Chapter 3: The Old Blood

Chapter 3: The Old Blood

Days bled into a sleepless, sun-bleached haze. Leo had shoved his grandfather’s shoebox of moon photos and cryptic notes back into the closet, a futile attempt to bury the truth. But he couldn’t unsee the shimmering, alien fluid he’d vomited into the toilet, nor could he forget the inhuman grin that had stared back at him from his own reflection. The cold, leaden weight in his gut remained, a constant, silent reminder that he was no longer the sole occupant of his own body.

He tried to impose order, the only way he knew how. He cleaned the house with a feverish energy, scrubbing away decades of dust as if he could scrub away the contamination within himself. He ate canned soup, stale crackers—anything that was processed and sealed, anything that felt safely removed from the messiness of life. His rational mind fought a desperate rearguard action, constructing flimsy barricades of logic against the encroaching madness. It was a parasite, a rare tropical worm he’d somehow contracted. He’d go to a doctor as soon as he got back to Phoenix. There would be a scientific explanation. There had to be.

But then the cravings began.

It started as a scent on the night air. He was standing by the open kitchen window, the cool desert breeze a temporary balm on his frayed nerves. He smelled something that cut through the dust and sage—the coppery, metallic tang of blood. It was faint, distant, maybe a coyote’s kill out on the mesa, but it made his mouth water in a way that was both deeply shameful and overwhelmingly powerful.

The logical part of his brain was disgusted. The other part, the part that now felt connected to the cold knot in his belly, was ravenous.

The hunger grew with the waxing moon. Each night, as the silver sliver in the sky thickened, the cravings intensified. The canned soup became repulsive, the crackers turned to ash in his mouth. He found himself staring into the guts of the old, humming refrigerator, his eyes scanning past the wilting vegetables and the single carton of milk. He was looking for something raw. Something red.

On the third night, with a half-moon hanging like a judgment in the sky, he could no longer fight it. The moonlight poured through the window, not as simple light, but as a palpable presence, a cool pressure on his skin that seemed to awaken the thing inside him. The weight in his gut churned, a low, demanding vibration. Driven by an impulse he didn't recognize as his own, he went to the ancient, frost-caked deep freezer on the back porch.

He dug past bags of frozen corn and rock-solid loaves of bread until his numb fingers found a butcher-paper-wrapped parcel. It was a package of steaks, probably years old, labeled ‘Venison’ in Abuelo’s shaky hand. He tore the paper away. The meat was a dark, frozen block, rimed with ice crystals.

His stomach clenched with a hunger so profound it was painful. He didn't think to cook it. The thought never even occurred to him. He took the frozen slab back into the kitchen and laid it on the counter, his eyes fixed on it as if it were a holy relic. As it began to thaw, a tiny bead of dark red liquid oozed from the surface. He watched it, mesmerized, before leaning down and touching the tip of his tongue to the icy, metallic drop.

A jolt of pure, ecstatic satisfaction shot through him, silencing the gnawing hunger for a blissful moment. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Horrified at himself, he recoiled from the counter, his body trembling with a mixture of sublime pleasure and abject self-loathing. He was becoming a ghoul.

That night, sleep was a shallow, tormented state, and from its depths, a new horror emerged. A sound.

Ch-thk… ch-thk… ch-thk…

It was the faint, rhythmic scratching he remembered from his nightmare—the sound of the creature’s hundred silver legs. He bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding. The house was dead silent. It was just the dream echoing in his mind. He lay back down, his breathing ragged.

Ch-thk… ch-thk…

There it was again. Faint, but undeniable. It wasn't in his head. It was in the room. A mouse, he thought, a surge of pathetic relief washing over him. A mouse in the walls. That’s all it was. He got out of bed, his ears straining in the darkness, and pressed his ear against the cool, plaster wall.

Silence.

He moved to another wall. Nothing. The sound had stopped. Maybe he had imagined it. Defeated, he slumped back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

Ch-thk… ch-thk… ch-thk…

It was louder now. Closer. It sounded like it was right next to his head. A cold dread, far worse than any fear of mice, washed over him. Slowly, tentatively, he pressed his ear to his own chest, right over his heart.

The scratching was deafening.

It was inside him. It was the sound of something brittle scraping against the soft cage of his own ribs. He scrambled away from himself, crab-walking backwards on the bed, a choked sob escaping his lips. The passenger wasn't just settled. It was moving. It was exploring its new home.

The sudden, jarring ring of the telephone shattered the moment.

The sound was an antique, metallic shriek from the rotary phone in the hall, a noise he hadn't heard in fifteen years. It rang once, twice, a piercing assault on the suffocating silence. Who would be calling this house, in the middle of the night?

He stumbled into the hallway, his body still a landscape of terror, and lifted the heavy bakelite receiver.

“Hello?” he croaked, his voice raw.

For a moment, there was only static, a sound like a distant, rushing river. Then, a voice, cracked and ancient, spoke. “Leo?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s your Tío Mateo,” the voice rasped, a sound like dry river stones grinding together. Great-Uncle Mateo. His grandfather’s estranged older brother. A man he hadn’t seen since he was a child, a man Abuelo had only ever referred to as ‘the one who ran.’

“Tío? How did you… It’s three in the morning.”

“The moon is high. It’s a loud time for our blood,” Mateo said, as if that explained everything. “I felt the change. Your Abuelo… he is gone, then?”

Leo’s head spun. “His funeral was three days ago. How did you know?”

A dry, humorless chuckle crackled over the line. “I knew he was failing. His light was growing dim. Tell me, boy. Did he pass it on cleanly? Or did he leave a mess for you?”

The question was so insane, so specific to his current horror, that Leo couldn't breathe. The scratching inside his ribs seemed to pause, as if the creature was listening.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leo lied, the words tasting like ash.

“Don’t play the fool,” Mateo’s voice sharpened, losing its frail edge. “You’ve felt it. The first molt… it's a messy business. The cravings have started, haven’t they? A thirst for things you shouldn't want.”

Leo sank against the wall, the phone cord tangling around his trembling hand. “What is happening to me?” he whispered, the last of his denial crumbling into dust.

“It’s not a sickness, boy. Don't go to any doctors. They can’t help you. It’s our blood. The Old Blood. He gave you the family’s bequest.” Mateo paused, and Leo could hear a long, weary sigh. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. The worst is yet to come. The quickening is upon us. The hunger will grow, and the scratching is only the beginning. She is waking up.”