The Red Floor Incident

Richard's breath was uneven. The thick, metallic scent of blood clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. His hands were trembling, still warm and slick with Oliver's blood. The warehouse floor was painted in red—gore splattered across the walls, thick chunks of flesh sticking to the metal beams. It looked less like a murder scene and more like a slaughterhouse.

Amelia stood frozen, her wide eyes reflecting the crimson horror in front of her. Her breathing turned shallow. She swayed slightly, as if reality itself was slipping away.

"Amelia—" Richard reached out, but before he could grab her—

Thud.

She collapsed, her body hitting the cold concrete with a sickening heaviness. Her limbs twitched slightly before going still.

"Shit," Max muttered, his hands clenching into fists. His usually confident face was pale, his jaw clenched tight. The sharp tang of blood was unbearable, the kind of smell that would stick to their skin for days. "We have to move. Now."

Then—voices.

Low, distant at first, but getting closer. Footsteps crunching on gravel. A group of people approaching.

Richard's body tensed. "Fuck." His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Max turned toward the entrance. The voices grew clearer—young men, chatting casually, laughing. Unaware of the nightmare they were about to stumble upon.

"We don't have time," Max hissed. His eyes darted toward Richard. "Pick her up."

Richard hesitated. His legs still felt weak. His mind was screaming, overwhelmed with everything—Oliver's death, the blood, the cursed explosion that wiped him out of existence. But there was no time to freeze.

He crouched down, lifting Amelia onto his back. She was light—too light. Her body limp against him, her head lolling slightly over his shoulder. He adjusted his grip, his hands tightening around her legs.

Max glanced toward the entrance. The silhouettes of the group were growing clearer, their voices laced with amusement. "Hurry," Max whispered.

Richard took a deep breath, turned toward the back exit, and ran.

Their footsteps echoed through the warehouse, each step slamming against the blood-stained floor. The metallic scent burned in Richard's nose, the damp air making his skin crawl. Behind them, the voices suddenly cut off.

Then—

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

A horrified scream. Someone had seen the blood.

Panic surged through Richard's chest, his legs moving on instinct.

"Move, move, move," Max urged, pushing open the rusted back door.

They burst into the open, the afternoon sun blinding after the suffocating darkness of the warehouse. The cool wind hit them, but it didn't wash away the filth or the lingering dread clinging to their bodies.

Behind them, more screams echoed through the air.

"We're so fucked," Richard muttered.

Max, panting beside him, glanced back at the warehouse. "Oh yeah. Definitely."

But there was no time to worry. They had to keep running.

And they did.

Richard's legs burned as he ran, Amelia's unconscious body weighing on his back. Every step felt heavier, his breath ragged. His shirt stuck to his skin, drenched in sweat and blood. The panic hadn't left him. His mind was still racing, still processing the sheer horror of what had happened in that warehouse.

Max led the way, taking sharp turns through the overgrown path behind the warehouse. Twigs snapped under their feet, leaves rustling violently as they forced their way through the dense vegetation.

"Just a little more," Max muttered. His voice was tense but controlled. He knew where he was going, Richard didn't.

In the distance, they could still hear shouting. The group of people at the warehouse had found the scene—Oliver's remains and were still screaming. The panic in their voices was unmistakable. It was only a matter of time before they called the police.

"Max," Richard gritted out. "You parked right in front of the fucking warehouse."

"So?" Max didn't look back.

"So?! What do you mean 'so'? You're gonna get arrested for murder, dumbass!"

Max huffed, barely out of breath. "Relax, I'll handle it."

"Handle it?" Richard wanted to scream. "Dude, the entire goddamn car is parked outside a fucking murder scene! There's blood everywhere! What the hell do you mean you'll handle it?!"

"Just trust me, alright?" Max shot him a glance, eyes sharp. "We need to clean ourselves up first. You look like you walked out of a horror movie."

Richard had no argument against that. His entire body was soaked in blood. Not just his hands—his arms, his jeans, even his goddamn shoes.

