Bloodlines

The first time I noticed something was off I was thirteen. It was a school night and I got out of bed late in the night to sneak a soda from the fridge. The house was silent except for the low hum of the television in the living room. It was unusual for anyone to be up this late.

My dad sat in his chair with the light off watching the late news. The headline at the bottom read “THE NIGHTSHADE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN - FIFTEEN VICTIMS CONFIRMED. " I watched silently for a moment while the reporter talked about a lack of clues and how the police seemed to be baffled.

I remember the way my father’s lip twitched as he sipped his whiskey, almost like a smirk. he noticed me standing in the doorway and in a blink his expression softened, becoming familiar and warm. “Hey champ, can’t sleep?” he asked as he muted the TV and rose from his seat.

I told myself I had imagined the smirk. I must have.

The encounter stirred memories of hearing my dad coming and going at late hours. How closed off he could be at times and how he would side step moms questions of were he was going and who he was with when they fought behind closed doors thinking I couldn’t hear. He was hiding something.

A few weeks later they had a huge fight. Mom accused dad of having an affair, which he denied. Mom and I ended up leaving for a few months that summer to stay with my grandparents. Dad eventually convinced mom he was not having any affairs, that his problem was with gambling and he was getting help.

I’m not sure if mom totally believed him but we did move back home and things did seem to get better. The late night outings stopped and the tension at home faded with time.

Eventually the memory faded too. The killings had stopped and the Nightshade Killer became an urban legend. The subject of true crime podcasts and late night horror stories kids told at sleep overs and on camping trips. The police moved the case onto the cold pile and most thought he had died or been locked up for some other crime.

Then, when I was in my late twenties, they found another body. The same victim type, the same ritualistic markings, and the same precision. The Nightshade Killer was back.

That night I visited my dad for dinner. As soon as I stepped into the house I noticed something was off. The house seemed cleaner than usual. I could smell bleach in the air, thick enough to sting my nose. My dad was his usual self, calm and collected, always in control. He explained the smell away as a laundry mishap, he was still not used to doing it after mom passed last year.

During dinner we talked mostly about me. Dad wanted all the details of how my life was going, all that I was willing to provide anyway. He asked about my work, life in general, and if I was seeing anyone yet.

That is when I saw it. A faint red stain on the cuff of his sleeve. I got a good look as he poured a glass of whiskey for himself. The sight stirred something in the back of my mind that kept me up that night.

That stain wasn’t wine. It wasn’t ketchup. It was blood, I knew it was. I remember the smirk.

I needed proof. Real proof.

The next day I used my spare key to let myself in while Dad was out. My hands shook and felt more nervous than I expected. not at the prospect of getting caught but of the possibility of what I might find.

The smell of bleach wasn’t as strong but it was accompanied by something else now, something almost metallic.

I made my way through the house systematically until I got to the basement door. It was locked. I don’t remember the basement ever being locked. Using a bobby pin and a skill I picked up as a rebellious teenager I clumsily picked the lock.

The metallic smell hit me as the door opened. My stomach twisted as I descended the stairs and the fluorescent light flickered to life overhead. The air was damp and cool and as I reached the bottom and turned the corner I saw them.

Trophies. Photographs of women with terrified looks on their faces and a date written on each one neatly arranged on a workbench. Next to them a stack of old newspaper clippings dating back to the first Nightshade killings. In the far corner a freezer with a padlock and a collection of knives laid out across the top looking freshly cleaned.

I didn’t need to open the freezer, I already knew what I would find.

A creak on the stairs made my blood run cold.

“You shouldn’t have come down here, champ.”

I turned slowly as Dad came around the stairs. His hands in his pockets he watched me for a moment. His face showed no sign of fear at being found out or anger that I had intruded. It was something more like patience. Like he had been waiting for this moment my whole life.

“It was you the entire time?” My voice barely worked. I wanted to run and to throw up but I couldn’t move from that spot. Some sick part of me, something twisted and wretched in my blood had to hear the word. I needed to hear him say them. “You killed them all?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No remorse. Just calm and collected as always and merely stating a fact. “And now you have a choice to make.”

At that moment I felt the weight of generations pressing down on me. My mouth went dry as I tried to swallow.

I wasn’t sure if I was afraid of him, or of how much of him was in me. I felt my lip twitch almost involuntarily. Maybe I was afraid of the choice I already new I would make.