daunting task ahead – to rescue three individuals, possibly those close to me or known to me. Desperation and anxiety swirled within as I considered making a couple of calls, hoping to rule out the victims. First, I dialled Skip's number, but all I encountered was a droning, disconnected tone that sent shivers down my spine. Panic gnawed at my thoughts, for I couldn't bear the idea of him becoming a victim. I repeated the attempt several times, all to no avail.

Moving on to the next name on my list, I tried reaching Charlie, although I harboured doubts about his intentions. Still, I had no time to lose. The result was disheartening – the same disconnected tone echoed in my ears. The bass drum of my racing heart provided a relentless soundtrack to my anguish, preventing me from realising the cruel extent of the puppeteer's game.

Then I saw it, a message, possibly written in blood, on the phone directory, bearing the chilling words: 'TikTok, no police, and no help,' topped off by an unsettling smiley face. With six minutes and forty-five seconds left, I had little room for further attempts, and my mind had already begun forming a sinister list, with no room for second-guessing.

The potential victims loomed large, with Sgt. Andy Morris, Charlie Masters, and DC Michael Dalton occupy the top spots. The ghost of Chris's death hovered over my thoughts, and I couldn't escape the feeling that the body count would rise by the end of the day, raising the grim question of who would be next.

Summoning a moment of respite, I inhaled the comforting scent of the well-kept grass and the tantalising aroma of a cooked breakfast – simple reminders that life could be normal and people decent. The car roared to life as I set off, my senses on high alert for any potential traps or unforeseen obstacles on my route, for I knew the puppeteer had orchestrated a grand and evil game.

I drove through the entrance, flanked by white-beamed fencing, and encountered the first challenge – a cattle grid vibrating beneath the wheels, starkly contrasting with the conspicuous absence of cattle. Moving on, I was drawn to an overgrown walnut tree, its branches defying physics as they formed a sheltering canopy, cradling the sky.

Amidst the tranquil surroundings, the golden straw fields on either side of the dirt road painted an idyllic picture of solitude. Despite the farm's well-maintained exterior, the absence of any human presence was unnerving. Where were the farmers? The farm equipment stood deserted, waiting for hands that had disappeared.

I drew closer to yet another enigma, hoping it was a false alarm. But the image of the crimson-red smiley face, painted in human blood, was a harrowing confirmation of the impending horror. Despite being too late to save Chris, I knew what to do. Now, another person's fate rested squarely in my trembling hands.

The chilling atmosphere was punctuated by the sight of a small grey tape player hanging from a rusty screw beside that bloody smiley face. Fear clawed at the back of my throat, and I couldn't deny my apprehension. These tapes had only brought bad news in the past, and the grim realisation that they were laced with human blood further unsettled me.

The tape clicked to life, its sinister voice luring me into the nightmarish game, which had already trapped me in its web. The words painted a grotesque image, where life hung by the thinnest of threads and a sick bastard taunted my every move.