Max took a sharp left, leading them toward a clearing. The trees opened up, revealing a small, quiet lake. The water glistened under the afternoon sun, the surface rippling slightly with the breeze.

Richard stopped at the edge, panting. His knees almost gave out. Amelia was still unconscious against his back, her weight a dull pressure.

Max rolled his shoulders. "Alright, dump her."

Richard scowled. "You say that like she's a sack of potatoes."

"Would you rather I say, 'Gently place the lovely lady down and cradle her like a princess'?"

Richard didn't bother responding. He carefully knelt down, letting Amelia's body rest on the grass. She looked so pale. Even in sleep, her eyebrows were slightly furrowed, as if her body was still reacting to the trauma of what happened.

Max walked straight into the water, dipping his hands in. The blood swirled in the lake, dissolving into nothing. "Come on, hurry up before someone sees us."

Richard dragged himself forward, scooping water into his hands and splashing it on his face. The cold hit him like a shock, bringing him back to reality. The blood didn't come off immediately—he had to scrub his skin raw to get it all out. His nails still had dark red stains underneath.

He turned to Amelia. She needed to be cleaned too.

Max must've noticed, because he sighed. "I got it." He knelt beside her, cupped some water in his hands, and gently sprinkled it over her face.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then—

Amelia stirred.

A faint groan escaped her lips as she shifted slightly, her fingers twitching against the grass. Her eyelashes fluttered before her eyes slowly opened.

"...Where…?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Richard sat back on his heels. "We had to run. People were coming."

Amelia blinked, trying to process his words. Then suddenly, her expression twisted—she remembered.

Her body tensed, eyes darting to Richard, then Max. "Oliver… he—"

"Yeah." Max's voice was unusually soft.

Amelia pressed her hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. "What… what the hell was that?"

Richard hesitated. He didn't know how to explain. Hell, even he didn't fully understand what they had just witnessed.

"It was a curse," Max answered simply. "A pretty damn strong one."

Amelia shuddered, gripping her arms. "...Is this what you guys deal with all the time?"

Richard exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. "Not usually this level of crazy."

Amelia fell silent. Her fingers trembled against her skin.

Max stood up, brushing water off his hands. "We should get moving."

Amelia looked down at herself. Her clothes were still stained in dried blood. She swallowed hard. "...I need to wash up first."

Max nodded toward the lake. "Go ahead. We'll wait."

As Amelia slowly walked toward the water,

---

The sun had fully risen now, casting a harsh light over the city streets as the three of them walked in tense silence. The weight of everything they had just witnessed clung to them, invisible yet suffocating. Even after washing the blood away, Richard still felt it—like it had seeped into his skin, refusing to be cleansed.

Amelia walked slightly behind them, her arms wrapped around herself. She hadn't spoken since they left the lake. Every now and then, Richard would glance at her, half-expecting her to start crying again, but she didn't. She just walked—silent, pale, lost in thought.

Max, on the other hand, looked completely normal. Hands in his pockets, face unreadable. If someone saw him now, they'd never guess he had just witnessed a man explode right in front of him.

Richard, though, wasn't fooled.

Max was keeping his cool, but Richard could see the subtle shifts in his body language—the way his fingers twitched every now and then, the way his jaw clenched slightly when the sirens blared in the distance.

The sirens had been following them for a while now, getting closer to the warehouse. It was only a matter of time before the police swarmed the place and found what was left of Oliver.

Richard exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. "This is seriously fucked up."

Max let out a small chuckle. "You're just realizing that now?"

Richard shot him a glare. "No, I've known it was fucked up for a while, but this—" He gestured vaguely. "This is a whole new level of insane."

Max didn't respond.

Amelia finally spoke, her voice quieter than usual. "What's going to happen now?"

Richard sighed. "We're going to George's. He needs to hear about all of this."

Amelia nodded slowly but didn't say anything else.

They walked in silence again, only the sounds of distant city life filling the gaps in their conversation. Cars honking, people chatting, the occasional bark of a stray dog. It was almost jarring—how normal the world still felt despite everything that had happened.

Richard clenched his fists.

