the red dragon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 05, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 05, 2016

A A A

A A A


The night was dark, cold and bitter air flowed through the town. The man stood there, a flick-knife in his right hand. He flipped it into and out of position whilst he stared the house down. The family were all gathered in the living room. He crept up to the back door and as he got closer, he realised how familiar the house seemed; the recognisable white brick walls and oak door. The red tiled roof slanted further on the left side than the right, making the living room look small. The house was so similar to his childhood house, right down to the wood chipped M.G in the oak door. He ran his finger along the writing...

It was mid-Summer and his mother had sent him outside for spending too much time indoors. He mostly hated the outdoors. The only thing he liked about it was the animals; and not the living ones. The boy, Marshall, was very much intrigued by dead animals and would often scavenge for the dead carcasses. He would bring the dead carcasses back to the house and into the basement where he would stuff them and put them on display. Marshall always had his trusty flick-knife with him, and he carved his names onto various places, one being his back door. Just underneath the door handle Marshall carved his initials into the oak door. He just finished when his mother called him inside.

The man entered the house quietly so as to not disturb the family inside. He crouched and crept his way through the hallway in the shadows. He bumped into a mirror and it shook, but he grabbed it quickly and steadied it. He felt the gold frame and looked at the golden plate at the bottom. For the Greebels, it said.

'Marshall,' called his mother,' help Mrs Fischer with the mirror.' Before opening the door, the boy grabbed one of his sister’s toys off the wooden cabinet and threw it onto the stairs. The boy walked calmly to the front door and opened it. 'Hi Marshall,' said Mrs Fischer. The boy looked up at her and gave her a quick smile before returning to his usual glum look. She walked out and the boy followed her. The mirror was fairly large, with a gold frame and wooden stand. Mrs Fischer began to pull the mirror off the trailer and Marshall helped. The mirror was to go upstairs in his mother's room. They climbed the stairs to the room, the boy taking the lead. The boy avoided the toy he had thrown and kept walking, not pointing it out to Mrs Fischer. She walked up the stairs, stepped on the toy, and screamed in pain. She fell backwards, hitting her head on the stairs. The mirror flew from Marshall's hand, following Mrs Fischer down the stairs, and slamming the bottom edge into her skull. Blood seeped from her head and the boy stood there, not because he was scared, or frightened, but because he was intrigued. He watched on in interest as his mother ran into the room screaming at him to call the ambulance. He just stood there, watching the gleaming red blood slowly drain from her body making a pool on the floorboards.

The man continued to sneak past the mirror. He crouched just before entering the room where the family sat, talking and laughing. They won’t be laughing for long, he thought, they will know my pain.

The boy sat on the bottom step, watching the ambulance men take Mrs Fischer away. He examined the pool of blood that was left in her place. He knelt down to the blood; touched it, pulling his fingers back from the sticky, red substance. His mother came into the room and yelled at him to leave it alone and go wash his hands. He left obediently, but continued watching the blood as he made his way upstairs. He watched the blood swirl together with water as his mother mopped it up.

Later that night, his mother talked to his father about the boy’s interest in the blood. His mother mentioned something about his interest in the collection of dead animals in the basement. His father was not concerned at all and shook her comments away. He was considering sending him to the army. His mother, still shaken with fear from the events of the day, sat in silence. His father took this as an agreement and told her that he would call them in the morning. Marshall was very angry. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and killed the mother and father that night. He choked his sister to death and hung the three bodies in the living room, slitting each of their throats and allowing the blood to drip to the ground.

The son of the family came quickly around the corner, startling the man; but he quickly recovered and pulled his knife from his coat pocket, plunging it deep into the boy’s chest. He looked into his eyes as the life drained from him, he apologised to the boy in his mind. He let the boy slump to the ground where the rest of the family were. Upon seeing her dead son, the mother screamed. The man quickly grabbed the daughter from the couch and held her like a hostage. The mother shut up; but not for long as he slit the daughter’s throat and threw her in front of the mother. He moved onto the mother, stabbing her in the chest and letting her slump on top of her daughter. The father put up a battle with a fire poker, but he quickly overpowered him, and used the weapon against him. The family was dead. He felt at peace; calm. He knew it would only last for a while. He looked at the blood of the family he murdered, he looked with the same interest he had as that little boy. He knelt down and touched the pool of blood forming around the bodies. He moved to the large white wall and painted his symbol. His sign. His life. The perfect image that described him: angry and fierce. Everything about him could be discovered within the painting; they just had to look. He stood back and marvelled at his masterpiece. The Red Dragon.

 


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