Claire's Journal

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Very thrilling story, not intended for children.
*Graphic reading*

Submitted: September 21, 2014

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Submitted: September 21, 2014

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A A A


My family never understood me. We never got along. Writing was my only escape, until everything went wrong.

 

Sitting in the windowsill of my bedroom, I stared at the final blank page of my journal that was sitting on my lap. It taunted me with endless possibilities of what to write about. My life was kept in this journal, along with my fears, and favourite nightmares. My parents never understood me. They kept to themselves and paid attention to the youngest of us, Jeanie. She got away with everything and was always treated like a princess. My father was obsessed with his studies at the university, and my mother kept quiet about her secret love affair with our neighbour, Rick. They’ve always disgusted me. We lived in a small town in Alberta, not happy but pretended to be. I sat there loudly tapping my pen off of my journal, quickly denting the crisp pages as I tapped.

“Claire! Come downstairs, it’s time for dinner,” my mother called to me from the bottom of the stairs. My bedroom was the attic, and had everything but a door. I had a staircase instead. I put my piece of heaven down along with my pen and I went downstairs. My family was full of secrets, obviously. I couldn’t stand to see their faces knowing that lies were hiding behind their masks. However, when you’re a seventeen year old girl living with strict parents, you aren’t really left with a choice. My father sat at the far end of the table, staring at me with cold and darting eyes. The plates were set up neatly by my mother and sister, as my brother stood in the kitchen silently stirring a steaming pot on the stove.

“Claire. Sit down,” my father barked at me with disgust. Something was wrong. I will never forget what happened that night. I cautiously sat down at the opposite end of the table of him, and harshly stared back with my long black hair draping over my eyes.

“What’s wrong this time?” I asked him, crossing my arms.

“You can’t be serious. What the hell is wrong with you? You’re failing almost every class at school,” he said as he pulled out my midterm report card from his pocket.

“Now Jeffery, calm down, it’s alright,” my mother said from the kitchen, trying to calm the mad man down. My brother and sister brought over the food that I already knew I was not allowed to eat. The thought of my mother trying to be sincere to him made me laugh.

“Go! You don’t deserve this lovely meal that your mother has prepared. Go to your room!” My father screamed at me. I was fumed. Rage and fury boiled through my body.

“Go to hell!” I screamed back. I turned and ran for my room. I heard him yelling from behind me. As I ran, his screams echoed down the lonely foyer that was filled with dreadful wallpaper and sad memories from my childhood. I got upstairs and threw my books across the room. I grabbed my journal, and pen off of the windowsill and paced back and forth. I began to write,

My father is a coward. He is a selfish man, and I will always hate him for it. His religious necessities are stupid, and I will never follow his rules. He will die. Everyone dies. The rest of my family can selfishly die along with him. This being a final entry, I bid you farewell, journal. Let the depths of hell drag my family down with you as I throw you into the fire.
- Claire.

Sighing, I began to draw underneath the entry. I drew a hell raised spirit, and my father. I thought, “He can do whatever he wants to him now.” I was pessimistic towards everything and everyone. I closed my journal and grabbed my lighter, and I tried to burn it from the bottom right corner, but nothing happened. It wouldn’t light. I was then interrupted by the footsteps of my brother running up my staircase.

“Dad hates you right now. Mom went out to calm herself down. Are you alright?” he asked me. He was concerned. I loved having him as a role model because he was the only person in the world who understood me. We’re both bipolar, we both liked the same music, and we’re almost the same person except for the fact that he’s three years older than me.

“Yeah I know. I don’t care, he’ll cool off eventually. Hey check this out, will you?” I showed him the journal and how it wouldn’t catch fire.

“That’s really strange. What do you write in there anyway?” he asked, looking a little concerned. I hated it when he was concerned.

“It’s none of your business, and it doesn’t matter anyways. I’ve used up every page, I’m done writing.” I was a bit sad as I realized what I had just said, and kicked Peter out of my room.

