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

The darkness crept into him as he sat in the closet waiting for redemption that would never come; now he is the product of his surroundings and years of abuse.
Death will follow him and so much blood. The way of the murderer is not understood even by the perpetrator but this little boy who is now a man is one with no boundaries and no conscience, let alone a heart.
A chance meeting with a fledgling serial killer triggers a game that will end badly for many but will he be the winner or a tormented loser as his victims, either way he will embrace the darkness that is his life in death.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Achluophobia_

Submitted: July 02, 2013

Reads: 252

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 02, 2013



Chapter 1 – Your God

I knew I was in trouble, but as I sit in the dark corner of my bedroom I did not think it was bad enough for the dark place. My toys, what there is of them, sat next to me and the only thing I loved in this world my stuffed teddy bear called “Mr Ted” was in my arms.

The damp of the walls that ran either side of me now, both chilled me and filled my nostrils with a dull odour that made my room smell like old dirty socks.

As I surveyed the room I could see my bed with its mattress that was as lumpy as the porridge mother made me eat for breakfast each day. It sat covered with a sheet that was so thin, it was transparent in places and with rough stitches to repair holes and tears, it reminded me of the story of that monster made up of bits and pieces of different people.

I could hear mother now talking to herself as usual, but the murmurs that hit my ears were garbled and muffled as if she was talking into a pillow.


The hair on my neck and arms shot up and a chill ran down my spine as she made her way now calling my name repeatedly.

The door to my bedroom burst open with righteous flair and the silhouette of my mother looked like some bog monster from the movies. Not a sound could I hear; my mind had now shut down because it knew what was going to happen. I saw it all unfold in front of me, but with the knowledge that it was going to happen I sat reserved clutching my stuffed teddy.

The darkness was pierced from behind her as the arm shot out like a viper striking its prey, and that’s when I felt the icy talons that were her fingers upon my face,

Mothers’ breath was laced with what I can only think is what she calls the devils liquid, anything she can find, laced with Whisky.

Mother dragged me by the left earlobe past my bed and out into the dimly lit hallway, cursing an old family photo as she pulled me stumbling behind her. I knew where we were going and I hated it! As we entered her bedroom, mother stopped and fumbled in her pocket to find an old brass key which fitted loosely into the worn lock of her old rickety timber closet.

With one sweeping motion, she all but threw me inside the confines of the dark damp filled space.

 My tears; glistening leaving silver trails of my torment, as it ran down my flushed cheeks, and as the salty flavour mixed in with liquefied snot entered my mouth it danced to an unnatural tune around my taste buds, and I cried.

I banged upon the rattly wooden door as I cried now begging for forgiveness, but all I managed to do was inflame mother more, to the point where all I heard her say was.

“The more you complain young man, the longer you stay in there.”

This is what she always says, but I know she will keep me locked up in here until she is in her words ‘good and ready’; nothing I can do or say has an impact on my fate or the final outcome whatever it may be.

Mother always locks me away in this closet, although she knows full well I hate the dark, it scares me, and the coldness that envelopes me, makes me feel alone and scared.

My survival instincts kicked in and although I have not seen much of the world around me I know to close my eyes until she once more lets me out.

Who knows this time I might be in here an hour, or maybe if she thought I had been exceedingly naughty, I would have to stay in here all night.

“Please mum, I’ll be good!” I say with a whisper, as I hear her talking to herself again.

“He’s always naughty and he belongs in there, don’t tell me what to do! Yes, the devil corrupts him, he keeps leering at me in the shower, and he watches me when I get undressed……I caught him, this is for his own good lord”

I hear mother talking to God; he’s the only man she talks to now since my father left us, eight years ago.

Dad left because as he put it: “Your mum is not quite right in the head son, I loved her once but I can’t stay here, I’ll send for you when I get settled”.

That was the day he left, I have never seen him since.

“Mommy, I’m sorry please let me out”

No reply is forthcoming to my please for leniency and as I peek through the crack in the door, I see mum as usual dressed in her smartest navy blue dress with her favourite floral apron on. The one she always wears to make her feel as if she is still a wife and a mother with a loving family to tend for as she bakes for the unseen.

