Not my best but I enjoyed writing it.
2:45 in the morning was no time for a drink, but after a dream like that
; Stan really didn’t give a shit. He sat at the kitchen table with a glass of gin and ginger ale, thinking about the dream that woke him twenty minutes earlier. He woke to find himself sweating and shivering, the bloodcurdling screams still echoing in his mind. The dream was all darkness; no light. The screams of his wife was all he could hear as he stabbed.
Stan took a gulp of his drink and shuddered at the taste. The house was home to shadows but a single light illuminated the kitchen. Outside the wind sang with the crickets, and in the sky lurked a ghostly moon. He finished his drink and poured another, beginning to feel a light buzz. Drinking wasn’t something Stan liked
to do, but when the dreams decided to haunt him there was nothing much else he could do. And that night was different. The dream had actually scared
A dream hadn’t scared him like that since he was twelve years old. Dreams of his dead brother, Steve; crooked and gnarled from Spina Biffida. Stan never forgot how he looked. Steve’s face was a continuous drawn mask of pain. His hands were twisted into boney claws and his back was contorted in a way that made Stan’s skin crawl. His breathing came out separated and raspy, as if he had swallowed razor blades. But the worst thing was his eyes. Eyes that stared with a gleaming madness that could drive a man insane. Hate and pain were the only things in Steve’s eyes.
The dream would always start in Steve’s room. It was dark and had the faint odour of piss. In the far left corner, lying on a bed consumed by shadows was Steve. He was a black silhouette of a sickly disfigured human being. And through that darkness, Stan could feel him staring. In the dream, he walked to the side of the bed and tried to speak to him.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
Silence followed, which was soon broken by Steve’s harsh breathing.
“Why do you hate me?”
Stan’s voice was clogged and weak.
Nothing but that breathing.
“I SAID STOP IT!”
Stan raised his right hand, brought it down hard, and stabbed his brother. He ripped the knife from his chest and stabbed him again in his throat. Warm blood sputtered likes a Las Vegas fountain, staining the sheets and covering Stan’s face. Steve’s breathing was replaced by a deep gurgling. He raised his boney hand and touched his brother with a single, crooked finger. Stan screamed and jumped back from his touch. Eventually the gurgling stopped with his heart, his boney fingers stopped twitching and his drawn face returned to its normal shape. But hate still sat in his eyes. They stared at Stan and burned into his own like embers from hell. Stan dropped the knife and began to scream. Screaming for his mother and father. Screaming for anyone. No one ever came.
Stan soon began having night terrors and after a few months became an insomniac. Sleep would usually fail to come, but some nights he would sleep walk. His parents would wake to find him in Steve’s room, asking him questions and sometimes screaming. They eventually took Stan to see a doctor who suggested he see a therapist. Not too soon after, Steve died.
After his third drink, Stan decided he would try to sleep. He walked up the stairs and down the hall but stopped at his son’s room. Michael was the only child of Stan and Gale and one was all they had planned. He had feared Michael would be born like Steve. Come into the world gnarled and knotted with Spina Biffida. And he would have those blazing blue eyes that spoke of pain and hatred. He was scared he wouldn’t be able to look at his own child without shivering. Without having his skin crawl or his stomach turn. Stan didn’t want that, but Michael was born healthy.
As he was about to walk away an invisible hand touched his neck and something whispered to him, telling him to go in there. Stan touched the doorknob and quickly drew back his hand, as if burned. The hand touched him again but stronger, more like a clasp around the back of his neck. Stan turned, saw no one. He shook it off and walked to his bedroom.
Before sleep, Stan heard something. A familiar sound that echoed deep inside his mind. As he slipped into the realms of sleep the sound followed him, chasing like a savage monster in search of blood. Something like breathing.
Something woke Gale up and she couldn’t figure out what it was. She lay in bed, still groggy from the few hours she had slept. She heard something from down the hall. Gale reached over, feeling for Stan.
“Stan, there’s . . .” She paused, staring at the empty spot where Stan usually slept.
She slipped out of bed, put on her robe and slippers, and headed for the hallway. She was going for the stairs, thinking maybe Stan was having a snack when she heard something in Michael’s room.
“Stan?” She walked to Michael’s door and listened.
“. . . not . . . you’re not . . . dead . . . you’re dead . . .”
Gale froze. Why was Stan talking to Michael this late, and why was he saying those things? Fear washed over her, and without thinking she began opening the door.
She stepped into the room and listened for a few moments. Gale took a few steps into the room then froze. She could see a tall silhouette standing over Michael’s bed and at first Gale didn’t believe it to be Stan. But then his voice whispered from the darkness.
“Stop looking at me,” he whispered.
Gale was terrified. All the spit in her mouth dried up and she shivered as goosebumps rippled across her skin. She wanted to ask what was going on but wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Stan had never acted this way. He shifted his feet but didn’t notice Gale. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut off.
“STOP LOOKING AT ME!” Stan roared.
He stepped back and raised his hand high above his head and brought it down fast and fierce. A sickening puncture split the silence and Gale heard Michael take a stuttered breath.
Gale threw herself at her husband but he hurled across the room with one furious swing. She tripped over toys and hit the wall hard. The blow rung her head and a deafening ringing sounded in her ears. She struggled to her feet, her head spinning from the hit.
“STAN, PLEASE STOP! PLEASE!” she screamed.
He stabbed his son three more times, but Michael was dead seconds after he began stabbing. Blood leaked through the mattress and pooled under the bed. The room became silent as Stan stood over his dead son, taking in what he had done. Behind him, Gale started screaming. Stan dropped the kitchen knife and stared at the tattered remains of his son. And through the screaming and the horror, Stan could feel him
staring. The eyes that radiated hatred and sheer pain. As he looked into Michael’s eyes he could see him. And Stan knew he was smiling.
Tell me what you think =].