A Bloodless Hunt

Charlie shrugged it off and turned to leave, stepping over the expanding pool of blood. He heard a squelch and turned.

Charlie Marsh entered his apartment and stepped on an unmarked envelope pushed under his door. Inside was a check, a dosier, and a request. To kill the man name Jamie Martin. Opening the large, yellow-orange envelope, Charlie analyzed the picture of the man with dark brown hair, a pale complexion, brown eyes, and a thin body type, committing it to memory.

The hitman scanned through Jamie’s dosier, searching for any last known associates, businesses, and additional contact points. His electronic records included an internet search history, revealing recent searches for bloodletting and poisons. According to police reports, Jamie lived alone, but his neighbors reported increased paranoia and isolation.

Charlie grabbed his notebook and started jotting down his thoughts. Reason for hit: Unknown, possibly revenge. Poisons and bloodletting indicate delight in killing or harm. Paranoia might indicate possible evidence in or near his house.

Charlie flipped the page. There were victim reports.

Multiple victims. Serial killer. Paranoia related to insanity, maybe?

The hitman turned on his police scanner and listened to the chatter.

Each victim suffered multiple wounds, including lacerations and stabbings. The bodies had been left bloodless and exsanguinated, but no blood was found at the scene. The most notable and confounding variable was the level of deterioration. Each victim showed signs of decay far more progressed than their time of death would suggest.

What took their blood? Evidence? Ritual? Insanity probable. Kill after confirmation.

Jamie’s three victims were Kaiye Karr, a data analyst; Corbin Nixon, a marketing manager; and Skye Mendez, an IT technician.

“Report of suspect spotted on Lake Street. Possible 10-24 related to John Mary. How should I proceed, over.” A voice spoke from the scanner.

“Stay on patrol. If suspect is spotted approach with caution.”

“10-04.”

John Mary – Jamie Martin near Lake Street.

The hitman pulled a map from his desk, marking each victim’s address, then Lake Street. He couldn’t figure out a connection. Charlie scoured the internet for details about the victim’s jobs, their hours, and whether or not they worked from home. Kaiye worked from home. Skye and Corbin were hybrid workers depending on the job.

Sky and Kaiye lived alone, while Corbin had a roommate named Marley Nolan, who was out of town at the time of the murder. Charlie rechecked the map, scanning through the neighborhoods. Each victim was within a one-mile radius of two abandoned houses, which also happened to be near Lake Street.

Easy target for prolonged killing. No one would interrupt or notice if missing. Victim bleeding at abandoned houses? Brought victims back home after killing for better control of evidence. Possible hiding spots?

Charlie marked the two houses. He retrieved his handgun from a lock box, stowing it in a holster, and grabbed his notebook.

The hitman double-checked his information, confirming his suspicions, then left his apartment for the first abandoned home: A large Victorian house with an extended front porch and rotted siding. Vines overtook the walls and rested on the roof, covering the weakened exterior wood. The lawn was wild and covered in weeds and saplings. The house was famous for being a popular place for the homeless.

It’s said that someone once broke in and left the doors unlocked. Anyone can get inside. Even Jamie. No one would question seeing someone in the house or hearing strange noises. Charlie drove past and continued to the next location.

The hitman was familiar with the second house on his list. An old farmhouse known for a ghost story. It belonged to a family who disappeared without a trace. Locals say they saw a man in the window and townsfolk believed it was the spirit of a husband murdered by his wife before she ran. This rumor might make it easy for Jamie to hide in the house. If he were ever spotted, people might assume he was the ghost and would stay away, but that’s a stretch.

Neither house showed signs of anyone inside. The Victorian house made the most sense as a hide-out. Charlie made his way back to the first house, parked a few blocks away and waited.

He watched with binoculars in one hand and pen in the other. The sun rose high into the sky and only a few pedestrians walked by with no sign of anyone inside. He watched the windows and the every-so-often curtain flutter. As the sun dropped toward the horizon, it highlighted the inside of the house. He could see outlines of furniture through the curtains.

He watched into the night and still saw nothing of note. Come morning, a few pedestrians wandered down the street. One stood out. A woman walked to the house, looked around, then peered into a window.

The hitman wrote her description in his notebook. The woman began to move. She stepped back onto the sidewalk and searched around. When she was sure no one was around, she walked onto the steps and jiggled the doorknob. The door didn’t budge. She kicked it and walked off.

Door locked? Someone inside looking for privacy? Possible target.

Charlie focused on the darkened windows, looking for signs of someone walking around the house. Inside he could see the outline of furniture but nothing else.

He waited in his car, yawning and sipping from one of a dozen coffee bottles he stored in the vehicle. The overgrown grass fluttered in the wind as the curtains shrouded the inside. The waving shadows of the drapery created an illusion of movement.

Draft from an open window/door.

The hitman stepped out of his car and walked over to the house. He looked around the neighborhood, pretending to write in his notebook as he moved closer to the Victorian residence. He spotted a partially open window. Something moved inside, like a faint flutter.  

