Bloodline Tapestry (A serial story) - Prologue I

Prologue I

Prologue I

1987

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Isotta could still see it: the violence of fresh blood, of tortured limbs and grievous wounds. Of damp, punctured skin and sunken eyes.

She shook her head, attempting to dislodge the disturbing images etched in her mind, but the harbinger had woven its tendrils too deep.

The echoes of the vision clung to her, wrapping around her thoughts like a suffocating fog. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, as if she could squeeze out the lingering remnants, but the images refused to fade. The scent of iron and decay still lingered in her nostrils, though she knew it wasn’t real—at least she hoped it wasn't.

With a cautious breath, Isotta reluctantly climbed out of bed, her nightgown sticking to her figure, dampened with sweat, as she took a moment to gain her balance before creeping down the dark hallway to the bathroom.

The dreams had become a nightly ritual that at first were more of a nuisance than anything else since they started interrupting her sleep a few months back. For a while, they were random—a night here or there—but they steadily increased and were getting worse. What had started as a shadowy figure in the doorway, over time, became a detailed and grotesque rendition of a man, his form twisted and distorted, covered in wounds and blood and calling her name. Now she was barely getting two hours a night. Not nearly enough sleep for a woman in her third trimester.

The baby kicked. “Mommy's here honey. It's okay.” She whispered, cradling her belly with one hand as she walked.

The cold bathroom tile against her feet reminded her of how much things had changed. The simple act of using the bathroom had become a painful and laborious ordeal that almost never brought relief. It used to be easier, she thought, until her belly really began to swell and things like lying in bed became more complicated.

It had now been two days, and the discomfort was only growing. It was tiresome, and after several minutes of fruitless effort, she gave up with a groan. “Not again,” she said.

She stood up and, as gracefully as she could, walked back to her bedroom, passing the window in the hall. The window's frame was warped and loose, she noticed. Only a couple of exposed nails kept it from falling off. A casualty of their move, she thought. She took hold of the window jamb, carefully grasping it to gauge how loose it was.

“I thought Thom fixed this,” she mumbled.

Then something outside caught her eye—a sudden burst of light. Lightning? That was her first thought, but she hesitated. There was no thunder, and, more importantly, the flash hadn’t come from the sky, she realized. It came from the yard.

Isotta peered out the window to get a closer look, but the rain-streaked darkness obscured her view. It was coming down like a velvet shower, not too hard but not a drizzle either. Or, as her husband would say, “That's what you call a wet rain.” My husband, she thought, her heart growing melancholy. How many more weekends alone would she have to endure? Week after week. There for one and then gone the next. Always on duty. Always one foot out the door. Would things ever be different? she hoped.

The light flashed again, several times, in quick bursts, casting long shadows across the yard. She could make out the shed and patio in the back with each flicker.

Turning around and squinting, she searched for the clock on her end table. It read 2:38 AM in bright orange digits. Next to the clock, she could make out her magnesium pills. She had searched high and low earlier that evening, but with no luck. And yet, there they were, casually sitting on the end table.

“You must take these four times a day,” Dr. Adams had said to her. “The symptoms could strike unexpectedly,” and the pills were her only relief from the sometimes severe symptoms. “You're high risk, Isotta,” she had warned. “The baby's life could be in danger.”

And with that, another image from her dreams returned. A gangly old man dressed in a black suit, reaching out with long skinny arms and fingers like tree branches to grasp the baby and pull her out of her mother's arms.

She heard the click and clang of the trash can rattling side to side and the trees rustling as they braced themselves against the wind. There was something unsettling to Isotta about a stormy night like this and the turbulent sounds it made.

And then, for just a second, she thought she heard something in the yard. A quiet scream? Faint, diluted by the rain, but she thought she heard a scream. Her arm twitched, and the baby kicked. Isotta froze, took in a breath, and rubbed her belly to soothe the baby. “Mommy's here sweetie. It’s OK,” she whispered softly, and then held her breath to listen.

A moment passed and then another, and then it came again—a faint, high-pitched sound slicing through the drumming of the rain, sharp and piercing like a distant whistle carried on the storm.

She tried to convince herself it was just the wind, threading its way through the trees outside, a haunting melody that hissed and echoed around the corners of the house. But the sound persisted, growing louder, more insistent. Maybe that’s not the wind, she thought.

It crossed her mind to put on her slippers and go downstairs to see what was causing the noise, but she was sure that it was just the gusts zipping through the yard- That’s all, what else could it be? - she convinced herself - just the wind.

Maybe she wasn't fully awake. She heard about Ambien fog before—people wake up confused in the middle of the night—but she wasn't confused.

She paid close attention, trying to imagine where that sound could’ve originated. Loose debris in the yard? Did Thomas forget to tie down the tarp over the grill? It wouldn’t be the first time. Or was it the rain pelting the gutter at a weird angle? The things we tell ourselves. The more she thought about it, the less sure she was that she heard anything at all.

Back in bed, she lay awake, planning the next day, a flimsy shield against the dream that haunted her thoughts. Sleep felt like a dangerous country she was afraid to revisit.

It was the perfect time of the year, she thought, to plant the chrysanthemums and Dahlias. The soil will be moist and easy to move around, especially after a good rain. She imagined the beautiful purples and oranges together.

