BLOOD DOESN'T LIE

CHAPTER THREE :THE WARNING

I couldn't sleep.

I sat in bed, staring at my ankle in the moonlight.

The handprint.

Burned into my skin.

Black in the center. Blistered around the edges. Five fingers long, skeletal seared into my flesh.

I touched it.

Pain shot up my leg.

I bit my lip.

Real.

I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at the door.

Waiting.

Because I knew he wasn't done.

The screaming started at 3 AM.

"NO! PLEASE! NOT MY BABY!"

A woman's voice. High. Desperate.

I shot upright.

Footsteps pounded the hallway. Running. Frantic.

"WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN?!"

A man's voice. Bellowing.

Then children crying. "Mommy! Help us!"

I ran to my door and yanked it open.

Empty hallway.

But the screams were everywhere. Bouncing off walls. Coming from upstairs, downstairs, inside the walls.

"PLEASE! DON'T HURT THEM!"

A crash.

One final scream. Long. Bloodcurdling.

Then—

Silence.

Dad's door flew open.

He burst out in boxers and t-shirt, baseball bat raised. Eyes wild.

"What the hell was that?!"

He ran down the hall. Threw open doors. Checked rooms. Closets.

Nothing.

Mom's door opened.

She stood there in her nightgown. Danny clung to her waist, face buried in her side.

"Robert, what's going on?"

"You didn't hear that? The screaming?"

"I heard pipes." Her voice shook but stayed firm. "Old plumbing."

"That wasn't pipes—"

"Everyone back to bed." She pulled Danny inside. "Now."

Door slammed.

Dad stood there. Staring.

Then he looked at me.

"Those were screams. Real screams."

I nodded.

"People dying."

"Yeah."

His hands shook on the bat.

"Go to bed, Amelia."

But neither of us slept.

Morning came slow. Gray light through my window.

I pulled on jeans. Hissed when fabric touched my ankle. Grabbed thick socks.

Hide it.

Downstairs, Danny sat in Mom's lap at the kitchen table.

He was twelve but curled against her like a baby. Face buried in her shoulder. Body shaking.

Mom looked up.

Red eyes. Dark circles.

"He won't eat. Won't sleep."

Danny's arm lay across her lap. White gauze wrapped tight.

I could see through it.

Five dark marks.

Fingers.

My stomach twisted.

"He stood at my bed," Danny whispered. "Watching. Then he touched me."

Mom's arms tightened. "Nightmare, baby."

"It wasn't."

"Danny—"

"It was real." His voice broke. "He said we have to pay."

Mom's jaw clenched. "Enough."

"He said we're going to die—"

"I said enough." She looked at me. Hard. "Amelia. Not one word."

I closed my mouth.

Dad appeared. Coffee shaking in his hand.

Dark circles. Hair wild. Hands trembling.

He stared at Danny's arm.

"Claire. We need to talk."

"Not now."

"Yes, now. Kids, upstairs."

We went.

I sat at the top of the stairs.

Listening.

"We need rules. Third floor off-limits. West wing locked. Nobody near that burned spot."

Mom laughed. Sharp. Bitter. "You're joking."

"Look at Danny's arm!"

"He touched something—"

"Those are fingerprints!"

"A pipe, a radiator—"

"In an empty room?!"

Silence.

"You were the one who said this was perfect," Mom said coldly. "You said it was a gift."

"I know!" Dad's voice cracked. "I know I was bankrupt! I know I accepted this! But I've seen things. Heard things. We can't risk our kids' lives because the house is free!"

"There's nothing here!"

"Then explain his arm! Explain those screams!"

"I heard pipes!"

"That was people dying, Claire! A woman! A man! Children!"

"STOP!" Her voice broke. "You're falling apart! Dragging the kids with you!"

"I'm trying to save us!"

"By terrifying them?!"

Silence. Heavy.

"We have nowhere to go," Mom said quietly.

Dad's voice dropped. Defeated. "Fine. But third floor's off-limits. And if anything else happens we leave."

"Nothing will happen."

"It already has."

Door slammed.

Noon.

I heard voices outside.

Looked out my window.

Mom in the yard. Phone to her ear. Laughing. Watering dead flowers.

An old woman walking up the driveway.

Small. Frail. Cane. White hair in a bun.

She stared at the third-floor window.

I followed her gaze.

Curtain moved.

Shadow behind it.

He's watching.

I ran outside.

"Can I help you?" Mom asked.

The woman stared. "You're living here."

"Yes—"

"Leave. Now."

"Excuse me?"

