Burnt Blood: The Detective Reynolds series, #1

By Ryan Holden

Discover the harrowing tale of Officer George Reynolds in this gripping supernatural suspense series. Embark on an emotional rollercoaster through the life of a man tormented by his past and haunted by a truth he never knew.

 

George Reynolds, a London officer struggling with personal demons, finds his world turned upside down when he's implicated in the brutal murder of his best friend. Battling the urge to lose himself in whiskey, George faces a day that unravels his reality. His fight to prove his innocence is hampered by mysterious blackouts, leaving him unsure of his own actions on the night of the murder.

 

As George delves deeper into this nightmarish rabbit hole, the lines between reality and horror blur. He discovers a world where the creatures of nightmares roam the streets—where werewolves are not just myths, and he is one of them.

 

In the shadows, an evil puppet master plays a sinister game, using murder as a tool to torment George, revealing his true nature as a werewolf. This sick individual thrives on chaos, orchestrating a bloodthirsty rampage, each murder a twisted clue in George's desperate search for truth.

 

Pushed to his limits, George confronts a world that has betrayed him at every turn. His journey unearths shocking truths, including the heart-wrenching betrayal that took the lives of his wife and unborn child. In a world where friends become foes, and salvation comes from unexpected quarters, George finds himself bloodied but unbroken, ready to confront his enemy.

 

But can George overcome the darkness within and around him? Can he unravel the web of deceit and revenge to save those he loves?

 

"Dive into the first book of this Supernatural Suspense series, where Officer George Reynolds' battle with his inner demons and foes takes you on a journey filled with danger, betrayal, and hidden truths. Will he emerge victorious, or will the shadows claim him? The answer lies within these pages."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Holden
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223943365

Ryan Holden

My journey as a writer began years ago, kindled by an early fascination with English literature and language, a passion ignited during my GCSE studies. It was the timeless narrative of 'Of Mice and Men' that first captured my imagination, leading me down a path forever intertwined with storytelling. As life unfolded, I explored various passions and embraced the responsibilities of adulthood. I navigated through life's complexities, finding joy and fulfilment in raising two wonderful sons. Now, as they step into their journeys, I've been graced with the opportunity to revisit my first love: writing. My ambition is to craft immersive worlds that readers can lose themselves in, worlds where the lines between the supernatural, crime thrillers, and horror blur into an irresistible tapestry of intrigue and character-driven narratives. "Secrets in the Bones," my fourth novel, marks a significant milestone in my writing career. It represents not just another story but a venture outside my comfort zone, being the first work I've presented to agents and publishers. With a treasure trove of stories waiting to be told, my journey as an author is far from over. I am currently immersed in writing "The Cursed Knights - the Book of the Dead," a foray deeper into the horror genre. Each new story is an adventure, an opportunity to explore the uncharted realms of imagination, and a chance to connect with readers who share my love for the mysterious and the macabre.

Book preview

1

DREAMS

SLOWLY, I SLID FROM my bed, a little groggy, heading to the bathroom. My skull was on fire (metaphorically, of course. Christ, can you imagine the literal), and I had a bad case of cotton mouth. A night of drinking with my good friends ‘Jack’ and ‘Daniels’ will do that. I’d barely touched my soles down when a weird sensation brushed against my feet. I shudder.

My eyes were bleary, as always, when I first woke, and the room seemed darker than usual. So, I couldn’t see much looking down. Enough to get a start by a sudden shift of the floor beneath me as a layer of gritty soil grazed my toes. The alarm bells were ringing, something was off.

It’s amazing how quickly someone wakes up after a little shock—in a lucid sense, anyway. I stood two feet from my bed and hadn’t dared go any further.

The air had quickly turned cold. I’m talking freezer cold. I looked toward the windows to see if I’d left any open, but I couldn’t see a thing. Not because my eyes hadn’t adjusted. No, there was nothing there, nothing but darkness. A slight draft whips past my face. I gag at the acrid scent of burnt wood that hangs in the air. Each inhale tightens my throat—my arm hair bristles to attention, with ripples of goose pimples across my skin. I’m caught in two minds: move forward or head back to bed, only when I look over my shoulder, the bed is gone. (I know, sounds crazy, imagine how I feel)

Facing the font again, I noticed little details to help fill in some blanks about what was happening. The best I could, anyway. Faint outlines of pillars and corners pierce the darkness to stand out. That burning odour soured, blending with a sickly whiff of charred meat. Stretching from those pillars are crusty, flaky, painted walls with strange-looking symbols. I was in some basement, drowning in darkness, and my fear levels were rising quickly.

