He reached the rotted wood side wall of the detached garage. Up close, the stench forced him to gag into his sleeve. Arthur shone his tactical light downward. Thick, blackish-brown fluid was actively seeping out from under the garage’s side wall, bubbling up through the dirt and killing a patch of clover right where the soil sloped toward Arthur’s yard. It looked tar-like, reflecting the flashlight beam with a sickening, iridescent sheen.
“There’s the proof,” Arthur whispered to himself, his chest tightening with a mix of terror and vindication. It looked exactly like old, coagulated blood pooling from a horrific crime scene. He looked up and spotted a high, grimy window pane coated in decades of cobwebs. He needed to see inside. He dragged an old, discarded wooden crate over, carefully stepping onto it to raise himself to the glass.