A/N: Another story, but this idea came while I was laying awake at night in my bed... My first true horror fic, but I'm mildly confident in it. At least, my friends think I should be anyway!
Summary: A demon lives within this forest. They say he was born normal, but changed after his 17th birthday. They say that he has killed more people than the officials care to count. And they also say that the only people who can enter the forest without getting slaughtered are his two little sisters.
Warnings: Cussing, blood, murder, little insanity (not funny insanity, real insanity), character death.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, or it's character, or anything related to it.
Prologue
They say that some time ago, a demon's spawn was born into the world. Into a seemingly normal family, in a seemingly normal, laid back town. The child was normal for many years, laughing, running, playing. Soon even dating and pushing his way through school with top marks. He was popular, well respected. Some even dared to go as far as to say he was a loveable, cuddly bear type once you got to know him. But that all changed the night before he turned 17, just before he entered his Senior year of college.
He laid awake for many hours, motionless, only moving to blink or breath. Pain had scorched it's way through his very being, burning a path through his veins and making his jaw twitch with the urge to scream in utter agony. His eyes were hit first, they say, becoming blood shot. Honey brown was said to of melted into a twisted, burning gold, and the deep red bloodshot color deepened in a midnight black. People say that his hair was next, growing twice it's length, reaching just past his shoulders and gaining silver tips, clashing with the orange of his original hair color. His teeth had said to of been elongated as well, becoming sharper and that of an animal's. Blood lust had coursed through his veins, shortly after the pain had muted into a dull throb.
The people who birthed him, raised him, and loved him, however, were deeply asleep in the other room. They were unaware when their first born had stalked his way to their room. When he yanked their door open and gripped the sides harshly, cracking them and imprinting the shapes of his fingers forever into the wood. Unaware when he approached the large bed, breathing harshly through his teeth, a single fist raised, shaking and quivering with anticipation and mild dread. Lost to the knowledge that the boy had slapped himself, forcing himself out of his stupor. Left in the dark of the boy's slowly creating plans for the morning.
His sisters, twins taking after both their parents, would stir soon. He knew. They had entered school earlier than he and were already far used to the routine. The door swung shut slowly, closing with a final, rough click. It would stay shut for another four hours. Sun rising, the twins woke and left without so much as a clue on what was to happen.
Windows and doors were said to of been locked one by one, taking the time needed to hit every lock within the house. Even the unnecessary ones. The cords to the phones were ripped out of the walls, mobile phones smashed to pieces slowly, making dull cracking noises as they splintered into bits within his bare hands. The two sole computers, his father's and his own, were ripped apart, screens cracked and keyboards slowly dismantled. It had taken another two hours, they say, for the boy to get rid of any form of communication between his home and the outside world. All the while, his parents banging upon their door, calling for him to let them out.
A wicked, insane grin painted his lips as he slowly stalked his way into the kitchen, fingers wrapping around a large butcher knife hat had been left out on the table over the night by his mother. His finger ran over the blade, bringing a few droplets of blood to the surface of his skin, painting the tip of the blade crimson. Oh, he'd let them out all right. He stalked back out of the kitchen, proceeding up the creaking, old stairs. Nimble fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife, the other wrapped around the silver key that went to every door, window, and all other locks in the house.
The door was unlocked with a click, pushed open, and revealed the happy soon horror struck faces of his parents, both gaping at him. His tongue darted out between chapped lips, anticipation filling him. The first scream, the mother's, was said to of echoed throughout the house, bouncing over to the neighbor's closed ears. Blood had sprayed forth as the boy stabbed the same placed over and over, just below her jugular vein. She was pushed away, slamming into the edge of the window, head banging against the fragile glass, cracking both the bones of her skull and the see through material. A gagging noise had bubbled up from her throat, blood dripping from her lips which were slowly gaining a blue, almost purple bruise like color to them.
Insane laughter bubbled up from his chest, blade held in front of him as his own mother's eyes rolled back, revealing the whites of her eyes, body now limp and gray. The father stared on in horror, scrambling backwards when his firstborn turned to him. A second scream proceeded to echo out, bouncing along the neighbors land, this time far more masculine than the first. It was cut off when the boy stabbed him in the throat, cutting through the skin, flesh, veins, and eventually striking the bones of his windpipe, all in a matter of seconds. The body joined the first in a slumped position.
