left side of the door landed against the wall, held up only
by its bottom hinge - reminding me of an inebriated party-
goer on New Year’s Eve.
Only two of the several dozen vintage sconces had
been lit along the pillared shell-pink walls, making the
chamber as dim as a cloudy winter night. But to my keen
eyes, the entire room was laid out clearly before me.
Cautiously, I prowled across the ruby and jet inlaid floor,
the cream marble reflecting the long heavy burgundy
curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. I had seen
those curtains hanging in a dozen other houses of blood
and death, and this was just another den of decay. The den
of a fiend I had come to hunt. After all, this house – which
was well kept but overly aged - lay on the outskirts of a
small suburb in upstate New York, away from prying eyes
and nosy humans. But it was just another façade, used to
hide the beast which dwelt within - hunting and killing at
his leisure and whim.
Halfway down the length of the long ballroom, a
single ornate wooden chair stood in the center of the floor.
A metallic acrid smell floated indistinctly on the air as I
drew near; the scent of blood soaked into the wood a faint
bouquet, like coals burned over to ash in a blacksmith’s
forge. Drawing even with it, I noticed the muted scarlet
pool beneath. Mentally focusing my senses for any sign or
sound of movement, I reached down to place a single
finger in the blood. It was ice cold and as sticky as honey.
It had been days since it flowed from a warm body.
Delicately I waved my hand under my nose, smelling its
aroma. The subtle hint of the body it once was held within
scenting the air around me like an old penny freshly
cleaned.
94