Everything is quiet, aside from the fierce thumping of my heart in my chest trying to bust out. Pounding hard enough to vibrate through my ears. Loud enough for me to hold my breath... I drag a foot forward, scuffing across the sharp, gritty soil and now stone pushing through. The biting cold persists, cutting through my bedwear. I’m on bloody edge; a dribble of panic sweat trickles down my cheek. Strange right? To be so cold and still sweating. My other foot slowly shuffles forward... Again, the gritty soil presses against my flesh.

When suddenly the silence is broken, ‘clang, clang, clang’, heavy metal slaps against stone flooring. It’s in the distance. I pause again. Chains rattle wildly. Low at first, but gradually getting louder, slicing through the darkness, tempering my fear. The lack of light made it nearly impossible to see enough details, and each breath carried an ominous musk.

That stench of charred meat intensified, causing my stomach to flip and churn. It’s nearby—an unmistakable aroma of death. I know the smell all too well. Yet, now I struggled to pinpoint exactly where. Tentatively, I shuffled forward, my feet dragging through the dirt, propelled by curiosity and trepidation.

A distant glow caught my eye, breaking through the dark and offering a glimpse of what seemed to be my bathroom. Stretching my hand towards the light, my fingers appeared as mere silhouettes, but one scary detail caught my attention—six fingers. I had six bloody fingers. A shiver ran down my spine.

A soft glow enveloped me, revealing more symbols on the walls. They were red; it was blood, and it was dripping. Slowly, before becoming a steady flow, like a tap. A deep breath confirmed my fear, yet the origin of the burnt meat smell remained elusive.

Was I dreaming? Possibly, if so, I wanted to wake up. I wanted out. Now. I headed for the sink, hoping the cold water might shake me from this surreal fucking nightmare. As it streamed from the tap, I watched, gripping the white edges of the sink. The longer I stared, the harder I prayed for this to be over, whatever this was, but the haunting experience persisted. An unsettling breeze brushed against my back, prompting an involuntary shudder.

My gaze fixated on the flowing water, losing myself in its movement. I snapped out of the trance only when a subtle change in its colour caught my eye. Cold droplets sprayed against my thumb, and as I looked down, panic surged through me. My fingers appeared to have torn through flesh, with thick clumps of dried blood under my nails.

Fear-stricken, I frantically searched for cuts, desperate to wake up. A familiar chill crept over me, causing another wave of goosebumps, and I twisted off the tap. A sudden, loud buzzing noise like static disrupted the eerie silence. The overhead light flickered, casting unsettling shadows that danced in the room.

Still focused on the taps, I noticed the mirror in my peripheral vision. Every flicker of light revealed an encroaching layer of steam on its surface. The once-clear glass transformed into a cold, opaque sheet. I felt even colder, and an overwhelming sense of dread gripped me. The light continued its irregular strobing, captivating my gaze, refusing to release its hold.

Then, a chilling and unexpected voice whispers, What’s the matter, Georgie? The hair on my body shuddered on end as the voice unmistakably belonged to Chris—my dead friend. Momentary clear streaks on the misted mirror revealed his face instead of mine before disappearing again. Struggling to breathe or turn around, I felt an icy chill run down my back as I reached out to wipe away the foggy moisture.

What’s the matter, Georgie? Seen a ghost? The voice echoed once more, even more unsettling than before. The pervasive darkness, the static buzzing, and the smell of blood only added to my growing terror.

I said, what’s the bloody matter, Georgie? Chris’s voice was vicious enough to have me trembling. My eyes remained fixated on the mirror, and with each flash of the strobing light, a shadow emerged, inching closer. Overwhelmed by the urge to flee but with nowhere to run, I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately hoping this nightmare would end.

Slowly, I cracked open my lids, yearning for relief, but it was not found. The shadow still loomed in the reflection, unmoving. The voice persisted, cajoling me to do what was necessary, its tone markedly more sinister. Suddenly, he lunged toward my ear, emitting a loud screech that sent a strange sensation through my body, jarring deep into my bones. My vision widened, and my mouth dropped open. The screech tore through my brain, causing my legs to turn to jelly, giving way beneath me. I collapsed to the floor with a resounding thud.

