Chapter 12 - The Pit of Blackwood
The flare gun discharged with a blinding crimson flash and a concussive roar that shattered the remaining windows of the library.
Julian moved with an instinct born of something deeper than life or death. Before the burning phosphorus projectile could strike his son, the dead man threw his broad, decayed body over Leo, shielding the eight-year-old with his own torso.
The flare struck Julian square in the spine.
A blinding, incendiary light flooded the room, accompanied by the horrific sizzle of burning flesh and bone. The heat was instantaneous and suffocating, singing the tips of Leo's hair. Julian let out a sound that tore through Leo’s soul—not a roar of monstrous fury, but a choked, human cry of agony as the flare burned deeply into his marrow.
Yet, he did not fall. He kept his arms locked around Leo, anchoring his weight against the floorboards until the flare sputtered and died into a cloud of thick, toxic gray smoke.
Beneath the shelter of his father's dead arms, Leo looked up. Julian’s skin was charred to black cinders along his back, smoke billowing from his shoulders, but the dead man slowly looked down at his son. A faint, bloody smile touched Julian’s ruined lips.
Run... to the trees... Julian whispered, his voice fading into a dry rustle.
Behind them, Harlan was already scrambling toward the shattered French doors, clutching his broken wrist, dragging his shattered leg as he bolted out into the foggy night. He wasn't running toward his car; he was fleeing toward the forest path, driven by a mad, blind instinct to reach the source of his dark power.
Julian collapsed to his side, his strength finally exhausted by the fire.
"Dad!" Leo cried out, dropping the revolver and falling to his knees beside the smoldering corpse. For the first time, he used the word he had never been allowed to speak. "Dad, get up! Please!"
Julian's hand twitched against the floorboards. His fingers weakly brushed against the leather ledger lying nearby. His lips parted, black fluid dribbling down his chin: The Trench... the root... must burn... to free... us...
Leo understood. The covenant wasn't bound to the house, or the stones, or the town. It was bound to the roots of the willow at Blackwood Trench—the place where his father had been murdered and buried alive. As long as that root remained tied to the blood pact, none of them would ever be free.
Leo grabbed the silver revolver from the floor. He stuffed the pocket watch and the remaining vials of violet fire from the cellar into his jacket pockets. He looked at his father one last time.
"I'll finish it," Leo promised, his voice steadying, stripping away the terrified boy and leaving behind the son of Julian Vance. "I promise."
Julian’s eyes closed slowly, his head resting against the dusty floorboards, his body sinking into an unnatural, petrified stillness.
Leo turned and bolted through the shattered French doors into the freezing mist.
The trail through the woods was marked by fresh drops of dark blood. Harlan was leaving an unmistakable path, dragging himself frantically toward the heart of the ancient forest. The trees here grew thicker, their trunks gnarled and blackened as if scorched by subterranean lightning. The air grew progressively colder, smelling heavily of copper, rotting vegetation, and wet gravel.
After ten minutes of running, the trees abruptly gave way to a massive, circular chasm in the earth—Blackwood Trench.
The trench was fifty yards across, a jagged scar carved deep into the limestone bedrock of the valley. At the center of the depression, growing out of a pool of stagnant, black water, was an immense, weeping willow. Its thick, ancient branches draped down like rotting curtains, and its roots were enormous, twisting like petrified serpents over the rocks.
Standing at the edge of the dark pool, clutching the gnarled trunk of the willow, was Harlan.
He had drawn a circle in the mud with his own blood. In his hand was an ornate, silver ritual dagger. He looked up as Leo emerged from the tree line, his bruised face twisted into a maniacal grin.
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"You came, boy!" Harlan cackled, his voice echoing off the limestone walls of the trench. "The master calls! The tithe has arrived at last!"
From the stagnant black water beneath the willow roots, something began to bubble. Thick, dark bubbles rose to the surface, bursting with the sound of low, agonizing whispers.
