Blood Dreams by Jack MacLane

Author:Jack MacLane [MacLane, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press

Chapter 26

He is running down a long corridor, so long that it seems to have no beginning and no end. He does not know how long he has been running but he is tired, so tired that he would like to stop and walk, or even crawl, but he cannot. He has to keep running.

The corridor is dark, but there is a kind of light in it, a light that comes from the walls, which are red and slickly wet like fresh paint.

He knows that they are not wet with paint.

They are red with blood.

Blood covers them and runs thickly down to the floor, pooling slightly at the bottom of the walls.

He is careful as he runs not to step in the blood. He does not know what will happen if he should step in the blood, but he knows that it would not be pleasant.

As he runs, he is screaming not so much because of the blood, but because of what he sees in it.

He sees faces. The wall bulges with them, as if they were behind the blood trying to get out. The faces bulge outward and then draw back into the walls in a regular, rhythmic way, and in fact the walls of the entire corridor pulsate as he runs along.

He thinks that if he screams, the faces will go away, the pulsating movements will stop, but they do not. The screams only make them worse, if anything.

He recognizes all of the faces.

One of them is his father, and his wet, red mouth opens as if to say something, or to gobble him up, inhale him, hide him forever behind the walls of blood.

He cannot tell which will happen to him, and he tries to run faster, but his legs are like rubber. He seems to be making no progress at all, and the face comes closer and closer as the wall bulges out more and more.

He screams louder and tries to close his eyes, but his eyes will not close.

He reaches out with his arm, trying to push the face away, but his hand goes right into it.

It is like pushing his hand into a mud hole. There is a soft, sucking feeling as his hand is drawn deeper and deeper into the blood.

He screams and screams, and finally he manages to pull his hand out of the blood with a noisy plopping sound.

There is thick blood on his hand, clinging to him, and he waves his hand in the air to throw it off. Blood drops as thick as syrup fly through the air, splattering the floor and the walls, but his hand will not come clean.

He screams again, because now he sees the new face, the face that he knows will be the next one to try to suck him in, the next one who will try to keep him there in the corridor forever, running . . . running . . . running.

But this face he does not know. He has never seen it before, and there is something wrong about that.

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