‘AWAKE,’

Aaarrrrrggghhh.

What the bloody hell? That felt so real, too real. They’re getting worse,

Frantically, I flailed over my body, drenched in sweat. Moonlight seeped through the crack in the curtains, and the bedsheets clung to me. I turned my head to the clock; it was 3 a.m. It had been another horrible nightmare, but also beyond anything I had seen before or could have imagined. The memory of Chris’s decomposed face haunted me. The nightmares were getting worse.

My basement nightmare had warped my perception of reality. That night, I still felt the lingering terror of the screech echoing in my mind. Although my chest gradually eased, the experience had been more terrifying than anything I had encountered before. I was relieved to be awake, back in the real world.

The previous nightmares had ended when I saw a set of red eyes, but this was an entirely different level of fear. The memory of Chris’s appearance and words weighed heavily on my mind. It felt like he was trying to tell me something, or perhaps it was my subconscious longing to reconnect with him.

It crossed my mind to tell someone like Skip, who might not support me. I had already shared too much with him over the years and whatever was going on with me could become something he would later regret getting involved with. I slumped against my pillow and headboard, replaying my conversations with Skip. He must have left thinking I was teetering on the edge of madness, and I couldn’t blame him. The whispers of my dead friend seemed to follow me even in my waking hours, dragging me back into the depths of my dreams.

My pounding headache still loomed, and I was soaked with sweat. The dampness from my fear had given way to an icy chill. I pushed off the covers and prepared to get up, but my body ached as if I had fallen down a flight of stairs. It seemed impossible that a nightmare could leave me feeling this physically drained.

I considered whether my constant drinking was contributing to my struggles. Every step I took sent shooting pains through my legs as if treading on hot coals. The idea of enduring such pain was unbearable, even if others might find it entertaining. My agony was invisible, with no end in sight, except at the bottom of a bottle.

Shuffling through the hallway to the bathroom, I glanced at the lounge. The gun lay there, alongside the recorder and an empty bottle of Jack. I couldn’t help but notice that the bloodstains had disappeared. My routine mirrored the one in my dream, the water swirling down the drain as my eyes slowly adjusted to the light. As I reflected on my past, my thoughts turned to my childhood. I remembered entering foster care, but little else. It was yet another blank space in my memory, one of many haunting me recently.

I couldn’t help but wonder about Dalton’s cryptic statement about the world coming full circle and the skeletons in the closet. The fact that Chris had appeared in my dream added another layer of confusion. I needed answers, and I needed no more surprises. It was time to contact my foster brother Charlie, who might shed light on my childhood, or direct me to someone who could. Whether he’d be willing to help was another matter.

Hunched over the sink, I was about to splash water on my face when I was greeted by another unwelcome surprise — a sudden sharp inhale, followed by the taste of morning breath. I saw dried blood caked under my fingernails, and my hands were covered in a mixture of red and dirt, just like the nightmare. My heart raced, and I choked, coughing uncontrollably. It felt as though something was stuck down my throat. I leaned over the sink, wrenching. Out came wads of black fur, not hair, but unmistakable animal fur. Confusion swirled as I wondered what could be wrong with me.

Rinsing away the remnants of blood and fur, I scanned my body for more blood. My reflection in the mirror revealed a messy version of myself with the beginnings of stubble. More blood streaks adorned my face, mouth, and body. Tears welled up, and I wished desperately for the nightmare to end. I couldn’t comprehend how this had happened, given that I had been in bed — or had I? Attempting to rationalise the inexplicable was a pointless exercise. I was left with the haunting experience of the nightmare, now compounded by coughing up fur and being covered in blood.

Somehow, I had gone to bed, though I had no recollection. The empty bottle hinted at the possibility of a restless night, but I couldn’t be sure. My apartment held no clues that would explain my condition. Had I been sleepwalking? I recalled drinking with Skip, filling me with dread. What if the blood was his? However, Skip was a formidable man, and even in my sober state, I doubted my ability to overpower him. If it wasn’t Skip’s blood, then whose could it be?

With unease, I lifted a dried patch on my arm to my nose, hoping to distinguish the source of the blood. The scent was challenging to identify, but it seemed more human than animal. Panic welled up within me. If Lewis, Kelcher, or Harkes were to see me in this state, they would waste no time taking me down to the police station, assuming my involvement in something bad. Even during our previous encounters, I had relied on the skipper’s expertise.

