Untitled Nightmare

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

Submitted: September 04, 2018

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Submitted: September 04, 2018



-Untitled Nightmare -


What evil have I brought into my home? what dark creature lurks in those abysmal swirls and oppressive colors. It has taken a hold of my sweet child, my dear little boy. He spends nearly all of his evenings staring at the damned thing, with such lustful eyes that should never be seen in such an young innocent soul. No matter where I hide it, he always seems to be there, sitting cross-legged just looking at it. Sometimes, when the sun makes way for night, I can hear it. Through closed doors, I hear it whispering in unholy tongues. I shudder to imagine what horrid lies its been sowing into my young ones head, what sinful knowledge it's been spreading through his mind.

Yet, despite all of this, I cannot bear to part with it, nor destroy it. I know not what keeps me chained to its presence, whether it be some twisted desire hidden deep in the pits of my heart, or an invisible hand stopping mine from acting out.

I had found it in an old thrift store gathering dust in a forgotten corner of the store. Being an avid art collector, I had spotted the piece immediately; its strange composition captivating me beyond belief. On the surface level, it had seemed to be a simple landscape painting, but upon closer inspection you could discover the weird undertones of it. The flow of the paint was unnaturally beautiful, and the landscape itself didn't seem to quite match anything one could ever find in the natural world. For lack of a better description, it seemed as if someone had implanted their memory of a thoughtless dream onto a canvas. When I had questioned the store owner about it, he couldn't offer much insight. He knew nothing of its origins or name, just that it had passed through the hands of several different owners before coming into his possession. He didn't seem overly passionate about the piece as I was at the time, and was quite willing to part with it. Had I known the true nature of the painting, I never would have brought it into my home.

None of my friends will listen to my pleas when I tell them of the pain it brought, they think me merely joking around, or blame it on symptoms of stress or lack of sleep. When I bring them over, they view it in the same naive eyes as I had once done; they do not see the nauseating hell that overlaps the false dreamscape, they do not see the chaos lying on the edges of the frame or the blackened void that's neatly interwoven within every stroke.

But its not their naivety that brings me to despair, rather it's the view of my son that worries me. I fear that his love has been taken from me, his allegiance now lying with that disgusting object. I fear, that maybe the child I had sired was long gone, and replaced with an empty husk, eager to devote its life to its unholy master. But I deny those fears, and put faith that there is still hope.  I must save my boy, and though I may not have the strength to go against the will of this beast that has defiled my home, perhaps I can steal back what it had stolen from me. I pray that somewhere I may find forgiveness for the act I must commit for my child's sake. I pray that his soul will rest easy, and not be troubled further, I pray that I too can be freed from the clutches of this abomination. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.


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