I went to bed that night clutching onto my journal. Thinking, rethinking, and not sleeping. “Paper isn’t fire proof, so why didn’t it light?” I thought over and over again. It was around two a.m. when I heard a whisper in my room. A chill ran up my spine so fast that I could have broken my back. I reached for my lamp sitting on my side table and turned it on, blinding myself for a good, long minute. I saw a blurry dark figure flash before my eyes, as it ran down the stairs. I gasped and threw my pillow towards the now empty staircase. I ran down the stairs to follow it, but I abruptly stopped when I saw my father standing in front of me holding a dead animal in his blood-covered hands, accompanied with a terrorized look in his eyes.

He stared at me with a joker-like smile and slowly whispered, “Claire. Your cat, he’s dead,” this had to be a dream, my cat died two years ago. I slapped myself for recognition, for a chance to wake up from this nightmare but nothing happened. I screamed and ran past my demonic father and went down stairs to the first level shouting for Peter’s help. Halfway down the stairs, I saw it.

My little sister’s lifeless body was lying on the blood soaked carpet beneath her. There was a butcher knife lodged in her back as she laid face down. The chandelier above me began to flicker, and I realized that this was one of the nightmares that I wrote about in my journal, except this time, it wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.

“Claire! Come upstairs!” Peter yelled from the top of the stairs, kicking our zombie-like father. So I ran, and my brother guided me upstairs as I cried hysterically for our sister.

“Peter, what’s happening?” I asked him as if he would actually know the answer. He didn’t answer me. He was in shock, too. We sat there on the floor of my bedroom, confused and terrified that something else would happen. I grabbed my journal and flipped to find the page with the same incident written down.

“This is what you write about? For fun?” Peter was worried.

“No not for fun, just for whenever something interesting or scary happens in my dreams,” I said calmly. He stared at me with cold, hard eyes, “I didn’t know that anything like that would happen!”

I was shaking, but managed to find the page. The event that we had just experienced was laid out perfectly in my journal. I was too scared to read the next page, so I ripped out the pages with the nightmare written on them. Then the house shook as if there were an earthquake. We heard a gut wrenching scream from downstairs. It was our mother. She had just entered her own nightmare.  We ran down to meet her, ready to pass our demonic father, but when we got down to the second flight, he was gone. My mother was uncontrollably shaken, holding Jeanie on the carpet, staring at the lifeless corpse in her arms.

She looked up at us, and in a stammering voice asked, “W-where is your father?”

I was about to answer her when we heard a loud crash in the kitchen. We ran in expecting to see our father, but instead we saw the journal lying on the white countertop. As we approached it, the book began to bleed just like Jeanie had.

I carefully touched the dark liquid, “Ink,” I said.  Peter stood behind me, staring at something in the doorway. Our mother was holding her dead little girl in her arms, but seemed happy, like she was under some sort of trance. She was acting the same way that our father was earlier. We ran past her with the journal firmly in my hands, and Peter went to open the front door. When he tried to turn the knob, he jumped back and yelped.

“It burned my hand! We can’t get out!” Peter screamed, cursing as he ran back to the kitchen only to find our mother and father sitting around a pentagram on the floor, drawn with the ink from the counter. I went towards the kitchen but suddenly stopped when I heard a child singing upstairs. It was Jeanie.

Peter was holding a knife in his hand and said, “Give me the journal. We need to destroy it before anything else happens,” as I reached the kitchen. He was scared, so I gave it to him. He slammed it on the counter and violently stabbed it with the sharp knife. Our parents jumped up and their chests began to bleed. Peter stabbed the journal again and blood began to run from our parent’s eyes. Somehow I felt their pain. They ran towards us, screaming in agony. I grabbed the journal and pulled on Peter’s arm to get away.

“Peter, we have to find a way out,” I said. We headed towards the back of the house. “We can break the windows,” I said as we ran towards our indoor pool room. All of the lights were flickering, and the room smelled of rotting flesh. Floating in the water was Jeanie, except the water wasn’t water, it was a dark, bubbling liquid. I already knew that I couldn’t save her. She was already gone. Peter tried to smash a window with a flower pot but it bounced off of the glass leaving no trace of damage. When the flower pot hit the ground, Jeanie was floating above the pool covered in the thick liquid, violently screaming at us. The blood curdling scream made Peter throw his knife at her, stabbing her in the chest. Jeanie stopped yelling, and slowly pulled the knife out of her body.

Peter began to break down, “I just killed my own sister!” he didn’t know what to do. He was traumatized, so I grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. We ran back to the front and went straight up the stairs, ignoring the kitchen. When we got to my room, we put the journal down on my carpet, and took a breath. Suddenly the phone in my room rang.

