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CHAPTER 13: THE RED FLOOD AND THE RANSOM
Jonas Lockwood stood rigid in the confines of his mother's bathroom. The earlier police presence had vanished, leaving the space silent, cold, and infused with the residual metallic scent of decay.
Compelled by a dreadful, morbid curiosity, Jonas slowly moved toward the bathtub. He leaned over the rim and peered into the viscous red liquid—the bath of sacrifice left by the cultists.
His mind reeled, clarity striking with brutal force. It was not merely a symbolic slurry of blood; submerged and fully recognizable, yet horribly decayed, was his mother's head. The skin had begun its inevitable decomposition, and worms writhed across the mottled flesh, busily feeding.
Jonas recoiled instantly, stumbling backward, a cold sheet of sweat breaking over his entire body.
Suddenly, the dark red blood in the tub began to flow, not over the edge, but out of the drain with impossible, grotesque speed. Simultaneously, a geyser of thick, crimson liquid erupted from the floor drain, rapidly filling the small room. The bathroom was transforming into a chamber of drowning.
Jonas found himself submerged, the cold, sticky substance rising inexorably. Soon, the blood reached the ceiling. He managed to find a tiny, precious pocket of air in the space between the surface of the blood and the roof, struggling desperately to take breath. But the liquid continued its surge, relentlessly filling the final inches. Jonas gasped, clawing at the non-existent air, the crimson liquid completely engulfing him. He began to drown.
Jonas woke abruptly, choking on dry air, his body trembling uncontrollably. It was all a dream—a horrific, stress-induced hallucination rooted in the disturbing reality of the cult's shrine.
The need was immediate and overriding. He lunged for his bag, fumbling past clothes and documents. He located the final compartment, retrieved the last remaining quantity of his drugd, and consumed it with desperate haste. The physical pain and mental terror receded, replaced by a precarious, artificial calm.
It was now morning, and the light filtering through the dusty windows spurred Jonas into action. He needed to present the façade of the dutiful, grieving son. He dressed quickly for his appointment at the police station.
As Jonas stepped out of the front gate, his gaze fell upon a scene of distress. A teenage girl lay fallen on the pavement, visibly injured and badly hurt. Initially, Jonas barely registered the sight, his mind consumed entirely by his own imminent deception and financial worries. He started to walk past.
But then, he stopped. He turned and looked back at the struggling girl. A cold, cynical calculation crossed his features.
The next scene was set in a local hospital. The girl's family—her parents—were effusive, their gratitude palpable. "Thank you, Mr. Lockwood," the father said, clutching Jonas's hand. "You saved our daughter. We are so grateful."
Jonas accepted their praise with practiced modesty, then pivoted the conversation with predatory skill. He spoke regretfully about his recent unemployment and the crushing difficulty of his emergency situation, effectively indirectly demanding compensation for his heroic assistance.
The girl's mother hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the overt request for money. However, the father, driven by genuine relief and gratitude, quickly acquiesced, pressing a sizable amount of cash into Jonas's hand.
Jonas accepted the money, a small, selfish smile touching his lips. He was deeply satisfied. His immediate financial struggle had just been alleviated through the exploitation of a family's