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Blood Stones by Nathan Burleigh (Issue 8)

“It is true. They are real and will perform as promised,” the man wearing a red baseball cap said as light from the campfire flickered against his eyes.

“Bullshit!” exclaimed the oldest man of the group.

I thought the guy in the cap was up to his eyeballs in sewer crap but couldn’t help listening as every word soothed my very soul. They were powerfully enticing; convincing enough to lure seven strangers to a campsite in the middle of nowhere. His words, whether written or spoken, prompted response.

If what he’d told us was true, somewhere up the trail from our campsite, were the answers to our questions; seven tombstones for seven desperate people.

“I'm willing to give it a try,” said an attractive blonde. “The son-of-a-bitch deserves whatever hell I can rain down on him, that’s for damn sure.” She touched a long half-moon shaped scar on her cheek.

The letters at the top of the blog’s webpage spelled out what we all longed for--REVENGE. We wouldn’t have been there otherwise. The power of the word burned me to the core. They were going to pay for what they did, that much I knew for sure. The blog; created by the man wearing the cap, promised a way for us to exact our revenge.

It all started a few months earlier when I caught my wife in bed with my boss. I didn’t even confront them.

Quietly fleeing the scene, I found the nearest hotel, intending to find a quick and painless way to kill myself. But the agony festered in my soul and I realized what I wanted-- revenge.

The hotel had free wireless networking. I plugged in my laptop and started searching the net. I wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, but I ended up typing the word into Google and shortly thereafter found myself in the middle of the Utah woods, waiting to make the hike to an undisclosed location, where I could exact my revenge.

“The time has come my friends,” he said as he tapped his Rolex.

We all stood. I grabbed my back pack.

“You won’t need that, friend. Follow me; we’ll be back here in no time.” He turned and started up the hill. The seven of us followed.

The moonlight bounced from tree-to-tree until it found a strange pattern on the eerily quiet trail, lighting the way to our destination. My watch read eleven forty-five. He’d told us on the blog that we had to write the names on the stones at midnight.

“Watch where you’re going, dip shit,” a middle-aged woman with tight cornrowed-jet-black hair said.

“Sorry,” I said as I watched her hop, struggling to get her shoe back on.

My left calf tightened. The cramp worked its way into my quad just as the trail took a dramatic forty-five degree upward turn. The excruciating pain intensified. Beads of sweat trickled down my chest and my shirt stuck to my back.

The world went black as if someone had turned off the moon. The path under my feet felt different. I followed the murmur of voices and shuffling feet.

“We are nearly there.” His soothing tone had become deeper, darker and more powerful. I looked toward the voice just as a pair of glowing red eyes disappeared into the darkness.

We stumbled into a field of rolling, grassy knolls. The moon dangled just out of reach, a giant chandelier lighting the field like a football stadium on game night.

Across the hills stood a grove of birch trees; I counted seven. The man leading the way glided over the mounds of grass. We entered the grove in a single-file-line. At the base of each tree lay a tombstone. The trees looked as if they belonged to the stones, protective sentinels, hovering above them.

In the center of the grove stood a stone altar. As if it were being held there by an invisible string, a ruby-studded knife rotated counter clockwise on its tip, directly at the center of the altar.

Form a line in front of the altar, a shrill voice said in my head.

The man moved behind the altar and removed his hat. Jet-black hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back like a black cloak. His eyes were like dark pools of stagnant blood.

Screaming like a little girl and fleeing for my life crossed my mind, but his evil voice compelled me to listen and I fell into line, hypnotized.

One by one we walked up to the altar, stood for a few seconds and then went and knelt in front of one of the tombstones.

His eyes held me steady. I tried to resist walking up to the knife, but my left hand reached out, grasping the razor sharp blade without hesitation. Pain seared my left hand as I clenched the blade. Sharp steel penetrated my skin and I felt blood flowing between my fingers.

Go, the voice commanded and my legs obeyed. I knelt in the soft dirt in front of my blood stone. My left hand opened into a cup shape out in front of me and I watched in horror as it filled with dark crimson fluid.

A feather lay at the bottom of the stone. My right hand reached down and took the quill.

You must sign your own name first. Then you may proceed to write down the names of those who have wronged you and as promised, they will get what they deserve.

I dipped the quill into the still pool of blood in my hand and started writing on the stone. I signed my name first. Then I dipped the quill again and wrote down his name, dipped again, and wrote down hers.