I answered the phone, terrified of who was on the other line, “Hello?”

“Hello this is the police. We were contacted about a disturbance coming from your residence.”

“Y-yes… There’s something very wrong happening here. Please come as fast as possible!” I hung up as Peter was blankly staring at the completely damaged journal.

“We have to destroy it, Claire,” he said, with his voice cracking. He was staring blankly, sitting against the banister. I opened the journal ever so slightly when suddenly a small translucent figure grabbed Peter and pulled him down the stairs. Trying to catch up to him, I was stopped at the top of my stairs by the figure’s sudden reappearance. It was a little boy that I’ve seen only in my dreams. He was a little English boy from the past, who killed his parents and himself for no reason at all. He stood in front of me glaring at me with anger and utter resentment, and then disappeared in front of me when the doorbell abruptly rang.

I grabbed the journal and ran down the stairs, searching for Peter as I went. I stopped on the second floor and ran to my parent’s bedroom. I cautiously grabbed my father’s shotgun that was stowed away in his closet. I was shaky and didn’t know how to hold a gun. My heart was racing and tears were streaming down my face as I walked quickly towards the bathroom at the end of the long hallway. I heard the front door open with the bang of a pistol. I jumped, accidentally pulling the trigger. It hit the closed bathroom door, and I heard a groan. Peter was in there. My heart stopped.

“Peter!? Oh my god!” I opened the door to find a bleeding Peter sitting on the floor resting in front of the bathtub. I ran to him, trying to press down on his wounds to stop the blood that was gushing from his chest. He looked past me with the most serious and pale look on his face. My father was standing behind me, holding my journal, only it was in perfect condition. I shot him on site when I saw that it was not my father.

“Oy! Drop your weapon!” Two police officers were standing at the top of the stairs, aiming their guns at me. I dropped the gun and looked back at Peter.

“You’re going to be -,” I whispered, but he was already dead. I stood up and was covered in my brother’s blood.

What the two policemen saw was a seventeen year old girl in blood stained pajamas, holding a shot gun beside her now dead father. They cautiously walked towards me as if I was a criminal, and told me to put the gun down and lie on the floor. I did what I was told and began to cry. After they put the cold metal handcuffs around my wrists and helped me up, I told them to go look around the house. I was practically yelling at them that I didn’t do anything on purpose. They just looked at me like a crazy person. The one officer called in for back up as the other picked up my journal.

“No! Don’t look in there! It’s not safe!” I was all over the place. I couldn’t contain how frightened I was of my own creation.

“Calm down miss,” said the officer as if nothing was wrong.

“She killed everyone in this place!” yelled the officer from downstairs. The man beside me grabbed me by the arm and pulled me downstairs, with his gun ready just in case I was to run. Sirens were blaring all around the house, and policemen and women piled in, ready to investigate.

“No wait! Look in the kitchen, and go see the pool!” I tried to get them to understand what happened. They searched, taking me with them. In the kitchen was my mother lying on the tiled floor, blood surrounding her lifeless body, but there was no pentagram on the floor. There was no ink on the countertop. The officers took me to the pool, only to find Jeanie lying in the pool face up with the knife still in her chest. “None of this makes any sense!” I thought to myself. I broke down. There was nothing left to do. The police had a perfect murder story, and I was their suspect.

Now that I look back at it, maybe I was just crazy. Maybe none of it happened. I was moved to a home for the insane, constantly locked up and never to have a foster family because it would be too risky to let me go. The white walls, white floors, white gowns, routine counselling, and safety scissors surrounded me every day. My counsellor always told me to write my feelings down, but I couldn’t. One night I was lying on my bed in my cell, when I heard someone whisper my name. It was the little English boy.

He was holding my old journal in his hand, and said, “Live with it or die,” while holding the journal out to me like a man does to his dog with a bone.

I stared blankly back at him with tears in my eyes and said, “I’d like to die,” but the boy laughed, and disappeared, leaving nothing but my journal and my pen on my bedside table. I cautiously opened the journal to the first page and saw nothing but blank, clean parchment.

The journal was empty.

 

Fin.


© Copyright 2018 Katherine Oswald. All rights reserved.

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