I dreaded the day when no one would be there to help—no bodyguard when I couldn’t remember or devise a convincing excuse. I knew I would be in deep trouble. My priority for the next morning was to call Charlie. However, first, I needed to survive the night.

2

PUZZLING

THE MORNING SUN PAINTED the world in brilliance, accompanied by the cheerful sound of birds singing. Despite the idyllic scene, a profound emptiness gnawed at me. I awoke to the same grim reality, haunted by nightmarish visions of Chris; my friend was now reduced to an unsettling nightmare—a lingering need to cough scratched at my throat. The mysterious fur I’d brought up had me worried, yet too weird to share with anyone. Memories of bloodstains invaded my thoughts, leaving a metallic taste of fear in my mouth.

In my living room, everything seemed normal, except for the remnants of a whiskey bottle that told the tale of a sorrow-soaked night. The worry lingered: Had I stumbled out in a drunken stupor and got myself in trouble? My thoughts turned to Skip; perhaps he held the key to unravelling the puzzling events.

The telephone’s shrill ring shattered the uneasy silence. Skip’s voice crackled through; his concern was obvious.

Skip? You there? I ask meekly.

Ah, Georgie, you, okay? Skip replied, sounding as fresh as ever.

Yeah, I guess so. Quick one, when did you take off? I probed, curiosity piqued.

Well, there was still plenty in the bottle when I left. You were on the sofa, tending to your wounds, Skip explains. The realisation hit me. I had finished the bottle solo, but what happened afterwards remained a disconcerting mystery. At least the blood-coating me wasn’t Skip’s, intensifying my anxiety.

Oh, right... I woke up in bed, and, um... I hesitated; words caught in my throat. Detailing the night’s bizarre events over the phone felt impossible; it demanded a face-to-face discussion. Besides, sharing it might lead to unwanted consequences, and I had no clue where that information might end up.

For now, keeping my strange experiences under wraps seemed wise. Prompting more questions without my answers was a risk I couldn’t take. An irrational urge to inspect my hands consumed me, twisting them back and forth. The remnants of dried blood’s crimson flakes haunted my senses. The appearance of a tattoo-like symbol etched into my wrist remained an escalating mystery, growing more intricate with each occurrence.

Um... Sorry. I thought someone was at the door. I woke up in bed but can’t recall getting there. I must’ve been more drunk than I thought, I finally confessed, my voice wavering.

Skip’s response confirmed my suspicion of excessive drinking. Not surprised. After the tape, you were downing drinks twice as fast as I was.

Paranoia led me to peer out of windows, searching for anything unusual—perhaps the telltale lights of emergency vehicles. Skip’s chuckle through the phone did little to calm my anxiety. If I had been that intoxicated, how would I end up resembling someone fresh from a fight?

Ah, okay. Panic over. How’s Rebecca? I’m not ready to face them yet. I shifted the conversation to Chris’s widow and their children, hoping they received the needed support.

Rest easy, lad. As far as I know, everything’s in hand. You must pull yourself together and focus on that, Skip reassures me.

He made a point; I had to do that, but how? There were so many issues at once that I couldn’t trust my memory anymore. Hoping Charlie would still take my call, I finished with Skip, made a cup of coffee, and braced myself. It had been years since we last spoke. Life does that; one thing leads to another. Paths get followed, and four or more years pass before you know it. Even if he answered, there was no guarantee that he would want to dredge up the past. They say it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Sadly, I didn’t have that luxury.

‘Brrrr. Brrrr. Brrrr,’

Hello, a tired-sounding voice answers the other end, Charlie. Riddled with nerves, I felt my throat dry by the second. Oh, how I wished I could liven my coffee up a little.

Charlie, is that you?

Erm yeah, who’s this?

It’s George. I need your help, the phone went silent; my heart pounded through my ears. After so long, I couldn’t imagine what to say to him or anyone.

What the hell do you want? Nothing for so long, then out of the blue, you need help. I figured you had an army for that. What can I do that they can’t? He sounded pissed off, almost a muffle to his speech, either half-arsed to answer or half-asleep. Good question, though; he was right, too—a situation where I should’ve been able to rely on my colleagues. Unfortunately, bridges have been burnt or at least smouldering.