As the time passes I sit with eyes closed so tight I can often see circles of light dance in front of me. The air although moist and damp in my confined space is musty, the house now smells like a local bakery, and the fresh baked scones I imagine sitting on the cooling rack upon the window ledge in the kitchen started permeating my dark inner sanctum.

I love scones, especially with strawberry jam and cream, but I doubt that I will be having any of the fluffy warm delights tonight.

I will probably have nothing to eat or drink with darkness and my own inner thoughts to accompany me and keep me warm and entertained again tonight.

As I comfort myself in my confines, my mind is searching for reasons to hate but at this stage of my life it’s hard as I sit amongst old clothes and coats to feel sadness and hatred, at this time of my young life.

I do love my mum, I think? but with her now damaged and torn between the love of her life she lost, and me, the shorter, younger embodiment and constant reminder of the man that left her, I am now the receiver of all her internal suffering and pain.

Footsteps again, is mother going to let me out I wonder? Or is she going to open the door yell at me beat me and close me in once more.

As I watch through the crack once more, my eyes trying to focus from being shut for so long, I see the pills in her hand as she throws them into her blasphemous mouth and washes them down with the bottle of gin, currently grasped in her left hand.

 My head shoots back from the crack as I know the mixture of these two items normally leads to the bruises I often have on my face, and arms, and in her words, they were testament of Gods’ Wrath for me being such a naughty and ungodly child.

“I channel his authority!” she normally says aloud as she hits me or cuts me with the belt buckle during her drunken tirades. It’s always my fault I get hurt, I know deep inside she is a good person but, if she is doing the will of God then he must hate me.

Quiet yet again and I allow myself the peace of mind to relax and come down off my guarded mindset.

The darkness now is slowly creeping into my soul and I am drifting off to that place in my mind where I contemplate everything and everyone in my short life so far.

I know I am quite immature for my age, but I have been told by others around me that I have the patience of a saint and that in some ways I seem older and wiser than my small number of years on this world would dictate.

I have problems mixing with people I don’t know, and it’s difficult to know in this world who is genuine and who is not.

 To stave off the awkwardness of introductions, pinches on the cheeks and dumb inane conversations with adults and children my own age, I will often find an out of the way place close by and sit, hidden in shadows as I wait for mother after church, or shopping.

I am not slow or anything it’s just that since I was four years old, the closet I sit in now has been almost like my only real sanctuary, a place of torment, but also peace, not the church but the darkness of four timber panels and my own thoughts for comfort.

For the last eight years now I have been terrified of this darkness that now entombs me, but over this time my mind has become accustomed to the cold darkness and one thing I know for sure, it never betrays me.

I know every scratch, dent and knot in the wood, the coolness of the scratched brass hinges and the small dart of light that she stuffs with a tissue which is the old worn key hole.

 My mind quickly races back to my reality that is the confined space where I sit in this moment and I allow the atmosphere to permeate and leach into my soul once more,

I both fear, and love it, for the once scared four-year-old boy is all but a faded memory now, and the much calmer craftier twelve-year-old sits quietly, knowingly in his place.

I don’t know when it happened, I can’t tell you that, but I do remember that it happened on a not so unusual day, when like now, I was shoved in my solitary confinement as punishment by my long suffering somewhat mentally unstable mother.

What I do remember is it was a day when the birds chirped, and the sun danced across the windows as if being played by an accomplished master, I was tearful and scared out of my wits in one moment, and with the next deep sorrowful breath I took, I felt at ease with my dark and somewhat foreboding surroundings.

I closed my eyes and started to notice the smells that had always been all around me, the comfort of the dissipating moth balls, and the musk of a moist winter’s coat. The stale feet smell of mothers’ church shoes and the red high heels she wore no more, that I now love so much.

I fumbled excitedly in the darkness for the colourful leather, removed my soiled shoes and socks and placed the still cold patent leather heels on my feet.