"People die here. Everyone who stays."

Mom's smile cooled. "We're fine—"

"You're not." The woman stepped closer. Desperate. Tears in her eyes. "I've lived here thirty years. Three families moved in. None survived."

"That's awful, but—"

"The last one. A couple. Two girls. Six months later, all dead."

"How—"

"One by one. Children first. Father hanged in the tower. Mother drowned in the bathtub. No water."

"Before them, a priest. He came for church assignment in the community. They gave him this house to stay in."

Mom frowned. "And?"

"Three days. He lasted three days. Never saw anything but he felt it. Watching. Waiting. Left in the middle of the night. Everything still inside."

"Ma'am—"

"He'll take your children. Make you watch."

"That's enough. Leave."

"Please—" She grabbed Mom's wrist. "I'm trying to save you—"

"Let go."

"If you stay, you'll die—"

"I said let go!" Mom jerked back.

The woman stumbled. Caught herself on her cane.

She looked at me.

"You can see him. Can't you."

My blood froze.

"The girl sees him! Ask her!"

Mom turned. "Amelia, inside. Now."

"Wait—" The woman reached for me. "Find the church records. The newspapers. Find what they did—"

She choked.

Body went rigid.

Mouth open. No sound.

"Ma'am?" Mom grabbed her shoulders. "What's happening?!"

The woman's face turned purple. Veins bulged in her neck.

Her hands clawed at her throat.

Nothing was there.

Her eyes rolled back.

Body convulsed.

Collapsed.

Mom caught her. "ROBERT! CALL 911!"

I dropped beside her. "Stay with us. Please."

Her eyes found mine.

Lips moved. No sound.

Church. Records.

Then nothing.

Blank. Empty.

Dad ran out, phone to his ear.

Mom started CPR. Pumping her chest. Breathing into her mouth.

But I knew.

She was gone.

He killed her.

Ambulance came.

Fifteen minutes of trying.

Called it.

Police took statements.

"She was warning us," I said. "About the house."

The officer looked up. "About what?"

"She said people died here."

He exchanged glances with his partner. "Margaret Holloway. Local woman. Health issues. Sometimes gets confused."

"She wasn't confused—"

"Amelia," Mom cut in. "Enough."

"Heart attack. Common at her age. Medical examiner will confirm."

They left.

We stood in silence.

"That poor woman," Mom whispered.

Dad stared at the house.

At the third-floor window.

I felt him.

Watching.

Smiling.

That night, I sat with my laptop.

Typed the address.

1847 Ashwood Lane property history

Nothing useful.

Ashwood Manor murders

One result.

Newspaper article. October 1924. Faded. Barely readable.

LOCAL HEIR FOUND DEAD

Gabriel Ashwood, 28, found deceased at 1847 Ashwood Lane. Authorities investigating. Family claims accidental fire.

Last seen October 12th. Body discovered by staff in rear garden.

Thomas Ashwood and Richard Ashwood, cousins, assumed control of estate.

No charges filed.

I stared at the screen.

Gabriel Ashwood.

Found dead. October 1924.

Accidental fire.

But his cousins took control immediately.

No investigation. No charges.

Something felt wrong.

Very wrong.

A knock.

"Still awake?"

I closed the laptop. "Yeah."

Dad came in. Sat on my bed.

Silent for a moment.

"About today. The woman. Unfortunate. But she was sick. Confused."

"Dad—"

"Listen." His voice firmed. "This house is old. Makes noise. Danny's scared. But we can't let imaginations run wild."

"It's not—"

"Amelia." He looked at me. Hard. "We're staying. This is home. We have nowhere else. I need you to help keep everyone calm."

I wanted to tell him everything.

But I saw his fear. His shaking hands. How he kept glancing at the door.

Terrified but trying to stay strong.

"Okay."

"Good girl." He kissed my forehead. "Sleep."

He stood. Checked the hallway.

Twice.

Closed the door.

I sat in darkness.

Gabriel Ashwood. 1924.

His cousins took everything.

No justice.

Now he's here.

Hunting.

Footsteps in the hall.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Stopped outside my door.

Silence.

I sat in darkness.

Gabriel Ashwood. 1924.

His cousins took everything.

No justice.

Now he's here.

Hunting.

Footsteps in the hall.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

They stopped outside my door.

I held my breath.

Silence.

Then—

A whisper. So faint I almost thought I imagined it.

But I felt it.

In my bones. In my blood.

Soon.

The footsteps moved away.

I pulled my blankets tight.

And I didn't sleep at all.