Chapter 11 - The Blood of the Father
The darkness inside the library was absolute, save for the sickly blue moonlight spilling through the cracked French doors. The temperature plummeted instantly, turning every exhale into a plume of white frost. The smell of turned earth, sulfur, and rot flooded the room with the force of an ocean tide.
Harlan cursed in the dark, the sharp metallic click of his silver revolver cocking echoing off the high bookshelves. "Julian!" he shouted, his voice betraying a hint of strain for the first time. "You enter this house and you break the sacred pact! The trench will swallow your very soul!"
A response came not from the doorway, but from the shadows above.
A heavy beam splintered. From the high rafters of the library ceiling, a towering silhouette dropped to the floorboards with a wet, bone-jarring impact. Julian Vance stood fully upright, his decayed frame looming over Harlan like an ancient, vengeful specter. The white phosphorous burns on his chest had blackened into scarred, smoking craters, but his milky, cataract-covered eyes were fixed solely on his murderer.
Harlan fired.
The gunshot illuminated the room in a strobe of blinding white light. The silver bullet struck Julian directly in the throat, blowing through flesh and decayed tissue. The corpse didn't even stumble. The bullet hole merely leaked thick, dark sludge as Julian took two massive strides forward.
Before Harlan could pull the hammer back again, Julian’s massive, soil-caked hand closed around the older man’s wrist.
The sound of bones splintering sounded like dry kindling snapping in half. Harlan let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek as the silver revolver tumbled from his ruined fingers, clattering across the floorboards to stop near the desk where Leo hid.
Julian didn't stop. He raised his other hand, gripping Harlan by the front of his charcoal overcoat, and lifted the grown man completely off his feet as if he weighed nothing.
You... stole... them... Julian rasped, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. It sounded like two grinding millstones submerged in mud.
Harlan, his face purple, his feet dangling uselessly in the air, clawed desperately at Julian’s cold, dead wrists. "You... you were supposed to stay buried!" Harlan choked out, spit and blood flecking his lips. "The ritual... was sealed!"
Julian tilted his head, his jaw unhinging slightly in a grotesque parody of a sneer. The covenant... is broken... brother.
Julian threw Harlan across the library.
The older man crashed through a massive glass bookcase, bringing hundreds of leather-bound volumes down on top of himself in a shower of shattered glass and wood splinters. Harlan groaned weakly, buried beneath the debris, unable to rise.
The silence returned, thick and suffocating.
Leo remained crouched behind the desk, his heart beating violently against his ribs. He slowly reached out and slid his fingers around the grip of the fallen silver revolver. The metal was burning cold, but it felt solid in his trembling hands.
Footsteps approached the desk. Drag, squelch, drag.
The dead man rounded the corner. Julian stood over his son, towering in the moonlight, his chest heaving with simulated breaths he no longer needed. The brand on his neck—the three interlocking triangles—burned a vibrant, bleeding crimson.
Leo slowly stood up, raising the heavy gun with both hands. The barrel shook, pointing straight at the dead man's chest.
"Stay back," Leo whispered, tears freezing on his pale cheeks. "I know what you are. You're a ghost. You're dead."
Julian stopped. He looked at the gun, then slowly lowered his gaze to Leo’s face. The terrifying, murderous rage that had destroyed Harlan vanished, replaced by an expression of devastating, unbearable sorrow.
The dead man slowly sank to his knees, bringing his face level with Leo's. Up close, Leo could see the remnants of the handsome, smiling father from the old photograph beneath the ruined flesh.
Julian reached up with one trembling, soil-stained finger. He didn't claw or grab. With impossible gentleness, the tip of his cold, dead finger lightly brushed the tear track on Leo’s cheek.
Leo... the corpse whispered, the voice entirely clear, stripped of the grave's gravel. My... boy.
Leo’s finger froze on the trigger. He looked into those milky, blind eyes, and for the first time that night, he didn't see a monster. He saw his father.
Suddenly, a loud click sounded from the rubble behind them.
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Harlan had crawled from the wreckage of the bookcase. Blood covered his face, but in his trembling left hand, he held a heavy flare gun, aiming it directly at Julian’s exposed back.
"If I go to the trench," Harlan spat, blood pouring from his mouth, "we all go together!"
