Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty One

The ominous words of the speaker echoed through the dimly lit shed, shrouded in secrecy. "Little pig, little pig, let me in, or I will huff, puff, and blow your house down. That's how it goes, right? I have to say, well done, Georgie."

My hands ached, blood trickling from the cuts inflicted by the rough twine. Sweat mixed with dripping blood as I struggled to maintain my composure. Just in time, I reached the rope, which snapped with a loud pop, sending vibrations through the shed and rattling the tin roof.

I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, saliva spraying forward. The speaker's taunts hung in the air, an unsettling reminder that the puppeteer's sinister game had just begun.

I knew the victory lap I had envisioned would have to wait. The puppeteer was having far too much fun at our expense. I had evaded the first "check," but I couldn't shake the feeling that something far more sinister lay in wait.

With determination, I kicked the clamp free, releasing the top half of the guillotine brace, allowing the victim to push themselves upright slowly while keeping unnervingly quiet.

One of the side panels creaked open, revealing a picture. It was a black-and-white photograph of a young girl. The same child from Skip's missing person board. It could be a copy, but it was a taunt. As I removed more covers, they shook free from the victim's hands, landing on the floor, one after the other.

The puppeteer's voice resonated again, "So, Georgie, are you ready for some home truths?" It was clear the puppeteer was nearby, orchestrating this macabre spectacle.

The victim, shorter than Skip but with a build more reminiscent of Dalton, was dressed in a navy blue boiler suit. "First, on your friend's back, a two-digit number will serve you well. Second, when the suit comes off, there will be a gift bag for you containing your first truths. Do hurry. Oh, I hope he likes the picture. It won't be what you're thinking."

The number '17' on the victim's back left me bewildered. What could it mean? As the victim began stripping, revealing Dalton beneath the suit, my mind raced to comprehend the situation. Dalton's face, red, bruised, and cut, was a testament to the ordeal he had endured.

"Thank goodness you came; I owe you one," Dalton mumbles as he regained his composure.

"What's a bit of blood and sweat between friends?" I responded, though whether we were friends remained unanswered.

Dalton continues, "Beats the alternative. Besides this situation, we must work together to get through the day. So, what do you know about this?" I showed Dalton the photo of the missing child.

"That's Andy's kid; what the hell is her picture doing here?" Dalton's voice was heavy with concern.

"You tell me," I say, my thoughts racing. "The tape said, 'They hope you like the picture.' Any thoughts?"

"Plenty, and none of them good," Dalton replies. "But now I think of it, I remember how close I came once. A secret I've kept; I came closer to getting her than I told Andy. We tagged onto a traffic stop after a passer-by called in a black van on the M25 parked on a sloping road. I saw somebody with a struggling child in the back. By the time traffic stopped, the child was asleep, and they looked like an ordinary family. I didn't know until I reached the carnage at Andy's house."

"You weren't to know," I console him. "This bastard is taunting you, kicking you while you're down, dredging up old nightmares."

"How were you grabbed? Did you get a look at them?" I inquired, worried that the puppeteer might have a network of operatives.