Chapter 4: Blood Memory

The words lingered in the air, thick and charged with a weight that pressed down on her chest. Lysandra didn’t move. She couldn’t. The figure at the door was no longer a stranger; the pieces of her past that she had fought to keep buried began to shift, pulling at the threads of a truth she wasn’t ready to face. The truth that was now, somehow, connected to everything—the murders, the strange symbols, and the feeling that had been gnawing at her from the inside out.

The door closed behind the figure, his presence lingering in the room like a storm that had yet to break. But Lysandra couldn’t focus on him—not yet. Her mind was already spiraling back to her mother, to a past that she had always kept at arm’s length. Her fingers fumbled as she reached for the old recorder sitting on the desk. The crackle of static filled the room, and then, her mother’s voice—her voice, so distant, so haunting—broke through the silence.

"Lysandra, you have to remember. They're coming."

Each word was a dagger, carving open memories she had spent years trying to bury. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow as she stared at the scattered photographs and police files on her desk.

She had always known her past was fragmented, like a puzzle missing its most crucial pieces. But now, as the recorder played her mother’s voice—a voice she hadn’t heard in decades—the void inside her felt more like a chasm.

The claw marks on the victims, the guttural growl she had heard in the alley—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. Her past wasn’t just haunting her; it was hunting her.

The sound of rain against the window pulled her back into the recesses of her mind. Lysandra felt herself slipping, the world around her blurring as memories she had buried came rushing back.

She was eight years old, sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet. The faint glow of a single candle illuminated the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Her parents moved around her in hurried, anxious steps, their voices hushed but sharp.

“Lysandra,” her mother said, kneeling before her. Her usually warm brown eyes were frantic, darting to the windows as if expecting something to burst through at any moment. “Listen to me, sweetheart. You need to be brave tonight. Can you do that for me?”

Lysandra nodded, clutching the edge of her mother’s shawl.

Her father appeared then, his face pale and drawn. He was holding a knife—no, not a knife. But a dagger. The blade gleamed faintly, intricate runes etched into its surface.

“They’re getting closer,” he said, his voice low and steady, though the tremor in his hand betrayed his fear.

Lysandra didn’t understand. Who was getting closer? What were her parents so afraid of?

“Take her upstairs,” her father instructed, his eyes meeting her mother’s. “Lock the door. Don’t come out until I—”

A deafening crash cut him off, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass filling the air. Lysandra screamed, her small hands flying to cover her ears.

Her mother scooped her up, holding her tightly as they fled up the stairs. The growl that followed was unlike anything Lysandra had ever heard—deep, guttural, and bone-chilling.

“Stay here,” her mother said, placing her on the bed. Her hands trembled as she brushed Lysandra’s hair back from her face. “No matter what you hear, don’t open the door. Do you understand me?”

“But—”

“No buts,” her mother snapped, her voice cracking. She kissed Lysandra’s forehead, tears streaming down her face. “I love you, my little moonbeam. Always.”

The door slammed shut, and Lysandra was alone.

The sounds that followed were a nightmare. Heavy footsteps, guttural growls, and her father’s shouts mixed with something else—something wet and visceral.

Then came the scream.

“Run!”

Her mother’s voice was a desperate, anguished cry. Lysandra froze, her heart pounding as she stared at the door.

She wanted to obey. She wished to stay hidden like her mother had told her. But her small hands reached for the doorknob, turning it slowly.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the flickering flames of the candle downstairs. Blood smeared the walls, a crimson trail leading to the shattered front door.

And then she saw it.

A figure loomed in the shadows, its eyes glowing like embers. Its claws dripped with blood, and its growl rumbled like a predator savoring its kill.

Lysandra’s legs gave out, her small frame collapsing to the floor. The creature turned to her, its lips curling back to reveal sharp, glistening fangs.

Before it could take another step, her father lunged at it, the dagger in his hand flashing like lightning.

“Run, Lysandra!” he shouted, his voice filled with a desperation she had never heard before.

But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

And then everything went black.

Lysandra jolted awake, gasping for air. The memory clung to her like a second skin, her heart hammering in her chest.