Charlie circled the block, returned to his car, and continued observing late into the night. Once he was sure no one was watching, the hitman raised his sweatshirt hood. He grabbed his mask and tucked it out of view. Charlie stepped out of his car and approached the Victorian house. Head swiveling and gaze watchful, he remained alert for anyone who may be wandering by. Charlie quickly slid his mask on, pushed open the window, and clambered inside.

With soft footfalls, he searched the house for any signs of life. The dust-covered furniture seemed undisturbed and a few moldy dishes in the kitchen sink smelled rancid. He finished his sweep of the first floor, checking under furniture and on shelves for any clues. Once clear, he crept up the stairs.

A musky smell hit his nose as something rustled in the room by the second-floor landing. Charlie stepped into the room with his weapon raised. A dirty, brown-haired man sat drinking on a small couch, staring out the window. 

“Turn,” Charlie ordered, keeping his sights on the man’s head.

“Who do you...” the man’s voice slurred. “Oh, shit!” he shouted, raising his hands.

Noting the man’s darker complexion and heavy build, Charlie knew this wasn’t his target.

“Get out,” the hitman ordered. The homeless man leapt to his feet and ran out the front door. Charlie finished securing the house, confirming no one else was inside. Taking off his mask, he exited out of the back door, circled the block, then walked back to his car. That left only one place look.

He drove to the farmhouse, parking a block away and strolling over. Charlie checked the windows and doors, but they were all locked. He tried to push past the damaged barn door, but something held it in place. Charlie checked the locks for the front and back doors.

A deadbolt barred the front door, but the back had a doorknob lock. Charlie pulled out a card, slipped it into the gap, and pushed open the latch bolt. He stepped into the house and closed the door while watching for movement. He heard a steady scrapping noise, like someone rubbing a stone across the wooden floor above. An empty take-out bag rested on the counter with a random sock hanging off the edge. Its match lay on the floor a few feet away. 

He confirmed the first floor was empty, save for a few articles of clothing. His muscles tensed when a rotting smell struck his nose.

Taking the extra time to move silently, he climbed the stairs and stopped outside the bedroom. Charlie heard a voice mumbling to itself, mixed with an occasional groan of pain followed by an angry whisper. The scraping stopped. Charlie gripped the handle and burst in with his handgun raised, flinching at a wall of putrid air.

“Turn,” Charlie ordered.

Laying in the corner, the brown-haired man folded into a fetal position played with an unknown object.

“I said turn,” Charlie ordered again. The man ignored him, whispering more words to himself, scratching the floor with whatever object he fondled in his hand.

“Kill…” he audibly mumbled, wincing, his face grimacing as he tightened his arms around his torso. He looked at Charlie. “Me—” the man hissed. After confirming his target, Charlie fired a single shot into his head.

“Goodbye, Jamie.”

The hitman holstered the handgun and grabbed his phone, but he stopped upon hearing the slow, woody scrap across the floor next to his target. Charlie raised his handgun. Jamie began to rise. His limp head slumped to the side. He grabbed the object, a gun, and pushed his hands against the floor, readying to stand. Charlie fired four more shots, one to the head, one to both lungs and one to the heart. All four hit and the man crumpled to the floor, blood leaking to the ground.

He watched the still body for a moment. He grumbled, shouldering his handgun again, grabbing his phone and switching it to the camera. Charlie crouched next to the body, avoiding the blood, and snapped pictures of the man’s face. He stared at the oddly pale skin, its tone bleached and texture like leather tightly stretched over a frame. His blank, sunken eyes looked like dry stones staring into nothing. Charlie shrugged it off and turned to leave, stepping over the expanding pool of blood.

He heard a squelch and turned. The blood, now moving on its own, formed a large lump. It shaped into something, but Charlie didn’t wait to find out. He turned to run, but the red, gelatinous mass moved faster. Its pseudopod slithered across the floor, darted past the hitman, and slammed the door shut.

Charlie pulled his gun free and fired, which only pierced the living liquid and struck the wall behind it. The blood circled him before he could jump around it, feeling his foot covered in the warm, sticky substance. He fired the rest of his magazine at the ooze, aiming a couple of shots at Jamie’s corpse. The thing remained unfazed, wrapping its tendrils around his legs and slithering up his arms.

Charlie pulled his knife and slashed like a wild beast at the blood. Each cut gliding through the shifting red liquid, leaving no visible marks. It reached his arms in under a second, pinning them to his body. He felt it crawl across his neck and engulf his head, the scent of iron filling his nose.

He could still see and hear but could no longer feel his muscles or move his arms. The warm sensation turned dead as the gelatinous creature entered his body. Charlie could see the memories of the victims—fragments of their lives as if this thing was a part of them.

One set of memories stood out. Looking through Jamie’s eyes, Charlie saw him put a hit out on himself, Jamie signing the contract under the forceful influence of the bloody ooze. It gathered the information and shoved it under the hitman’s door. Jamie never killed anyone. It was this thing. It took control of their body, fed on it, then moved on to the next. It wanted to be found. It needed new bodies. This thing caged its victims in their minds as it stalked its next target. Always hunting for fresh meat.

A deep, guttural voice spoke and Charlie heard it as if it were his own thoughts.

“No one will miss you.”