They had seen something unnatural tonight. Something beyond just ghosts and spirits. Oliver had been cursed—and not just some weak, half-assed curse either. That kind of power… it wasn't something normal exorcists could just brush off.

Whoever this Raven guy was, he wasn't just another lunatic playing cult leader.

He was dangerous.

And that meant they were already in way deeper than they should be.

Richard glanced at Amelia. She was still pale, but her hands had stopped shaking.

"Are you sure you're good?" he asked.

She hesitated before nodding. "Yeah… I just—" She took a deep breath. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"Yeah," Richard muttered. "Me neither."

Max suddenly stretched his arms, letting out a deep sigh. "Alright, enough depressing talk. Let's get moving before something else tries to kill us."

Richard scoffed. "Not really the best time for jokes, man."

Max grinned. "If I don't joke, I'll start thinking about what just happened. And I really don't want to do that."

Richard couldn't argue with that logic.

Without another word, they picked up the pace, heading straight for George's house—each of them carrying the weight of what had just happened, and the fear of what was still to come.

---

The whine of sirens finally faded as the police cars came to a slow stop outside the abandoned warehouse. The secluded area, hidden on the outskirts of town, was eerily silent apart from the distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves. The officers stepped out, their boots crunching against the gravel, their breath visible in the cold morning air.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard surveyed the area with sharp, calculating eyes. Detective Henry Calloway. A veteran in the force, known for his relentless pursuit of the truth—and for having seen things others refused to acknowledge.

Beside him stood a younger officer, Lieutenant Darren Pierce, his brown hair neatly slicked back, his uniform pressed to perfection. He was still new to homicide, eager but inexperienced. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him.

"Holy shit," Darren muttered under his breath.

Calloway didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the wide metal doors of the warehouse, left slightly ajar. Even from here, he could see the splatters of red smeared across the entrance, as if someone had crawled out, leaving behind a trail of something far worse than blood.

He had seen a lot in his career. Gang violence, gruesome murders, ritualistic killings. But this…

This was different.

A few more officers arrived, flashlights in hand, stepping cautiously inside. As they did, a chorus of curses and sharp intakes of breath filled the air.

"D-Detective—" One of the officers gagged, stumbling back. "It's… it's everywhere."

Calloway exhaled through his nose, motioning for Darren to follow.

They stepped inside.

The smell hit them first—coppery, thick, wrong. The scent of blood was unmistakable, but this was something else entirely.

The warehouse interior was completely drenched in red. The floor, the walls, even the old wooden crates stacked in the corners—all of it coated in thick, dark blood. Pieces of what might have once been a person clung to the surfaces, twisted beyond recognition.

Darren turned pale, covering his mouth. "Jesus Christ."

"Get a forensic team down here now," Calloway ordered, his tone steady despite the horrific scene before him.

One of the officers, trying to keep himself composed, spoke up. "Sir, what… what the hell happened here?"

Calloway kneeled down, examining a section of the floor where the blood had pooled unnaturally. It wasn't just spilled—it had spread, stretching unnaturally across the room, almost like it had a mind of its own.

He noticed something else, too.

Footprints.

Small ones, barely visible beneath the blood. Three sets, leading toward the back exit.

Someone had been here. Someone had seen this happen. And someone had left before the police arrived.

Calloway exhaled sharply.

"We find out," he said simply.

Darren, still trying to regain his composure, pointed toward the door. "Sir, there's… there's a car parked outside."

Calloway stood up. "Whose?"

"Not registered to any of the workers from the local area. No signs of forced entry or abandoned personal belongings," Darren reported. "Looks like someone drove here voluntarily."

Calloway narrowed his eyes. "Then get the plate number. If that car belongs to whoever was here last night, we've got our first lead."

Darren nodded quickly, already reaching for his radio to run the plates.

Calloway turned back to the scene, staring at the endless crimson staining every inch of the warehouse. His gut told him this wasn't just some violent gang dispute. This wasn't even a normal murder.

Something far worse had happened here.

And the people who walked away from this?

They were either very lucky… or very dangerous.