The Withered - An M18+ Wattpad Exclusive (DISCONTINUED)

A1 - The Blood Under the Fingernails (1)

Sunday, May 9th, 1993...

Rainwater spilled from the sky in sheets, soaking the dirt road until it bled into thick, oozing mud. Each drop struck the ground with a dull patter, lost in the hiss of the storm. Thunder grumbled from the clouds above, low and distant, a warning carried on the wind.

A grey car crept forward, its tires spinning helplessly before lurching through the sludge. The headlights flickered, carving a narrow path through the dark, as if reluctant to shine too far ahead. The driver gripped the wheel tightly, his hands slippery with blood. He barely blinked as the windshield wipers dragged across the glass in sluggish rhythm, smearing rain into streaks. For a moment, a streetlight passed overhead, casting a brief halo of pale light that revealed the cold glint of steel in the passenger seat—a weathered axe resting quietly, blade stained with something dark.

The car rolled deeper into the mud-soaked road, slowing as the engine sputtered. Ahead, a cabin appeared out of the shadows—its sagging roof heavy with water, walls warped and damp from years of storms. The tires churned the mud one last time before coming to a stop with a wet squelch.

Inside the car, the driver sat motionless. Rain hammered the windows, but he didn't seem to hear it. He exhaled slowly, fogging the glass in front of him. Then, with a deliberate hand, he reached for the axe and a crumpled sheet of paper with words scribbled across it. A paperclip, bent and misshapen, clung to the edge.

The door groaned as he pushed it open, and the rain welcomed him with cold fingers, soaking his clothes on contact. He stood beside the car for a moment, eyes scanning the woods around the cabin. The night was thick and silent, the trees looming like black figures watching from a distance. No sounds. No movement. Just rain and the occasional rumble of thunder.

The man shut the door softly and stepped toward the cabin. His boots sank into the mud, leaving deep prints that were quickly swallowed by the rain. At the porch, he stopped, glancing over his shoulder one last time. The forest remained still, as if holding its breath.

Kneeling by the door, he gripped the rusted padlock with one hand and worked the paperclip into the keyhole with the other. The cold metal resisted, slipping under his wet fingers, but he twisted carefully, forcing it to yield. Seconds dragged on, the rain pounding harder around him. With a soft click, the padlock gave way.

The man straightened, slipping the axe into his grip again. He eased the door open slowly, the hinges creaking in protest, and stepped into the darkness beyond.

The cabin swallowed him whole, and the door shut with a quiet, final thud...

A suffocating silence filled the house. Connor set the axe down by the door, wiping his bloodied hands on his pants before heading upstairs. His footsteps were soft, measured, as though he were trying to hide his intentions. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

He stopped in front of the bedroom door and took a breath, pushing it open slowly. Inside, the dim light cast long shadows over the bed where she lay. He could see the outline of her body beneath the blanket, curled up as if trying to make herself smaller. Without a word, he moved toward her, lying down beside her with an unsettling calmness.

She stirred, her voice barely a whisper. "...Connor?"

He said nothing, just watched her, waiting. She turned toward him, confusion and hesitation flickering across her face. "Connor... you know we can't. Not now..."

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, a subtle act of protection, as if it were enough to ward off what she feared might come next. "I... I'm not ready for this... not after everything."

Connor's gaze darkened, and his hand reached for the edge of the blanket. "It doesn't matter. We can still—"

She flinched and pushed him away, a tremble running through her body. "No," she said firmly, her voice thick with fear. "I told you, I can't. Your wife... she's barely gone, and I can't handle this right now."

Her words cut through him, but instead of backing down, a deep, unsettling anger began to churn inside him. His jaw clenched. He couldn't hear her anymore, only the sound of his own thoughts. He stared at her, fists tightening, the room closing in on him. He wanted to shout, to force the situation to bend to his will, but instead, he spoke in a cold, quiet voice. "I'll be right back."

She watched him rise from the bed, her heart pounding in her chest as he left the room. The door closed behind him, leaving her in suffocating silence once more.

As Connor descended the stairs, his anger simmered beneath the surface, boiling in silence. He forced his face into a mask of composure, suppressing the storm within. Each step felt heavier than the last, the wooden floorboards groaning under his weight.

At the bottom, his gaze locked onto the axe resting near the door. Without hesitation, he picked it up, the familiar weight settling into his hands. His fingers tightened around the handle as if the act itself granted him control over the chaos swelling inside. He scanned the drawers, pulling them open with deliberate slowness, until he found what he was looking for—a lighter. He slipped it into his pocket, the faint click of the metal barely audible over the rain tapping at the windows.

Connor returned upstairs, moving as if in a trance, the axe concealed behind his back. His steps were soft but purposeful. The storm outside crackled with electricity, a flash of lightning briefly lighting his face. In that fleeting moment, a shadow of what he was—grief, fury, and something darker—flashed across his expression.

"...Connor?" The woman's voice trembled, cutting through the charged silence. Her brow furrowed, sensing the shift in him, a coldness radiating from the man she once thought she knew. "Why are you—?"

He took a step closer, the words already forming on his tongue. "Forgive me for this."

Before she could react, he swung the axe in a brutal arc. The blade buried itself deep into her shoulder with a sickening crunch, her scream piercing the night—raw, desperate. But there was no one to hear her. No one to save her.

Her body convulsed in shock, the bed sheets tangling around her legs as she struggled to free herself, but Connor gave her no chance. He yanked the axe free, blood splattering across the room in wild arcs, staining the walls, the floor, and his clothes.

With eerie calm, he raised the axe a second time. The storm outside raged, but in that room, time seemed to slow. The next swing came down with brutal finality, the blade cleaving through her skull. There was no sound this time, just the dull, wet crack of bone splitting beneath steel. Her body jerked once, then fell still, the life draining from her eyes.

Connor stood over her lifeless form, his breath steady, as if the act had brought him some strange form of peace. The axe, slick with blood, slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud.

For a moment, he stared at her, unmoving. The storm outside rumbled on, uncaring, as if nothing had happened at all.

(ACT ONE, PART ONE -- THE BLOOD UNDER THE FINGERNAILS (1) END)

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