She stumbled to the sink, splashing cold water on her face. The image of her father’s bloodied face and her mother’s tearful eyes refused to fade.

They had disappeared that night, leaving her alone in a world that didn’t believe her.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispered to herself, gripping the right at the The text can be revised for clarity as follows:

"At the edge of the counter."

The recorder sat on the table, silent now. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.

"You have to remember. They're coming."

Her phone buzzed, pulling her back to the present. Detective Blackwood’s name flashed on the screen.

“Blackwood,” she said, her voice shaky.

“We need to meet,” he said, his tone grave. “I’ve found something. Something you need to see.”

Blackwood arrived an hour later, his expression grim as he confidently walked into her apartment. He carried a manila envelope under one arm, setting it down on the coffee table with deliberate care.

“What is it?” Lysandra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He opened the envelope and pulled out a series of photographs. The first one made her stomach churn.

It was a crime scene photo, the body of a man torn apart with a savagery that defied explanation.

“This was taken last week,” Blackwood said. He laid another photo beside it, then another. “And these are from twenty years ago.”

Lysandra stared at the images, her hands trembling. The claw marks, the blood patterns—they were identical.

“It’s not possible,” she whispered.

“There’s more,” Blackwood said. He pulled out a black-and-white photograph, older and grainier than the others.

Her heart stopped.

The photo showed her parents, standing in front of a wooded area. Her mother held a small bundle in her arms, her father’s hand resting protectively on her shoulder.

“That’s me,” Lysandra said, her voice barely audible.

Blackwood nodded. “This was taken the day before they disappeared.”

She reached for the photo, her fingers tracing the faces of her parents. Her chest ached with a longing so deep it felt like it would swallow her whole.

“There’s one more thing,” Blackwood said. He pulled out a small cassette tape. “This was sent to me anonymously. I think you should hear it.”

He placed the tape in her recorder and pressed play.

Her mother’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“Lysandra, if you're listening to this, I’ve failed to protect you. It means they’ve found you.”

Tears streamed down Lysandra’s face as the message continued.

“You have to remember, my little moonbeam. Remember who you are. Remember what we taught you.”

The tape ended abruptly, leaving them in stunned silence.

“What does she mean?” Blackwood asked, his gaze fixed on her.

Lysandra shook her head, her mind racing.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I think it’s time I found out.”

As the clock struck midnight, a sudden knock echoed through the apartment.

Blackwood reached for his gun, motioning for Lysandra to stay back.

The knock came again, louder this time.

He opened the door cautiously, revealing a man with hollow eyes and trembling hands. He held out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

“This is for her,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Before Blackwood could ask any questions, the man turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

Lysandra unwrapped the package, revealing another tape and a folded piece of paper.

The note read: “Listen. And remember.”

She placed the tape in the recorder, her hands shaking.

Her mother’s voice filled the room once more.

“Lysandra, if you’re hearing this, I’ve run out of time. They’re coming for you. And this time, you won’t be able to run.”

The tape clicked off.

Then the lights flickered.

A low growl rumbled through the apartment, sending chills down her spine.

“Stay behind me,” Blackwood said, his gun raised.

But Lysandra couldn’t move. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.

"Remember who you are."

And as the growl grew louder, she felt something stir deep within her—a faint, primal force clawing its way to the surface.

For the first time in her life, Lysandra realized she wasn’t just a victim. She was something more.

The growl reverberated in her bones, but the sound began to fade as something else inside her took center stage. The words from her mother rang louder now, more urgent—Remember who you are. What had been a distant whisper was now a call she couldn’t ignore, a summons to something she wasn’t ready to face. She could feel the change deep within, like a dormant fire slowly waking from its slumber. For the first time, she didn’t feel afraid of what was outside her door. She was afraid of what was inside her.

But there was no time for reflection, no time to comprehend the force stirring in her chest. Her phone buzzed, slicing through the tension. A message from Cole.

Same pattern. Body found in the old docks. You need to come. It's bad.

Lysandra swallowed hard, her fingers still trembling as they hovered over the screen. Another victim. Another symbol. Another clue leading her deeper into a mystery she wasn’t sure she was ready to solve—but it was already too late to turn back now.