Chapter Seven: The Crimson Head

Chris wasn't sure what he was going to find, but this wasn't it. There was a door in the entrance hall, on the mid-platform of the staircase. At first glance, a person wouldn't see it, as the door was painted to look as though it were part of a painting of a tree-lined lane. It was only upon closer inspection that someone could see the silver, vertical bar that acted as the door's handle. Long, narrow windows stood on either side of the door's frame, and through the distorted glass he could just make out a courtyard on the other side.

He was half right.

Upon opening the door, Chris found himself on a small flight of steps that did lead down to a brick courtyard. On the brick flooring's edge stood an iron-wrought fence. At least a dozen headstones dotted the overgrown lawn beyond. In the center of the graveyard stood the entrance to a crypt. It's pale stone sides were bland, except for the pillars beside the open entrance. Torchlight flickered from the opening, almost beckoning Chris toward it.

Chris slowly descended the steps, watching the shadows with his hands firmly around his Beretta. Nothing so far.

They're coming to get you, Claire.

Chris couldn't help but smile.

It had been back when Chris was in High school—he had been seventeen and Claire had been eleven. Mom and Dad had been out of town visiting their aunt in New Hampshire for the week. They were nearly out of the driveway before Claire turned to him and pleaded, "Can we watch that zombie movie you were talking about." Chris had made the mistake of telling her about it about a month before, and she wouldn't stop bothering him.

"Did they really eat people? You actually saw it?"

"How decayed were the zombies? Did you see anyone's brains?"

He told her as much as he could remember, but it didn't satisfy her. She asked their mom, and their mom absolutely refused. Mrs. Redfield was usually against horror movies in general, but let her daughter watch them provided her big brother was with her. Unfortunately, their mother happened to see that particular film.

"Absolutely not," Chris remembered their mother tell Claire. "That movie is demented. Why can't you watch nice things like other girls?"

To which Claire had said a few things that weren't so nice and ended up being grounded for a week. Now that their parents were gone, Chris let her watch the damned movie that she had been bugging him about. It scared the crap out of her. So, whenever their mother wasn't around, Chris would sneak up behind Claire and whisper, "They're coming to get you, Claire."

"Don't be an ass," she would say, punching him in the arm.

As Chris drew closer to the gate, he noticed a couple of staggering silhouettes in the distance, and his smile faded. He trod lightly, keeping an eye on the lumbering creatures. They didn't seem to notice him, and he wouldn't waste bullets on them if they weren't a threat. Still, it didn't relieve the knot in his stomach.

I hope they never come for you, Claire, he thought.

As soon as he passed over the crypt's threshold, the air thickened with dust and mold. It was almost as if it had been closed for several years and had only been reopened recently. Lit torches set within nooks in the wall illuminated a stairwell leading down to a room out of sight. Chris's heartbeat roughly against his chest. It's all because this looks like the set of some stupid scary movie, he thought. It was so illogical. He had jumped trees avoiding skinless dogs and almost had his face ripped off by a bona fide zombie, and this was what terrified him?

The sound of grinding gears mingled with that of crackling flame. When Chris stepped onto the landing, he discovered where the grinding noise came from—giant gears rotated above in the dark ceiling. Firelight threw shadows off the aged stone walls, accentuating the black grit between stones. Four statues stood to the left of the opening, each a face with either its eyes, mouth, or nose carved out. At the end of the room was a black coffin suspended by chains.

Chris felt his breath grow shallow as he approached the coffin. Part of him wanted to run out of there. This was a horror movie, as though someone had peered into his deepest fears and ripped them out into reality. In the corner was a little camera with its lens pointed directly at him. All at once, Chris felt his limbs relax. The camera was an intruder to the scene—proof that there was a man behind a curtain, pulling the strings.

The question was, though, who was the man?

A loud clang from behind made Chris jump. He spun around, only to find an iron gate slammed down over the entrance threshold. Chris ran back, gripped the rusted bars, and pulled up. The gate wouldn't budge. Chains unfurled, and the coffin crashed to the stone ground. Chris aimed his handgun at the felled casket.

The lid rose barely an inch. A knobby hand with long, pointed fingernails creeped out. The hand reached out, as though for assistance. It clutched the side of the coffin and pulled its form out of the gap. For a moment, it was just a clump of worn clothes and flesh on the ground, but it raised so quickly that Chris questioned if it were human.

It turned toward Chris. The creature looked like one of the zombies in the mansion—its eyes white and clothing ragged—but something was wrong with its skin. It was crimson.

The zombie released a deep, ragged moan. It sprinted toward him with its clawed hands outstretched. Chris stepped aside, and the zombie's claw ripped a piece of fabric off Chris's vest. Chris fired two shots into the creature's chest. It twisted in its step, undeterred in its trajectory by the bullets. Chris dove out of the way again.

Aim for the head, a voice said in the back of his head, and he wasn't sure if it was Rebecca's or Claire's.

Chris raised his weapon, but the creature grabbed his shoulders. The shock of those pointed nails digging into him almost caused Chris to slip into a panic. Its jaw snapped centimeters from Chris's throat. The creature lunched forward again. Chris's arms burned as he kept it at bay as it lunged its head forward again and again. Chris dragged up the barrel from the center of its chest. He felt a speck drool fly off the creature's maw onto his jugular. The strength in his arms was nearly gone—

Bang!

The top of the crimson head's skull exploded in a flurry of flesh and gray matter. The creature's mouth hung open, releasing the foul gases of death, and its grip slackened. Finally, Chris pushed it back and it crumbled to the floor, leaving him with his ears ringing. Chris stumbled back until he hit the wall. His vision churned. Don't pass out and don't throw up, Chris told himself. He stiffened his posture and breathed deeply.

The gate raised once again. Chris knew that it must have his imagination, but he felt the cool night air rush back into the room as though it had been sealed. Chris rushed back up the stairs, not daring to give the crimson head a second look.

Chris didn't realize how much he was sweating until he stepped back into the graveyard. His heartbeat rapidly and his head felt light again, though this time, it just felt as though he stretched a little too fast after waking. He could feel the mansion baring down on him from behind. The thought of going back into that place nearly made him sick. Despite the grandeur of its foyer and the lavish corridors, it felt constricting and ominous. Like a coffin.

He walked around the crypt, the mansion falling behind and the forest expanded before him. A low mist clung to the ground around the trees so that the woods looked more like monsters themselves. Chris turned but stopped when he saw a light in the distance. He stood there for a moment or two, eyes squinting at it before he realized that it the light of another structure—maybe another house? Maybe there was someone there. Chris doubted it, but it was wouldn't hurt to check. He would get Rebecca and Richard, and then, with any luck, they would get the hell out of there.