That’s the problem. I’m unsure who I can trust now. Apart from that, it’s too long a conversation to have over the phone. Ready to tell him a little to pique his interest when I heard some background clicking, short of three bursts of three clicks. A type of interference, not like the bug, but an issue with the line, giving me pause. Who’s saying the puppeteers hadn’t tapped the phone line? Suppose they had gone as far as hiding a listening device in my lamp. Yeah, I thought I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

I couldn’t take any chances. Chris had kicked a hornet’s nest, and someone was trying to settle things down again, making problems disappear—the same way they did with the tape recordings. With an unknown voice on the last one, along with the phone call that made Skip warn me away, it was best to play safe for the time being.

Are you winding me up? Because if you are, I’m hanging up now. My bullshit meter only goes so high. Charlie had always been that way for as long as I can remember. He had difficulty settling anywhere because of his issues and split personality. He could never take something at face value; he queried everything and trusted no one. Part of it was because of being let down so much, which I could understand. There’s so much of that going around as it is.

Charlie, I know I’ve been a dick by not staying in touch, and I’m sorry. But you can give me all the shit you like once you’ve heard me. Please, I tried to appeal to his sense of getting the best of both worlds.

Yeah, well. Not here; I’m not having your rubbish dumped on my doorstep, wise words I hadn’t factored in. The way my luck had been going, anyone could make an appearance.

Where then? Where are you living these days, anyway?

Not too far from where I’m going to suggest. Do you remember the first place Mother took us? A first ice cream?

His words were a spark in the back of my mind, deep in the darkness, clouding the memories of a past I couldn’t remember or didn’t want to. I’d fought hard to start a different life from what was expected. When he mentioned ‘A first ice cream,’ which caused a rift in my mind, I could picture three of us sitting at a wobbly white table. I didn’t know what to do; I sat smiling at young Charlie with his curly black hair.

We looked a little similar back then. Next to Charlie was someone I would call mother: long, light brown hair. A heart-warming smile and emerald green eyes. On the table is a menu. The heading says ‘Al’s Diner.’

That glimpse was enough to give me palpitations. Only I couldn’t remember where, sensing Charlie wasn’t in the mood for me to ask pointless questions. He would no doubt give me grief for not knowing, but I wasn’t infallible, the same for him, and I’m sure there are many things he’s forgotten over the years.

All I needed was a little prompt; Charlie could be like getting blood from a stone at the best of times. Blood wasn’t the issue for me, coming across it whether I liked it.

Yeah, the strawberry one with a cherry on the top. Al’s Diner, I showed enough to get a location and save my embarrassment, hopefully.

Yeah, down on Bethnal Green Road. We’d gone to the children’s museum, but it got a little overwhelming for me, so we went to the cafe instead. Now, I live less than a mile from the place,

Ah yeah. About the trips down memory lane. Do you have any old photos from back then? One of my issues could involve a moment from the past.

I wasn’t holding out much hope; Charlie wasn’t the sentimental type, or at least he hadn’t been. Then again, people change, especially in a short space of time. Chris was a prime example.

I have one or two things. You’re struggling again, aren’t you? Charlie says ‘again,’ Again. It’s happened before. Why couldn’t I remember? Would he bullshit me?

What do you mean?

That confirms it. You seriously don’t remember? That was half your problem. No, it is a fraction of your problem as a kid. Everyone thought I was the one with a screw loose; you were far worse, and life has turned out all Rosey for you,

None of it rang a bell. I wished it did. Then, I could understand the relevance of the recording and the meaning behind the dreams. I wouldn’t say losing a wife and baby, turning out ‘Rosey.’

Well, could you give me a refresher course? Then I can explain why it’s worrying me. Charlie didn’t answer; I wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t want any. I hadn’t stopped to ask how his life was, what was the latest, or anything like that. For all I knew, I could drag his family through the mud.

Refresher? Some truths aren’t that refreshing, maybe life-changing—3’ O’clock. Don’t be late, Charlie broke the silence abruptly before

Reviews for Burnt Blood

[ricky moyles · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I love the hybrid genres, and the mix of serious detective crimes blends brilliantly with the supernatural aspect. It feels like an exciting beginning to a long journey for the protagonist as he endures, learns, adapts, struggles, and so much more as he balances human life with the supernatural while solving murders.