THE DARK BENEATH: The Body That Wouldn't Stop Bleeding
- Loretta & David Allseitz
- Dec 15
- 4 min read
CASE FILE #16
If you take the back roads far enough into East Texas, you’ll pass houses that look perfectly livable but feel wrong in a way you can’t articulate. The paint is fresh. The yard is trimmed.
But the air around them hangs heavier, like it’s thick with something that hasn’t finished evaporating.
The trees near those places don’t sway much.
They stand too still.
And the ground doesn’t drain properly, no matter how dry the weather gets, as if it remembers what soaked into it and refuses to let it go.
People don’t bring this case up unless they’re already uncomfortable.
Not because it’s unsolved.
Because it wouldn’t stay dead.
This is the one that comes up after a pause, when someone lowers their voice and glances toward the floor like it might still be listening.
The Body That Should Have Been Empty
The man was found just after dawn in the living room of a small rental house, his body twisted at an angle that suggested he’d tried to crawl after the damage was already done.
He had been stabbed over and over again—jagged, uneven wounds that tore through muscle and tissue without rhythm, leaving the floorboards slick and dark enough that the wood had already begun to warp.
Blood had soaked into everything.
It crept under baseboards.
It pooled in nail holes.
It collected in the seams between planks like it was trying to hide.
By the time deputies arrived, his chest no longer rose. His skin was cooling. His eyes had dulled into that glassy, unfocused stare that tells you there’s nothing left negotiating with the body.
He was pronounced dead at the scene.
Bagged.
Tagged.
Finished.
A cleanup crew spent hours stripping the house down, tearing out flooring and scrubbing walls until the place smelled like bleach and raw wood. Luminol came back clean. The house was cleared. Repainted. Re-listed.
Everything suggested the violence had ended.
The First Time He Bled Again
Hours later, in the morgue, the smell came first.
Metallic.
Warm.
Wrong.
An attendant noticed the body bag had darkened along the underside, the vinyl slick and swollen like it had been sweating something thicker than condensation. When the bag was unzipped, blood spilled out in a slow, heavy sheet and dripped onto the tile with a wet sound that didn’t belong in a room meant for stillness.
The stab wounds had reopened.
Not split cleanly.
Torn.
The edges were ragged now, pulled wider from the inside as if muscle had flexed where no signal should exist. Internal hemorrhaging had restarted in organs that should have been slack and inert, blood saturating tissue like it had just been fed oxygen again.
When the body was lifted, fresh blood slid free and pooled beneath it, still liquid, still responsive.
The man was unequivocally dead.
But his body was acting like it hadn’t been informed.
Doctors whispered. Reports were rewritten. Someone muttered about rare postmortem reactions, though no one could explain how pressure was building without a heartbeat. The wounds were cleaned. Sutured tighter. The bag was replaced.
They told themselves it wouldn’t happen again.
The House Starts Bleeding Too
The new tenants didn’t make it through their first week.
The first night, they noticed a smell that crept in after dark—iron-heavy and damp, strongest near the floor, as if something underneath the house was breathing slowly. The second night, rust-colored stains bled through the fresh paint along the baseboards, spreading outward in uneven blooms that looked less like leaks and more like bruises surfacing under skin.
Maintenance came.
Scrubbed.
Painted.
Sealed.
The stains came back thicker.
When luminol was brought in again, it didn’t just reveal the original attack. It lit up fresh patterns—new splatter arcs climbing the walls, drip trails forming beneath the floorboards, angles that suggested movement, resistance, continuation.
As if the violence wasn’t a moment.
As if it was a process.
When the Body Answered
Back at the morgue, the body bled again.
Each time the house showed new stains, the corpse developed fresh internal ruptures. Sutures tore open. Blood forced its way out through incision sites and pooled beneath the gurney in widening halos. Tissue that should have been slack was engorged. Organs that should have collapsed were heavy and saturated.
No new wounds appeared.
Just more damage.
As if the body was finishing something it hadn’t completed the first time.
Someone finally asked the question no one wanted written down.
Was the body bleeding into the house?
Or was the house feeding the body?
No one answered.
How It Was Stopped
The body was cremated early.
No viewing.
No delay.
The house was condemned under vague language about contamination and structural hazard. Records were sealed. The case was closed with a neatness that felt forced, like a door slammed too hard.
On paper, everything ended.
In reality, locals noticed the soil around the foundation stayed dark long after rainstorms passed, and grass refused to grow in certain patches, no matter how often it was replaced.
They don’t say the man haunts the place.
They say he didn’t finish bleeding where he started.
And some deaths don’t respect skin, walls, or time.
They just keep leaking until there’s nothing left to feed.
⚠️FINAL WORD
Some messes don’t clean up.
They spread until someone burns them out.
Alright, Troublemakers—what’s your theory?
The dark doesn’t explain itself. And Neither do I.
If CASE FILE #16 is the first you're reading, make sure to go back and check out "The Dark Beneath" series of posts! The Dark Beneath: Scary Folklore & Whispers in Texas
Until the next body drops,
Loretta & David Allseitz
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