At first, I felt strange, like an alien being that crash landed and had no shoes to wear but these high heeled red, but exciting at the same time, and as I stroked the red leather and felt the length of the heel running away from my heel down to a solid metallic tip, I drew a long lingering almost ecstatic breath.

For the first time in my life I noticed my fledgling manhood fill with joy as I stroked the cool leather. Closing my eyes, I saw hundreds of red heeled feet dancing around me, but in my mind’s eye I looked further up, they were all my mother, and she wasn’t dancing she was yelling at me, stomping on me! The heels were digging into my flesh, blood spots appearing like blood red rose buds all over my body, I screamed a cold dark silent scream in my head, and the absolute silence within my mind burst forward as my rebirth.

I reached for the shoe that was on my foot and as its warmth and weight translated into my hand for me to use on my dream attacker she stopped looked at me and said, “you’ll turn out just like your father” that’s when in my mind the heel entered her now bulging, yet furious right eye and it popped like a balloon as the metal spike forced its way three inches into her brain. As she fell dead to the floor, I opened my eyes and smiled as I noticed the moisture in my pants as I realised I was throbbing but the release had already started to subside.

I sat and waited to enjoy the warm leather on my feet, imagining I was a movie star at a gala event, cameras flashing; people all wanting to be with me, wanting to have me at their side as the cameras flashed.

I remembered my Hollywood idol from fifties movies I would sit and watch with mum back when things were different.

Doris Day was my idol of choice, she was beautiful and boy could she sing. Mother would allow me to sit with her and watch the midday movies when she felt it was an applicable story. Sometimes it would be a love story and others an action movie with a little Rock Hudson and a sprinkle of romance just to make the plot line work.

I smiled and at that moment I knew I would never fear the closet again after this day, I thought about the next time what would I do? How I would spend my time?

Just then the door burst open and she dragged me out spitting bible verse through her drink induced numb lips and she was dragging me to the bed where she used her hand on my white exposed cheeks, they welted and blushed with smack after smack but I did not cry, I laid still, and my eyes closed around the world as my body went numb and withdrew into my dark world.

I met myself there and we chatted for what seemed like hours, but it was fleeting moments in a young boys’ mind.

‘I looked back at mother and smiled.’


I spent the next three years honing my skills in the darkness, and in this time, I also grew into a young man, now six feet tall and full of testosterone.

I would see her watching me pleasuring myself through the gap I would purposely leave between the door and the frame of my bedroom or in the bathroom, all the time hearing her sobbing between moans of lust as she drunkenly touched herself in her bedroom later.

I now had everything I needed from my self-righteous depleted mother, the reason to hate and the means by which to enforce it.

I soon realised it was time to put my new-found lust for life to the test, years I had waited and the years I had spent in that dark place contemplating and planning were about to culminate into a concerto of release.

 I grew sick and tired of tormenting the local dogs and cats, especially cats I hated them so much, not because they were cats, but because like me, they lived for the darkness, creeping around unseen and silent of footfall, but I also admired them equally as much, but as myself, never trust one of them.

You see a cat can make you think they love you, want you, need you.  They make you pat and cuddle and snuggle them, but all the time it is a rouse, a lie, they are using you to get what they want, they crave, their unbridled need to take for personal pleasure is just so pure and when they want to leave they simply leave.

If you have ever tried to move a feline that was comfortable then you know the results, hissing scratching even a bite, but they will often lay in wait and hurt you when you least expect it, and they make it feel as if you deserved it. That’s why I admire them so damn much!

Today, oh today is such a special day!

For it is my sixteenth birthday, and after almost nine years of living with mother and putting up with her drunken godly, yet hypocritical being it was going to be my best birthday yet.

I made my way to school along ‘Young Street” the tree lined pavement was laced with elm trees and I danced my way in and out of the shadows, paying special attention not to arouse attention as I made my way. The people I passed had no idea I was there, just the way I liked it and if I did expose myself I always made sure to be inexplicable and one of the unnoticed.

At school, I had learned and I even made myself out to be one of the cool kids as part of my self-learning routine.

