Bad Blood

Like Hands Around Your Throat

I come to to the sound of light rustling. At first I'm positive it's my father, and don't bother to open my eyes. After a few minutes, the noise stops, and the dim light coming in through the window is completely blocked out. I sit up slowly, face and hands still covered in dried blood. I approach the window slowly, waiting quietly for a few minutes. The figure in front of the window moves a bit, and I seize the opportunity to reach a hand through the thin iron bars, despite the deeply painful burns that have already started forming on my wrist. The figure lets out a sharp gasp, falling over backwards into the long-dead grass.  

"What the hell...?"  I can hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears, and my breath reeling in my chest. I'd done it hundreds of times- snuck over the broke stone wall between our houses, just to listen in on the strange, sad old man next door. His wife had shot herself years ago, and apparently his infant son had died with her. The whole neighborhood had all but forgotten his existence. The older kids in the area had started talking about a monster, some sort of ghost or spirit, that was haunting the house. I refused to believe it- my mother had raised me better than believing in superstitions- but I couldn't help being curious. I had heard from some elderly women that Byron Withersby was an unsurprisingly dark man. So of course I wanted to spy on him. I'd heard all the rumors- Byron's son was still wandering the house, torturing his father. 

I never thought they'd be right. 

((a.n: the second part of this chapter is written from Andrew Keeva's point of view. Andrew is the Withersby's next door neighbor, and as of right now Sam's ony aquantence that isn't his father.))