I remember when I was younger my grandmother was involved in a horrible accident. A driver had lost control of his vehicle during an afternoon commute and drove head-on into my grandmother’s car as she was returning from a shopping trip. The man died, crushed by the violence of the impact. My grandmother, on the other hand, walked away without a crash. After this she would always attribute it to having an “angel watching over her.” I certainly believe I have something watching over me as well, though I don’t believe it can be called an angel. It is a being of jealousy and lust, watching my every move, never wanting to leave my side. I grew up in a quiet town in the Midwest. My father owned his own automotive repair shop, while my mother volunteered her mornings at the town’s animal shelter. I was the only child, a quiet child with a great love of reading. We had a nice life, living neither richly nor poorly. When I was about ten years old I brought home a friend for the first time. Daniel and I had taken to hanging out together at recess. He loved comic books, always talking about whichever issue he had bought that week. We both loved to race through the woods behind the school, and made these magnificent fortresses out of sticks and logs. We would hole up in these constructions of ours, pretending to fight off alien invaders, monsters, or whatever else happened to interest us that day. I had invited Daniel to come to my house after school that Friday, to see this giant cardboard box - my parents had just bought a new refrigerator - that I had converted into a flying fortress. We spent all evening playing. By the time my mother called us in for dinner we were completely worn out and ready to sit down in front of my family's television to watch a movie. It was what we considered to be a great ending to a great day. Daniel had asked to see my room before he left. Eager to show off my collection of books and knick-knacks I had collected over the years, I led him down to our basement. It was creepy to go down the bare wooden steps leading from our living room to the hallway outside my bedroom, but it was well-lit and of course nothing could get us as long as we stayed in the light. After a few minutes we heard my mother great Daniel’s upstairs. We left my room and began to walk back up to the living room to say hello. Just at the bottom of the staircase is my bathroom; Daniel noticed it and excused himself for a moment. As he shut the door I decided to continue up the stairs on my own. My feet had just left the cold wood of the final step and moved to the living room’s soft carpet when I heard Daniel leave the bathroom. Out of habit I shut the basement stairs’ door and turned to say hello to my mother. Before I could even open my mouth to form the words the air was torn by a shriek from somewhere below our feet. Our mothers appeared to freeze. I could feel my eyes open wide. I had no idea what had just occured, but I recognized Daniel’s scream. My mother rushed passes me and threw open the door to the basement. She had started to call Daniel’s name, but her panicked voice caught in her throat and her face went white, like she had just seen a ghost. Curiosity overcame my fear and I moved to peek around her. The stairway was dark, but enough light spilled into it through the door to the living room that we were able to make out a grisly spectacle. There was blood everywhere, much more than I ever thought a human body could have held. It coated the floor walls, and even the ceiling. It was as if a wave of crimson ink had dashed itself against the steps, leaving only a splattered red stain. There was no sign of Daniel. The police never found a body. They never found anything aside from the blood, which pervaded my nightmares for years to come. When my father returned from working late at his shop he found the officers and paramedics trying to comfort my mother and I while we sobbed on our porch. Daniels mother stood in our yard, completely hysterical. Eventually I remember she tried to force her way past the officers outside, trying to get back in our house and screaming about how they weren’t looking hard enough for her son. She was forcibly removed from the property. The stress and shock from the incident took a toll on our family. My father spent more and more time at the shop, while my mother began visiting her sister nearly every day. Eventually she left my father and I to fend for ourselves. I presume that whatever killed Daniel had done so out of jealousy, after seeing how much fun we had been having together. I had left him alone in the basement for just a moment, and it had taken advantage of the moment to remove what it viewed as competition for my affection. This thing, this monster, must have possessed enough intelligence to realize it would be futile to remove my parents. They were my caretakers. Killing them would only result in me being placed in some other’s home. About a year after this first incident I got into an argument with my father. He’d lost his shop after a competitor sabotaged his equipment, and I had been mouthing off for no other reason than to annoy him. It’s no excuse for slapping your eleven-year-old son, but I understand why he did it. I didn’t cry, I just stayed silent for a moment before telling him I was going to play outside. When I came back in an hour later no trace of my father was left, only the same massive crimson splatter, drenching everything in his bedroom. Later I told the police I had heard nothing outside, and didn’t see anyone coming or going. They noted that it was the exact same method as how Daniel had been killed. It was as if my father had been inflated, like a balloon, until he bursts, and then all skin, bones, and organs removed. All that remained was the blood. My mother was unwilling to take me, and so I was placed in the care of my father’s mother, who lived several hours away from my hometown. My grandmother was a very caring woman. She enjoyed being kind to others for no other reason than to see them smile. She was very gracious towards me, and welcomed me into her home with open arms. It was a very sorrowful time when she passed away years later. From the time I was eleven until I turned eighteen there were no other incidents of violence. I kept to myself at school, never talking or attempting to make friends. I was haunted by the memory of Daniel’s blood dripping from the ceiling of my staircase, and form the crimson staining my father’s bed. The summer of my eighteenth year, just after completing high school, I met Allison. She had taken an interest in me during the last few months of our schooling, and seemed determined to get me to talk to her. At first I actively avoided her, but I soon came to look forward to her attempts to converse with me. I started greeting her in return, and not going out of my way to avoid her. In fact, I started looking for excuses to cross her path. After graduating I invited her to see a film with me. To my excitement, she agreed. We had a wonderful night, even though I remember thinking the movie was very disappointing. She had driven, as I still couldn’t afford a car. When we pulled into the driveway of my grandmother’s house, I remember smiling for the first time in years as I told her what a great time I had had. She returned the smile and said she would love to do it again. I agreed and, still grinning like a fool, stepped out of her car and walked to the front door. I remember turning to watch her pull out of the driveway. She gave me a little wave before pulling away. It would be the last time I ever saw her. The next day the entire town was in a state of shock. Like my hometown, it was small, and news traveled quickly. Allison had stopped at a gas station after dropping me off, to refill her gas tank. She had stepped into the convenience store while the pump ran and purchased a pack of gum and pay for her fuel. The owner had sold it to her, and then stepped into the back to finish some paperwork. Roughly thirty minutes later he returned to close the station for the night and noticed her car still sitting in front of the pump. Curious, he had approached and found the interior empty, save for a thick coating of blood covering the upholstery. I can only hope that this beast caused no undue pain to those it killed. I don’t know why it has found such an obsession with me, and I don’t know how I can make it go away. I feel responsible for the deaths of Daniel and Allison, and for my father. Naturally the police questioned me; it seemed odd that I had been involved with three killings, all executed the same way. The security footage from the gas station showed nothing. Allison gets into her car, there’s a brief flash of movement and then nothing more. Eventually the case was dropped. It was impossible for me to have committed the crimes as a child, and the security footage and my grandmother's testimony showed I was nowhere near Allison at the time of her death. I feel convicted to get this off of my chest. I know no one would believe me if I brought the story to them. Certainly the police would never listen. It’s relieving however, to be able to confess this to someone. I don’t know what’s following me, and I don't know if it will ever stop. Perhaps I’ll wind up as nothing more than a red stain on the wall, like the others. I recall that, when I was young, I would flip the light switch at the bottom of my basement staircase and then race to the top as quickly as I could, imagining a great horror behind me. It was my childish imagination at the time, or so I thought. Perhaps though, that feeling of being watched, of a clawed hand reaching out for me just as I jumped the last step into the living room, contained a small bit of truth.
Submitted February 28, 2016 at 08:44AM by Fraudulent_Lawyer http://ift.tt/1RwkBpJ nosleep
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