The Man Who Woke in Blood

The last sane thing Walter Junior remembered was the phone vibrating in his pocket. It had gone off once. He ignored it. Twice. He cursed under his breath. The third time, he answered. Now he sat on the cold wooden floor of an unfinished building on the outskirts of the city, his back slumped against a support beam, his legs stretched uselessly before him, submerged in a warm, thick pool of blood that had already begun to cool. The smell hit first—metallic, heavy, unmistakable. It crept into his nostrils, clung to the back of his throat, settled there like a living thing. He winced. Then he breathed in again. And again. No… Not winced. He smiled. The realization crawled up his spine like an insect. His heart had been racing thirty minutes ago when he’d sprinted up the concrete stairs two at a time, gun drawn, mind locked on a single objective: get the congressman out alive. Now his chest felt hollow. Empty. Cold. His pulse was slow. Too slow. As if his body had already decided the outcome before his mind had caught up. A dull, rhythmic hammering throbbed at the back of his skull. With it came the voice. Low at first. Intimate. Familiar in the way nightmares are familiar. Don’t you just love the smell of death, Walter? His fingers twitched against the floorboards. You always have. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth grinding. The voice didn’t fade. It never did. It grew louder, sliding into his thoughts like a blade into flesh. The blood. The panic in their eyes when they finally understand it’s over. You love that part the most, don’t you? The moment hope leaves them. A faint cackle followed. Wet. Amused. “What the hell is going on…” Walter whispered. His eyelids lifted slowly. The room swam. Light fractured at the edges of his vision. The unfinished walls were barely illuminated by a single flickering bulb hanging from exposed wiring. To his left—too close—rested an axe. Its blade was slick, red liquid dripping lazily from its edge onto the floor. Beside it lay a saw. His breath hitched. The tools looked… used. His stomach tightened violently. Whose tools? The question slammed into him, sharp and sudden. And why do they feel familiar? “Oh no, no, no, no…” the voice crooned. “Don’t get scared now.” Walter’s jaw clenched. “Embrace it,” the voice continued, almost tender. “This—this is you. Not that slimy whack-ass detective running around pretending to be righteous.” A snort of disgust echoed in his head. “Disgusting.” Walter’s vision blurred. The room seemed to tilt. “A cold-blooded murderer,” the voice whispered. “That’s who you are. No—who we are.” His hands shot into his hair, fingers digging hard into his scalp. His nails scraped skin. The ache in his head exploded into white-hot pain and he screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat, bouncing off the unfinished walls. “Shut up!” he roared. “Just shut up and let me think!” Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating. Walter dragged in a breath. Then another. His limbs felt wrong—slow, uncooperative—but he forced himself up, grunting as his legs trembled beneath him. Blood soaked his clothes, sticky and warm against his skin. He staggered, shoulder clipping the wall. Something sharp bit into his arm. He hissed and turned. Knives. Dozens of them. Different shapes. Different sizes. Hung neatly along the wall like trophies. His eyes widened. Every wall was the same. Blades. Hooks. Cleavers. Instruments meant to cut, to separate, to destroy. A butcher’s paradise. Not his. Where’s the congressman? “What f*****g congressman?” the voice snapped, suddenly irritated. “Look.” Walter’s gaze followed the command against his will. At the center of the room sat a large wooden table. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the voice sighed. “Go on. Look closer.” His heart stopped. An arm lay severed on the floor beside the table. Pale. Lifeless. The fingers still curled as if grasping for something that wasn’t there. Behind the table— Walter’s knees buckled. A woman. Her body was broken, battered. Her throat had been opened wide, blood pooled beneath her head like dark syrup. Her arms were gone. One leg severed. Her tongue, swollen and purple, spilled from her mouth grotesquely. His scream tore free. “My wife!” He collapsed beside her, hands shaking violently as he tried to lift her head. Blood soaked his palms, slick and slippery. His grip failed him again and again. “Oh God… how… why…” His words dissolved into sobs. Rage surged up from somewhere deep and feral, burning through his chest. His vision blurred with tears. “No!” he screamed. “No!” “No?” the voice mocked. “But you killed her.” Walter’s breath caught painfully. “What’s this performance?” the voice continued. “False penitence doesn’t suit you.” “I didn’t!” he cried, guilt slamming into him like a freight train. His lungs burned. “I didn’t kill her—I didn’t—” “You did,” the voice purred. “She was never a good wife anyway. Bad s*x. No attention. And that child…” Walter froze. “…are you even sure she was yours?” His head turned slowly. Too slowly. A hammer lay on the floor. Drenched in blood. Beside it— His daughter’s head. The room darkened. The walls closed in. His stomach lurched violently. He remembered the call. “You killed your wife!” The rush to this building. “You murdered your daughter!” The flash of white light. The pain. “And you loved it,” the voice screamed. “Every second of it!” Walter crawled forward, hands shaking as he reached for what remained of his child. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t breathe. “This was all I had…” he whispered. “Yes.” “Shut up!” he bellowed, clawing at his hair. His scream twisted into laughter—low, broken, wrong. “Maybe I did. Maybe I did kill them. Maybe—” “Yes, Walter.” “Yes,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees as pain tore through them. “I’m sorry… please forgive me…” A sudden light burned into his eyes. Voices. Footsteps. “Freeze, Detective Walter!” The room flooded with light. Guns aimed at him. Faces twisted with triumph. Cuffs snapped shut around his wrists. “You are under arrest,” the officer sneered, “for the murders of Ada Walter Junior and Priscilla Walter Junior.” Walter’s cries echoed unanswered. “I didn’t kill them,” he whispered. But even he wasn’t sure anymore.