There was laundry to do too, and she had asked Thomas a thousand times to move the rocking chair to the other corner of the nursery. Some things were getting far too heavy for her now. The rug downstairs was still rolled up with twine, and there were several unpacked boxes left on the shelf in the garage. Too heavy for her to take down.

Her eyes grew heavy. I'll figure out a way to do it myself, she thought as the sleep began pulling her back under. Her eyelids started to close. I wish he was here to help me, she said to herself. As Isotta drifted, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something she was forgetting.

“The back door! That’s what I forgot.” She never forgets to check the doors before going to bed. She jolted awake.

Suddenly, from somewhere downstairs came a deep, groaning noise that reverberated through the house, followed by an audible thump like something heavy shutting off.

"Hello?" Her voice quivered as she called out into the darkness. "Thomas, is that you?" The echo of her words faded into silence, met only by the sound of the subsiding rain outside. The storm was winding down. Quickly, the rain grew quieter and quieter, enveloping the house in a silent stillness.

“Thomas.” She called out again, hoping for a response.

The room's dim glow, cast by the alarm clock and VCR, stuttered and died. She fumbled for the lamp switch, flicking it on and off. She checked the bulb. Nothing. No light. No power. The electricity’s out. That's what i must've heard. Only the faint light from the night sky filtered through the windows.

Her clammy skin clung to the cold sheets, and the faint drip of rainwater from the gutters was suddenly broken by the unwelcome return of the shrill whistle outside. Faint at first, then growing steadily. Getting closer like a howling coyote stalking its prey. “What the hell?” she whispered. It was getting louder. She glanced around, searching the room. Her eyes strained in the darkness, trying to rationalize the sound. It was getting more intense, echoing through the house. “What the fuck is that!” she screamed. “Who’s there? Thom is that you”

She bolted upright, trying to leap from the bed, but the tangled sheets would not let go. She fell and stumbled to the floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat matching the whistle's rising crescendo. The air in the room seemed to vibrate in tandem with each shallow breath.

The volume continued to climb, resonating in her eardrums. Louder and louder. Bearing down at full strength.

Isotta yanked her ankle free from the tangled sheets, pushing herself up from the floor. She clutched her abdomen, wincing as the searing pain radiated up into her throat.

She groped for the Rx bottle on the end table, but in the chaos and darkness, it eluded her grasp. Just out of reach. The screech climbed to an unbearable pitch, a thunderous, deafening assault that gnawed at her eardrums. The walls began to shake - violently, as if the entire house were on the verge of collapsing around her. Isotta screamed again, her fingers brushing the bottle before it slipped away, tumbling behind the table.

“Fuck!”

Panicked, she groped blindly behind the end table, stretching her hand as far as it would go. “Where are those fucking pills!” The sound hammered at her eardrums, vibrating in her head. It was no use. “What the fuck is happening!”

Recoiling against the bed, she clutched the sheets around her ears and her belly, letting out a bloodcurdling scream. Then she froze, holding her breath, paralyzed with fear and screamed, “STOP!”

As if on cue, the bedroom door slammed shut with a jarring bang, cutting off the piercing howl as though a switch had just been flipped.

A suffocating silence settled over the room. Only her ragged breathing and the frantic thud of her heart filled the void.

A warm gust of air shot across the room fanning her nose with a terrible and rancid odor. The glow of the VCR and alarm clock returned. The hum of appliances downstairs switched back on.

“Who's there?" She managed to ask in a trembling voice. She sat still on the floor, waiting for a response. Every second an eternity. Slowly, Isotta propped herself up onto the edge of the bed.

And then—so ordinary, so familiar it could have been any other night—she felt the mattress dip as Thomas settled onto the opposite side of the bed. His weight pressed into it with that gentle, unmistakable shift.

“Honey?” Her voice was tight with caution. “Thomas… is that you?”

The silence that followed was heavy. No response.

"Honey?" she said again. This time, unsure. And then she remembered, Thom was supposed to be gone all weekend. He would have called if he was coming home.

She listened carefully but there were no familiar signs: the swish of the sheets, his head settling into the pillow, his warmth, his scent. She could usually feel when he was near but Instead she recognized the same sour odor that wafted past her nose just a moment before. Isotta turned, reaching out, across the bed, for his hand. As her fingers closed around it, she felt a clammy, cold moisture that was completely out of place.

She sprang back to her feet and switched on the table lamp. This time, it flickered to life.

When she turned back toward the bed, the blood drained from her face. What relief there was vanished in an instant, replaced by another jolt of raw adrenaline.

A shape—a man? No… something else—lay sprawled across the mattress. Its hulking form was twisted, unnatural, like a man’s silhouette distorted into something wrong. Something monstrous.

Her breath hitched. Her mind raced to make sense of it—was it the shadows? Her exhaustion playing tricks? But no—the thing was there. It - was - there.

She let out a bone-chilling cry, her features contorting in horror.

She scrambled across the room to the door, shut tight. She jiggled the knob—nothing. Then, gripping it with both hands it turned. she heaved desperately with all her weight. The door creaked and moaned and finally it opened. Isotta glanced back at the bed, turned and ran down the hall.