His tongue ran over the blade, tasting the iron like blood of his parents as he surveyed his handy work, before snatching the key off the ground where it had been dropped. He could hear the sirens that were getting closer and closer with every passing second. They say that he had climbed out through the window of the second story room after kicking his mother's form from his path. Landing in a bush, witnesses say they saw him scrambled, clothes soaked in blood that had sprayed upon his person, knife grasped between his teeth. Officers arrived on the scene to late, for he was sprinting, jumping fences, scaring neighbors.
Officials chased him, gaining ground on him with ever step they took. Panic seemed to of taken his features, they say, as he ripped the knife out from between his teeth and flung it behind him. The knife, bloodied as it already was, had sunken into one of the officer's foot, drawing blood and causing a howl of surprise and pain to tear from his throat. But the boy had been caught, stumbling at the scream, having not expected it to hit anything breathing. A hard hit to the neck effectively floored him, sending him tumbling into another bush. After several bites, kicks, cussing, and punches, he was secured. Tied tightly and being hauled away, mouth effectively shut. But that didn't halt the death threats that spewed from his mouth, muffled as they were.
His sisters arrived after he was thrown into the back seat of a car, their eyes wide. Their fellow students had said the teachers received a call about their brother. They had been pulled aside, spoken to by their teacher. When they had walked back in, tears were flowing down the younger's face. The other students had known naught of what had happened, until the teacher spoke after the twins had left in a rush.
A week later he was placed in an institution, after killing three others and maiming another. He was deemed insane, and many of the staff feared him for his random outbursts. Other occupants pleaded with the staff, they say, begging on their knees to be released after he had been hauled in, saying that he sung and spoke at night. The songs sung were old favorites of children, such as Ring Around the Rosie, but the way it was sung, they said, put a knew terror into it. He spoke of murder, twisting their intestines around their necks, ripping the skin off their faces and hanging them from the ceiling after shoving their own beating hearts into their mouths. Their pleas were ignored, and they were forced back into their quarters.
Fear for two lives in particular had skyrocketed when the twins had stepped their first steps into the bright white, emotionless institution, a week after their relative had been admitted, demanding to at least see their brother. Their wish was granted, with much hesitation. Witnesses say they were lead to the boy's room, the door shut tightly behind them. All eyes, staff and patient alike, had been glued to the dull door for two hours, waiting for the first scream to rip from it's walls. But not a sound echoed from the room besides a dull murmur, and the occasional laugh. Once the two hours were up, the twins walked out of the room, smiles painting their faces. The first thing out of their mouths was a question as to when they could visit their "Ichi-nii-san" again.
Most were floored with shock when it was confirmed, three weeks after their first visit, than not a drop of blood had been spilled in that room, nor had a single injury been placed upon the two young girls. Media swamped the institution after that confirmation, people began to wonder if the murder was a cover up for something far worse, or even if the boy had been drugged when the murder had taken place. These thoughts continued for another two weeks, all the while the boy sat and hummed, and twisted look upon his features that would melt off his being at the sight of his sisters. But reality slapped them all in the face on the second month anniversary of his admittance. When almost 100 people, from staff to guards to patients, were murdered. Quickly, and yet brutally.
Nobody had any idea how he had done it. How the demon spawn had killed them all and still fled without a single trace. Not a lead as to where he had left to besides some claims from people who had seen him running, blood stained clothes and all. The officials had made it shortly after the reports had been sent in. Bystanders had said to the media that they had carried out body after body after body, each one drenched in their own blood, faces painted with blood and horror flashing across the faces of those who had been awake. Others spun tales of seeing the teen run out of the city limits, into a forest just outside. One that had been said to be haunted by the ghost of an old man who hated society and life in general.
After those tales had been woven, the forest had been deemed off limits. Not a soul stepped a single toe into the line of trees. Some went as far to not even glance at the trees. Children were kept inside the city limits during day, and kept inside homes during night. If a child was seen wandering about at night, anyone would snatch them up into their homes and keep them there for their own protection until the sun had risen once again. The town had no visitors for many months after the mass murder, the institution burned, and police forces had more than doubled in size in the town, and any neighboring towns.
However the fear began to trickle away from the people. Children giggled about an their parents tricking them so that they would be good, before playing out on the border of the forest. Teenagers threw stones and cans into the forest, sometimes having them thrown right back at them with, generally striking them in their foreheads. The other's would roar with laughter, not bothering to try and figure out what had caused it to come back. Young adults dared others to touch a tree or a bush along the border. But one dare went too far.