I awoke, spooning against a warm body. We were in my tent, but I didn’t remember coming back to camp. From the cool draft at my back and her body pressed firmly against my front, I knew we weren’t clothed.

The blond yawned and broke away from me, startled. She sat up with a horrified look on her face, pulling the sleeping bag up over her nicely formed breast and stared at me, blinking, as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.

We quickly got dressed and packed our things. I expected my left hand to hurt when I started rolling my sleeping bag, but it didn’t. I checked and it felt smooth as a baby’s bottom, no signs of any trauma.

She didn’t even look back at me as she jogged down the trail towards the dirt road where we’d each parked. I found myself alone in the campsite. The others had either left during the night or early that morning. I broke down my tent and headed to my truck.

After the encounter with the demon on the mountain, I stayed at the hotel for a few days. Apparently, Sheila had had the entire Weber County Sheriff’s Department out searching for me. They’d located me and I told them I didn’t want to be found, they had no choice but to leave. But an enterprising young deputy decided that he’d take it upon himself to tell Sheila exactly where to find me.

“I know why you left.”

“Do you, now?” I said with a scowl. I couldn’t even look
her in the eyes.

“Well, it’s over. I told Roger that it’s over and I didn’t ever want to see him again,” she struggled to say between anguished sobs.

The tears seemed sincere.

I wanted to outright tell her that I’d done the same thing, but did I? I still wasn’t sure. I didn’t have recollection of anything except waking up next to the woman. Sheila had been that hot before, but the years were starting to take their toll and we weren’t in our thirties anymore, hell, we weren’t in our forties anymore. But I could still see the beautiful red-head I’d fallen in love with in there. Her eyes hit me like the bubonic plague, infecting every molecule of my being. I knew I had to forgive her. And I did.

Two years later, the stones, the cheating, and the pain felt like a bad dream. I’d quit my job without confronting Roger and we moved to a small town in Southern Oregon. I took early retirement and Sheila did something she’s always wanted to do, she started an interior decorating business.

We were happy again, until the shit hit the fan.

I came home from a fishing trip, eager to launch into my recliner and watch the football game. Sheila sat serenely at the kitchen table. She held onto the phone like a teddy bear, cuddling it to her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks; smearing the little makeup she did have on. Lying on the table in front of her was a crumpled piece of paper. From where I stood it looked like a piece of printer paper. She didn’t say a word and stared at the wall like a patient at the eye doctor staring at the dot.

With my fishing pole and tackle box tucked safely inside the closet, I walked over, swiped the piece of paper, and un-crumpled it. It read:

Prominent business man, loving husband and father brutally murdered.
Roger Simveski…

My heart tried to explode from my chest, I read on

… a prominent businessman, loving husband and father of three was brutally murdered in Salt Lake City, Utah, on Tuesday. His wife, Janice Simveski, has been taken into custody for questioning. Neighbors said that Roger and Janice went to Salt Lake City on what was supposed to be a second honeymoon. A maid in a prominent five-star hotel found Simveski. He’d been stabbed and mutilated. An undisclosed source said that it was the most violent crime ever committed in Utah.

Blackness overcame me and I slumped into the chair next to my wife, holding the paper so tight in my hand; I think it ripped in half.

“Bet you’re happy, “she said snidely.

At that moment I knew the stones were real, it hadn’t been a dream.

Then horror struck.

Sheila would be next.

I whisked out of the room so fast I knocked the chair
over. I practically sprinted up the stairs to my loft-office and clicked on my PC.

R-e-v-e-n-g-e, I typed in feverishly.

After wading my way through a plethora of movie and book ads, I finally found it. I clicked so quickly on the link that it opened six web pages, all with the heading-Revenge. The status bar at the bottom of the page moved to the right at snail speed. I felt like kicking in the frickin' flat screen. When the page opened there was a message stating that the site had been removed.

“What the hell!” I yelled. I searched for three more hours and couldn’t find the blog. I wished that I’d gotten one of the other people’s names, or even his name. But I knew he wasn’t a person, he was definitely something else.

Maybe if I destroy them, she won’t die, I thought. I had to at least try.

After I packed my backpack with a few days worth of provisions and my camping equipment, I jumped into my truck and headed to Utah. I figured I could get there in thirteen hours if I drove a steady eighty miles per hour. But then it would take another two hours to get to the mountain range, if I could find the road again.

