Written In Blood

Chapter Forty-One

Jonathan Farrell noticed the police tape marking off a section of the field to his right and glanced quickly to the passenger seat. Thankfully, his girlfriend showed no sign of having seen what he had, he was sure she would have said something if she had.

"Where are you taking me?" Cynthia Potter asked, a touch of concern in her voice as the car turned off the narrow road they were driving along and started down a dark path that looked as though it belonged in a horror movie. "This doesn't look like the kind of place we should be."

"Don't worry, it looks worse than it is," Jonathan told her. "When the sun's out – it was typical, he thought, that after a sunny weekend, this evening had to be cloudy – this area looks great, trust me, I've been here before."

"With other girls?" Cynthia asked, more than a trace of jealousy in her voice.

Jonathan smiled at that, though he was careful to turn his head away until he had it under control. "Of course with other girls," he said. "It's not like there's many places around here where you can get some privacy. Come on, don't act like it's news that I've had other girlfriends; I've had other girlfriends, and you've had other boyfriends." He reached out to give her leg a reassuring squeeze and stroke. "We're together now, and you're the only one I want to be with, here or anywhere else."

"Well, alright then," Cynthia said, reluctant acceptance was audible in her voice but she was actually pleased to hear him say that. "I still don't like it here, though, it's creepy." It was an opinion that didn't improve when they reached the end of the short drive and entered the yard surrounding the farmhouse.

"I know it's not the best looking of places," Jonathan admitted, "but like I said, there aren't many places you can go around here if you want some privacy. We can't go to my place, my family's there, and if we go to your place in town, your house-mates will be there. I've got a few things that will make the place a whole lot better, you wait."

He brought the car to a stop almost half a dozen yards from the front door of the burned-out farmhouse and got out. "Come on, give it a chance," he told Cynthia, who was reluctant to move from the passenger seat. "You go inside while I get the things I've brought. I promise, if you really don't like the place, we'll go back home."

Cynthia stayed where she was for more than half a minute before finally slipping the seatbelt off and exiting the car. She moved slowly across the yard to the doorway, where the door hung off its hinges, and made her way inside. She entered the dim interior with a feeling of trepidation; she didn't think she had ever seen anywhere, let alone been anywhere, that would make a more perfect setting for a horror movie.

Jonathan waited until his girlfriend had disappeared through the doorway and then made his way to the boot so he could get the things he had brought. He had the blanket slung over his shoulder, and the radio in one hand, and he was just picking up the picnic hamper, when the scream sounded from inside the house.

He dropped everything as he spun away from the car, and darted into the house. He nearly knocked over Cynthia, who was frozen like a statue just inside the doorway, when he reached the living room. It was only by twisting and half-jumping aside that he was able to avoid running into her.

When he saw what it was that had made his girlfriend scream, he felt an urge to do likewise; it was only the desire to appear strong, rather than weak or girlish, that kept the scream that bubbled up his throat from erupting out of him.

The scream that threatened to un-man him subsided slowly as he turned Cynthia, who showed no sign of being aware he was there, and steered her from the room and the house. Once he had his girlfriend in the passenger seat of his car, wrapped in the blanket he had brought for them to sit on, he returned to the house.