A group of four, at night, had dared one of their own to walk into the forest, grab a flower that was said to grow there during that time of year, and walk back out. The dared had stupidly agreed, disappearing into the shadows almost as soon as he had stepped into the forest. They say the other three had waited two hours for their friend to come back. But they left shortly after the two hours was up, to tired and drunk to care, having been drinking everything they had brought from beer, to whiskey, to wine, waiting. They failed to hear the blood chilling, teeth clenching, heart stopping scream that had echoed over 15 minutes after they had left.
The next day, they say, they returned, expecting to see their friend grumpily sitting on a rock or stump, twirling the flower between his fingers with a deep frown on his face. But what they saw, made two of them throw the contents of their breakfast into the weeds and the other to call 911 as quickly as he could. He had mumbled before screaming for the police to get to the edge of the forest, for in front of them was their friend, slumped against a tree with a letter painted in blood above him. The letter S. His tongue was resting upon his head, as if a hat, dried blood sticking the his chin. Arms were twisted and mutilated, stabbed to the tree with what appeared to be old, rusty nails. A strip of skin and flesh was hanging loosely from his neck, baring the flesh beneath to a small group of flies. His shirt was torn open, letters cut into his skin in a sloppy fashion. Stay Out. The nail used to write the small sentence, they assumed it was used for that, was stabbed into the area where his belly button would normally be.
The most insane laughter, they reported, had echoed out around them as the distant sound of sirens filled their ears. Their breath caught in their throats as it slowly died away, the screeching of tires echoed behind them. One by one they scrambled away, frightened like sheep. They cowered behind the police cars, one going into the fetal position, the other's eyes wide and screaming for his mother. Police were shocked at their actions, but even more so by the dead form pinned to the blood stained tree.
They knew what they had to do, but only half agreed to do it. They entered the forest quickly, breath coming quickly and eyes dilated in fear. The other half stayed behind to report and gain the information needed, before shipping out once the body and three frightened men were taken care off. But as for the other half of police, people say they were never seen alive again. Merely corpses lines up on the trees similar to the way the other man had been positioned, with letters written in their own blood above theirs heads, joining the S. T, A, Y, O, U, and another T were the letters, spelling the spaced out sentence.
Nobody knew what to believe however, since the bodies were disposed of before civilians could lay eyes on them. The proof was there, though, and many chose to see it and heed it's warning. Others remained oblivious, taunting the forest like it was a living creature, feeling the tales were just that. Tales. Fiction. Oh, how they were wrong. They're children gradually started playing long into the night hours once more, freely roaming where they pleased so long as they didn't cause troubles. People had begun to settle back into normal life.
Over the course of the next two months, only two people had ever stepped foot into the forest, and those were the only two never harmed by the demon. They were seen carrying clothing, a robe of sorts, food such as ice cream, or cookies of some sort into the forest. It confused others, however every time they stepped back out, people began to realize that they must have seen the teen. Spoke to him, even. They became a source of information regarding the forest and what lays within. But not about the demon, their older brother. Every time he was mentioned, their mouths would clatter shut and they would walk away, not saying another word.
Deaths had only occurred naturally for the next few years. Either by heart attack, disease, or some other natural cause. Nobody was killed by another, and for that they were glad. People became arrogant again, not afraid of the ghosts that were said to remain at the ruins of the institution, or the Kurosaki family home. They teased those who were afraid of the so called demon spawn, daring them over and over again to walk past the blood stained trees, into the forest. They pushed and shoved along the border, playing. Unaware of the twisted eyes that watched their every movement like a cat waiting to pounce. The forest itself had been called the Blackened Blood forest, thanks to the trees and stories.
Overall fear had disappeared, until a group of children being watched by a smaller group of teenagers saw the orange haired man, now to be around the age of 25 but no looking a day over 17, sitting on a tree, eyes wide open and a twisted grin on his face, singing Ring Around the Rosie slowly, repeatedly, while twirling and blood stained, rusty knife between his two fingers. A lone crow sat perched in front of him, yellow eyes watching the groups, unperturbed when the man shifted to stand up, showing his blood stained clothing. They had ran screaming into town, followed by the maniacal laughter that echoed far, reaching the very edges of the town. He jumped down and stabbed the knife into a tree, deeply before yanking it back out, repeating the motion several times before striding back into the forest, humming another children's song.
A/N: Prologue is finally done!
EDITED: 1/11/2014