I didn’t say anything to Sheila when I left.

The trip turned out to be quicker than I thought. Even though the roads leading up the mountain were dotted with large holes and one section had been wiped out completely by a flashflood or something, I found the way.

When I arrived, I donned my gear and headed up the trail. The evil kinetic energy of the area jolted me like someone jabbed a taser into my side and pulled the trigger. The closer I got to the campsite, the more intense the feeling became. I’d brought my compound bow with me and about fifty of my best arrows, just in case. You never know what you’re going to run into when trying to destroy evil tombstones.

The barren camp site didn’t look like anyone had been there for years. Weeds had overtaken the once smooth dirt. I scanned the area for the trail leading to the stones. While looking I found a rusty old hatchet. I thought it might come in handy and tucked it into my belt. I must have looked like an Indian in an old western with my bow slung over my shoulder and a hatchet sticking out of my belt.

Darkness set in quickly and cloud cover made sure my friend the moon couldn’t guide me. My industrial sized flashlight lit up the overgrown trail as I headed to my final destination.

The next area didn’t allow light and even with my flashlight clicked on, it wouldn’t illuminate. I had to crawl to find the entrance to the dense area that lead to the grass field. Several times I thought that I’d gotten lost and panicked ripped into me like a chainsaw.

The grass appeared as if out of nowhere. My light switched back on and I could see the grove of trees past the rolling hills. I stepped into the soft meadow and heard something like a growl from a bear.

Dropping to one knee, I quickly drew an arrow. I knelt there for an eternity, looking for my would-be assailant. The field stood quiet, not even a cricket chirped, which made me even more nervous.

I stood and walked slowly across the lumpy field.

Another terrible, deep, heart-wrenching growl came from behind me. I felt a pressure in my back and then a dull pain as something plowed into me from behind, flinging me into a nearby mound of grass. Clawing at the earth, I crawled over to where my bow landed during the attack and drew another arrow. The bellowing started again, this time from every direction. The roars sounded like a mixture of lions and bears. The volume increased immensely. I would have covered my ears, but I dared not let go of my bow. Dashing for the grove of trees seemed like my only hope. As I ran up one of the knolls, the ground underneath me roared to life, bucking like a caged bull. I leapt off of the mound into a small crevice between two.

The assault came from multiple sides. The devilish grass moguls rammed into me, bouncing me between them like a marble in a pinball machine.

My shoulder pounded into the side of one and I felt a sharp pain. I grabbed at my shoulder and felt a tear through my camo jacket, deep into the muscle. The shoulder started to throb. Another evil grassy hill darted at me from the front. I bounded to the top of it. Pulling back on my bow, I shot an arrow straight through the top.

It screamed in agony. I shot four more arrows into it. After a few seconds the piercing sound stopped and so did the movement. The other creatures tried ramming into the one I’d shot, in an attempt to get to me, but they couldn’t move over the other one. I shot a hill in front of me and it died quicker than the first. I leapt from one mound to another, shooting and killing them, creating my own macabre pathway to the grove of trees and the blood stones.

When I got there, I only had three arrows left.

Fully anticipating the trees coming to life, I tore a piece of my shirt off, wrapped it around one of my arrows and lit it with my lighter. With full pull on my bow, I inched toward the altar in the middle of the grove. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the stones were clean, the writing wiped clear.

The knife on the altar burst to life and started working its counter clockwise magic.

The altar cracked.

Blood flowed from the crevice, forming a coagulated puddle in front of the altar. The mass congealed and started morphing into something. It got larger and larger and took form.

Why have you come? The demon whisper in my head asked.

“You know why. Take it back. I made a terrible mistake. I don’t want my wife to die.”

What’s done is done and can’t be undone.

“Bullshit! There’s always a way.” The pain in my shoulder intensified as I aimed the flaming arrow at the demon in front of me. His hair cloak swayed back and forth in the breeze. I thought if I hit the hair, maybe he would go completely up in smoke. The skin in his arms and hands seemed to be rippling as if someone were taking an invisible dough rolling pin to it. His fingers started to elongate and formed into long razor sharp talons.

I shot and the demon’s hair reached out and engulfed the flaming arrow, dousing it and snapping the arrow in two. Before I could nock another arrow, its hair flew at me like a million black streamers. It snatched the bow from my hands and flung it into the field.