I knew I had to fit in, as well as be invisible and I was now getting damn good at it. My day was normal, school work mixed in with discussions about girls and life’s trivial pursuits that other teens had in their lives. Clothes, what sneakers to wear, and what games they had at home on their consoles that would numb their minds into submission.

My walk home after my hours of false smiles and enforced drudgery was uneventful as usual and the local neighbours all waved nervously at me as I walked past.

They all know the history of my mother and her antics, but if only they knew the real story, the real me that she had created, not from the warm confines of her womb, but the darkness of my wooden prison, they would run and hide, lock themselves away like the overfed cowards they are.

As with any other day today was no different, and as normal when I walked through the door with the banana cream sponge cake I had purchased on the way home; she was drunk!

There she lay, my passed out, god fearing mother, and as always, she had forgotten once again that it was my birthday, the son she had given birth to sixteen years prior.

Lying as she was now in a pool of her own malt liqueur sputum, she looked almost dead and as if the contents of her gut spilled forth after her body shut down.

As usual she had slept away most of the daylight hours until I returned home for her to take out her so called ruined life on me once more. Really mother you should have just gotten a life and moved on, oh well never mind.

I place the cake in the refrigerator and returned to gently stoop down to help her up, dragging mother to finally position her sitting on her favourite kitchen chair; I had assembled earlier, just for her, at the head of the table.

 I then grabbed the lavender scented wash cloth and rinsed it in the cold tap water, wrung it out and proceeded to wash her face and mouth clean of the days’ alcohol abuse.

Once mother was cleaned up, I placed her old red heels on her alcohol bloated feet, and taking a ruby red lipstick I had purchased for just such an occasion, ran the oily colored substance around her thin, pursed and slightly mumbling lips. Ah “why so sad” I said making a reference to the Joker.

 Another hero of mine by the way.

I took my time and fastened special elasticised Velcro straps to her wrists and ankles that helped keep her upright as much as restraining her movement once she decided to awaken.

My depleted and completely out of it mother sat drooling down her chin and into her lap as I sat patiently for two hours watching, remembering the acts of utter cruelty she made, no forced me to endure since I was four years old.

I got up poured myself a drink of her favourite whisky and turned off the kitchen light returning once more to my end of the table, where I sipped and not whole heartedly enjoyed the amber fluid I drank.

I just sat there observing her troubled sleep, listening to her unknowingly mumble and recite passages from the bible, and reliving a time long ago, as she cursed my father.

Then without warning her eyes slowly started to open and with just a hint of excitement and wanting it hit home that she was finally starting to sober up.

“What are you doing to me” she spat with the vehemence of a cobra. He now red lips sneered and curled as she spoke, well slurred if I am to be precise.

I sat looking, watching for about a minute before answering her abject and expected question.

“It’s my birthday mother; I just thought you would like to help me sing happy birthday and watch as I blow out the candles”

I replied with just a hint of malice and arrogance for her to hear it in my voice.

She watched me and twitched as I walked to the fridge, opened the chipped metal door, and removed the banana cream sponge with sixteen candles on it.

“Oh, my dear god, you’re a pervert, a fag” the words drifted out of her moist opening with indifference and a hint of “I told ya so’ on them.

The red heals I was wearing were patent leather, four inches tall and amazingly comfortable, they made my calves taught and terrific, just like Doris’s.

 I did a twirl and placed the cake on the table then stepped back and smiled at her doing another twirl as I did so.

I slowly ran the bright red lipstick around my young full lips. The sweet oily smell of the ruby lipstick had the desired affect and it started fuelling my hormones and my hate. I turned quickly once more and as if transported on Star Trek, I stood in front of her off to one side.

“No mother, I am no fag, nor a queer, A pervert maybe, but I love women and this is my way of showing them just how much I adore how they look and feel” I said as I lit the candles on my cake one at a time. 

“Do you even know how old I am mother” I said as she was mumbling bible verse and violently pleading for god to help me, nay save my soul from damnation.

