Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Thirty Five

The gag flew off, accompanied by wads of spit, leaving Skip beetroot red with sweat dripping down his face. The back of his boiler suit bore another series of numbers: '230552.' Given how this twisted quest had unfolded, it had to be a date, but its significance remained a mystery.

Skip began stripping down, shedding the terrifying reminder of his captivity to reveal his uniform. He must have been snatched at the end of his shift last night. When he returned home, he was still in his half-blue uniform and found his place in a mess, the aftermath of a gruesome scene. As he discarded the last rags, I noticed another recorder hanging around his neck, surely the bearer of the next truth.

"Took your sweet time, lad," Skip remarked, displaying a flicker of his sense of humour despite the trauma.

"Yeah, my apologies; I got sidetracked reading the." I couldn't help but wonder how the puppeteer had known the news article would apply to me. The whole situation had me baffled. Stealing a folder is one thing, but understanding its relevance is another unless Skip's place has been bugged, which adds another layer of complexity.

Dalton chimed in, pointing to Skip's chest. "Looks like we're in for another round of these truths."

Turning his attention to the recorder, Skip swiped at it, bringing it into the light. A red smiley face adorned its front.

"Well, while you were away, Georgie, I was busy trying to catch your scent outside my window–a development I'm not thrilled about. But you saw the message board, which I'll explain later. I assume you returned to my place and noticed someone leaving, and the security was compromised. You went inside to investigate and stumbled upon the room, but you heard me and thought it best to retreat. Frustrated with the chaos downstairs, I poured myself a double. I barely drank half of it before everything went dizzy, my vision blurred, and everything went blank. The next thing I knew, I was hanging upside down, blood rushing to my head, and I still couldn't see. Now, will you enlighten me on what the hell is happening?"

Skip must have been drugged, but it raised questions about how the puppeteer knew what Skip drank and where he kept it. Skip's cupboard held older bottles that he wouldn't typically bother with, especially if he was the only one to partake. Could it be that Skip was under surveillance? That seemed to be the most logical explanation. However, not much about this ordeal had a reasonable explanation. Whoever had moved him would have to be exceptionally strong.

"Well, we're trapped in this sick game, and there's another life at stake. This puppeteer rigged everything from the very beginning. Somehow, he manipulated Chris into pursuing that investigation. He flushed out those families, likely had Chris killed by a fake 'Lewis,' disposed of the real one, and orchestrated events to make everything point to me. I've been dancing to his tune ever since. On a side note, I found an address for what's supposedly my family's home in your room. It's of great significance. When you told me that story, you should have mentioned you knew the exact address."

"You're spot on about one thing – I encountered someone outside with red eyes, similar to the ones in my dreams. I took the bait and went to that house, searching for answers. It seems like they set me up. I ran into two thugs who shot me twice. I should probably be dead, but I'm not. There's so much more to this and the people involved; honestly, it's terrifying—all of it. I woke up covered in blood, and those thugs mutilated me. I found a tape in my pocket, and it set me on a game to save Dalton on some farm. This person knows everything about us and the past you've shared with me so far. As you can see from this recorder, they always sign off with an annoying smiley face. I suspect they have one more game in store, and I fear it involves Charlie."

I intentionally omitted that I'd found a pendant and an unusual stone. I needed to uncover the whole truth once and for all. Unable to ignore the pressing urge to scrutinise my hand, counting my fingers, hoping I was dreaming. When I confirmed the count of five fingers, I checked my wrist. This time, I had twenty-two seconds before the symbol vanished.