You can’t win.

“I will. I have to!!” I yelled as I pulled the hatchet from my belt, my last weapon.

You can’t save her and you can’t kill me.

It floated off the ground and came at me, swiping its razor sharp fingers. I feigned to the left but the demon’s speed quickly overtook me. I felt the blades tearing through my back pack and anticipated them piercing through and dicing my spine any second. As I dove past one of the stones, I thought that they might be giving the creature its power.

I dodged another sweeping attack, rolled next to the stone that I’d smeared my own blood on and cracked the butt end of the hatchet as hard as I could against the concrete slab. A small piece of the stone busted off. From behind me, I heard evil, fitful laughter.
Wrong!

I hit it again and again. This time a larger chunk flew off and the laughter continued. It obviously wasn’t hurting him, so I decided to go to plan B; unfortunately, I hadn’t thought of a plan B yet.

Its hair enshrouded me and the silky blackness started cut off my air as if I had a plastic bag pulled against my face. I panicked.

Gasping for breath, I punched, clawed, kicked and even tried to bite it. I was resolved to die. As my consciousness slowly dissolved, the hair left me and I dropped to my knees, coughing and spitting as the cool night air filled my desperate lungs.

Do you yield?

“Who…who the hell are you?”

No! The question is-What in hell am I?

Terrified as I was by that remark, something still had to be done to stop it. Lunging past the demon, I dove over the altar.

Its eyes widened and I thought I saw fear in them as I stood, clutching its existence in my hand.

Put the knife back.

“Fuck off!”

I’ll take it back, just put it on the altar. All is forgiven. It whispered in my mind as it looked around frantically for some way out of its predicament.

A low rumbling started building around me and the earth quivered.

Without moving my eyes from the demon's, I could see movement all around me. I broke my end of the stare and watched as the blood stones retracted slowly into the earth.

Put it back!! It screamed in my head so loud I fell to my knees.

With a death-grip on the hilt and rubies cutting into my hand, I got up and stood my ground. The demon man, who used to wear a red baseball cap, began to melt from the feet up, steadily turning back into a puddle of congealed blood. His torso and head started to liquefy. He looked up with wide eyes black as coal and horror etched into his face, as I drove the blade deep into his skull; all the way to the hilt. The head, along with the dagger, disappeared into the burnt red puddle of pudding-thick liquid.

A loud cracking sound came from the stone monument. It split in two and crumbled into a pile of rubble, which burst into white-hot flames that, as suddenly as it blazed, it turned to sodden ash. All of the blood stones had returned to the earth. And I hoped, back to hell where they came from with the demon guide.

I fell to my knees, tears streaming down my bloody face. Until that day, I hadn’t really believed in God, but at that moment, I gained a true testimony of the Devil. And I figured, if one existed, the other had to, so I prayed.

After resting for a few minutes, I found the flashlight and swiped the beam across the knoll field. I didn’t want to have to fight my way across, not again, but the field lay quiet, flat, and manicured like a golf course. Dazed, bleeding and mystified, I made my way back to the truck, retrieved the first aid kit and bandaged my shredded shoulder. Sleep came easily.

The dream started with the demon standing on the altar and then they both burst into blinding flames. I awoke from the morning sun shining through the truck's window. The gas gauge read nearly empty and barely got me to town. After filling up, I headed home, listening to golden oldies.

My eyes burned with approaching sleep as I and started up the hill toward my home. A soft glow of strobe lights illuminated my house and the surrounding neighborhood. I pushed the accelerator down and my heart sank through me like a lead weight in a pond. Visions of finding my wife’s lifeless body in the back of the ambulance fluttered in my mind.

Terror stricken, I slowly drove by the ambulance and fire truck. They were wheeling out my neighbor’s wife on the gurney and I felt a wave of relief.

That night, I made sweet, passionate love to my wife. I must have told her I loved her a hundred times. When I awoke the next morning, my wife’s fingers were lightly rubbing my leg. I reached over and touched her hand, it felt warm and moist. A gurgling noise came from her side of the bed. I rolled over into a puddle of fluid. I screamed in horror as my wife gasped for air, clutching at the sheets, my leg, the blankets, desperately trying to pull herself free as the last bit of her life drained from her. The hilt of the bejeweled dagger protruded from her throat, the blade piercing through to the mattress, pinning her to the bed.

An evil, fitful laughter rang through my mind.

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