“God has played no part in my development mother and your god left you years ago with my father!” I yelled at her.

I closed my eyes and took a deep relaxing breath and exhaled, counting to four in my head as I did so.

With my composure now back, I moved closer to her once more.

“Now; why don’t you be a good mummy and sing happy birthday to your little boy” I said grabbing her by the hair and smashing her face into the tables worn but sturdy timber surface.

Her bottom lip hit the hard surface first and under the pressure of her alcohol rotten teeth it exploded into a tirade or crimson, spittle and drool that splattered a radius of about ten feet.

“Oh look mummy had a boo boo,” I laughed as she spat blood and teeth onto her chin past her ruined bottom lip.

I leant down still holding her head, and with renewed zest blew out the candles as if I was three years old again and father was holding me up and slightly over the top so I could blow them all out.

Doing so I closed my eyes and made a wish as I did.

“Untie me devils seed! I am your mother and why do you have me bound to this chair” she screamed through ruined teeth and blood filled spittle, demanding that I remove the straps from her wrists and ankles.

I moved behind her and slipped the gag I had fashioned out of a dog toy ball and some twine into her bleeding mouth as she spat tirades of abuse at me to shut her up while I prepared.

“Now mother lets all just play nice it’s my birthday after all, see Mr. Burns is being quiet” I said as I pointed to the teddy I loved so much as a child, Mr burns wasn't always called that, his original name was Mr. Ted but mother renamed him for me the day she burnt and disfigured him in one of her drunken rages. Mr Burns now sat with his frayed mouth almost sneering at Mother and his one good eye stared at her while the other, now a frosted opaque button leered off to the left.

Mothers eyes now filled with an understanding, she finally came to the realisation, the gravity of what was going on, and she pleaded for me through muffled urges to stop. I think deaf ears are what they are called and that is what her pleads for mercy and forgiveness fell upon.

I was too far in my plan to care now, and all those years of my torment and suffering were now looking back at me through mothers’ blood shot eyes. Eyes which now had formed permanent darkened bags of rage and anguish as well as ageing alcohol abused wrinkled skin hanging underneath.

 If her eyes could be trusted they would have said, “Please let me go I’ll be nice now I promise” but it was just too little, too late for that now. I felt it was time and my entire being felt a tingle of excitement as I knew I was going to get my present after all.

I moved delicately to her right shoulder and sang my birthday song to myself; all the while she sat crying and sniffling beside me, like a child scolded. Cutting the cake, I remembered that I could not let it touch the bottom or my wish would not come true so I let it sit just mere crumbs above the plate surface.

Leaning forward I placed my cheek next to hers and as I whispered to her my one and only wish, I slid the cold sharp serrated blade of the cake covered blade across her throat so hard I felt the bone at the back of her spine, and heard the scrape as the metal and bone met.

I had not realised I was clenching my jaw tightly, and before I could do anything about or relax, the power in my action cracked a molar at the same time the ecstasy of my release from her overtook my soul.

 The inside of my underpants was wet with jubilation, and my mouth in agony, which was a perfect and fitting feeling, as her death in my arms was oh, so exquisite.

“Go with your god now mother” I whispered into her ear as I let go of her forehead and watched her head slump backwards bubbling blood and bile from her ruined throat.

 I undid the Velcro straps and lifted the dead weight of her bloated sack off the chair, all the time dragging a bloody trail behind me; I placed her in the pantry cupboard, positioned her head as best I could on her ruined stump and closed the door, slapping my hands together and spraying blood all over my face in a job well done gesture.

I turned towards the closed door and said “Enjoy the darkness that you forced me to at first endure, and then grow to love mother, for I now know who I am. I am a product of your gods making, but with a little help from my father’s genes and my mother’s drunken madness and hatred, I am a product of this sadistic society and I love it.”

I went to leave but remembered all good movies had a fitting end line so I stopped, wiped the blood from my hands on a dish cloth and said.

 “You see mother, we all hear the voices in our minds, but the key is to listen to them!”


© Copyright 2017 Ian Dawn. All rights reserved.


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