My novella “The Whipfather” is now up for pre-order. $2.99 for this Christmas themed horror short. Please feel free to get your order in now and it will be delivered automatically on November 1st!
See the middle of the story “the Cleansing” here: http://darkvirtue1974.wordpress.com/
This is for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction challenge…things have been changed up a bit, so the first 500-ish words are written by “Doom and Gloom in Austin”, the middle 500-ish words by yours truly, and the final 500-ish words will be written by another writer next week. Enjoy!
I don’t know why I have come back to this place. The old two-story building before me has never been a home in any sense of the word. It was more of a monument of suffering; a temple of affliction with my father as the high priest. There isn’t a room in this place that hasn’t been decorated with my blood at one point or another.
Now, he’s gone and this house stands as the last testament to his brutality. So, why am I here? To find any shred of decency and happiness within and rescue it? Not likely. That all died with my mother when I was still an infant. What, then? Maybe to get one last look around before I sell it off? Or maybe, just maybe…to destroy this place.
I push the thoughts of setting the house ablaze aside and make my way up the steps to the porch. My hand grows ice cold with dread as I reach for the doorknob. It turns with a metallic grind and I push the door open. The smell of age and dust and stale cigarette smoke hits me in the face. My stomach lurches a bit with childhood panic. My skin prickles in rememberance of each and every cigarette burn mark given to me.
I slowly walk in and look around. Other than a thin layer of dust, nothing has changed in this place in 15 years. Every piece of furniture, every picture, every memento is exactly where it was when I was a child. Even the bloodstain on the rug in front of the fireplace is still where I last left it; black with age. I couldn’t say what I supposedly did or didn’t do to ‘earn’ that particular beating. They all ran together like a flipbook of pain. Each beating was partnered with the threat of much, much worse if I ever told anyone.
No, I still don’t know why I have come back to this place. It’s serving as nothing but a bruising reminder of my past. This place was filled with nothing but rage and fear and, in all the years, I never knew why.
Perhaps it’s best that this place and the past it harbors should be brought to the ground and removed from the world. Just blow out the pilot lights on the stove and let the place fill with gas. One spark and this place is consigned to Hell.
My footsteps carry me through the rest of the living room and into the dining room. Like the living room, nothing has changed here. The familiar setting brings forth the past in my mind once more. I shove aside the fresh wave of memories and continue to the door that leads to the kitchen.
Pushing it open, I stop short. Within the center of an otherwise unchanged kitchen is a large, round hole. Cautiously, I approach the edge and look down into the void.
The rhythm of ragged breath stutters as the sides of the hole undulate before me. Heat oozes over the jagged edges and pool around my feet, grasp at my knees. The kitchen swims around me and I begin to lose my balance. A hand grips my shoulder, pulls me from the edge. I am too frightened to turn. I slide to my knees, hands grasping the edge of the pit. I almost allow myself to topple forward into the gaping hole, but I pause. Anger grows inside me and I stand, the hand still pulling at my shoulder, and I allow myself to turn.
“Jacob.” It was him. My father, long and thankfully dead, stands before me, hand on my shoulder, smiling in my face as though nothing but love had ever passed between the two of us. “It’s been a long time, my son. Too long.”
“Father.” My tone is curt, cut short intentionally for fear if I allow myself to speak freely, I would unleash years of anguish, terror and pain in a single gasp and our conversation would end. Despite this man’s horrific actions toward me in the past, I want to hear what he has to say. I need it. I crave it.
“I was wondering when you would come back here, Jacob.” I allow myself to be led to the dining room where my father pulls out a chair for me. “Please,” he says. “Sit.” I, as always, do as I am told. Now the old man places both his hands upon my shoulders, squeezing, patting as if he were making sure I am real. He exhales and mumbles something about how good it is to see me here. The room begins to smell of death and the heat from that hole in the kitchen roils its way into the dining room. “I suppose you have some things you would like to discuss. About the past?”
“Yes,” I say forcefully, surprising myself. “I do.” I feel the floor rumble. Hear floor boards crack. I turn to face the old man, but he turns away too quickly for me to catch his eyes. It seems his flesh leaves a smear in the air as he steps away from me.
“Your mother and I missed you. You realize that, don’t you? She was always so fond of you. She got so angry when you left.”
My skin begins to flush. Sweat pops up in beads on the backs of my hands. Whether it was anger or the rapidly increasing temperature in the room, I couldn’t tell. “My mother died,” I shake my head, sweat dribbling into my eyes. “I had to leave. I had to make your abuse stop. I had to protect myself. I had to leave.” I begin to feel sick. Father whips around and slams his open palms down on the table before me. His eyes burn red and his flesh drips from his face.
“What if I told you your mother never died?”
This is the result: the first 500 words of a story for someone else to finish later…
Fire was the only thing that would cleanse this sin. Jon shattered the man’s back window using the “Saddle Up For Jesus” sticker as a target. As glass crumbs rained over both men, the thud of the monkey-wrench against safety glass still reverberating in the air, the rain stopped. One minute, it was a downpour, Jon’s hair hanging in sharp points over his crazed eyes, cold rivulets coursing down his back. The next minute, a break in the clouds, heat already burning up the pavement and evaporating the rain. It was as if God was saying “Yes, Jon. Torch that motherfucker,” and Jon yanked the man’s collar, dragged him out the truck’s back window with one hand, thumbing open a bottle of lighter fluid with the other. Jon had no idea who the man was, but he knew what he had done. It was the sticker, “Saddle Up For Jesus,” that tipped him off. How many blue Ford trucks with that ridiculous sticker in the lower left corner of the back window could there be in town? All he could see through his rage was the memory of this truck, that fucking sticker and the back of his daughter’s head through the back window as the truck drove away.
The man kicked, half-formed words tumbling out of his mouth, desperate to free himself from Jon’s fist as he was birthed from the busted window cesarean-style. Jon ignored his pleas as he dropped the man into the bed of the truck and hopped up over the edge. “Where is she?” he asked, jetting a stream of lighter fluid into the man’s eyes. The man sputtered, jerked his head violently, but remained silent. “Where is she, asshole?” Another blast of the caustic fluid.
“I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man spit. Shiny runners of saliva wiggled as his head rocked side to side. “I don’t know what you’re…she who?”
Jon planted his knee, backed up by two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle, bone and anger, in the middle of the man’s chest. A loud ‘whuff’ of breath plumed from between his rubbery lips. “Wrong answer. I recognized your Jesus bullshit sticker.” He ended his sentence with a downward shove of the knee. “So tell me, Jesus-boy…what did you do with my daughter?”
A hard slap to the face.
“I’ll give you a couple choices. First choice, you tell me the truth. Second choice, you keep stumbling over yourself, not answering my questions and I bust all your fucking teeth out with my monkey-wrench while you burn.”
“I’m telling you, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
More lighter fluid. But this time, Jon presented a match and flicked it to life with his thumbnail.
“Hey! Hey. Alright, man. Alright.” Jon waited patiently as the man squirmed, spit, struggled for breath. “It’s just…”
“Just what, man? This match is getting awful hot. I think I might drop it.”
“There’s something I have to tell you about your daughter.”
On Monday September 8th, 2014, I’ll be revealing the cover of my latest novella “The Whipfather”. In the meantime…scroll down for an excerpt and to watch the teaser trailer for the book.