Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  My knee jack-hammered in time with the second hand on the wall clock. Five minute countdown. Five…four…three…two…

  The bell clanged and I slunk to the back of the room. Thank God ‘ranting feminist’ Emily consumed Mr. Hine’s full attention. Didn’t need him poking around in my business. I slid the book on Florida maps out from under the globe and flipped to the index. Bithlo—page 347.

  Stuck between the yellowed pages was another note.

  I slipped the precious cargo into my pocket and raced off to the commons. Settling on an empty bench, I unfolded the paper. Another torn article, this one titled ‘Iris Robinson compares homosexuality to child abuse.’ Thick black X’s slashed through every mention of ‘gay’ and ‘homo,’ while every form of the word ‘abuse’ and ‘child’ were circled.

  The corner of my curled lip twitched. I get it, already. Smite the gays, save the children.

  The tiny handwritten message scratched across the bottom in fading ink leapt out at me: I had to do it. I had to save you.

  Chills dug their nails under my skin and dragged up my spine, tearing away my stout armor. Shivering naked, my terror was exposed.

  I no longer wanted to play this demented game. This fucker murdered my father. While I’d hidden in the closet, praying that whoever it was making my father wail in bloody terror wouldn’t find me, some monster diced my dad into kibbles and bits. And now he was in my school. Taunting me. Stalking me. For what? To slice and dice me like he’d done to my dad?

  A heavy whack struck my shoulder. My body lurched as a wail escaped my lips.

  “Yo, dude, you alright?” a familiar voice slurred.

  I nodded at Donnie, forcing my labored breath to a normal clip. My attention darted back to the note and hesitated. Should I say something? With my luck, this maniac would probably hurt Donnie and put two bodies on my gnawing conscious. Together, though, Donnie and I could take this fucker out. But I could already hear Donnie’s blunt advice. Dude, let this lousy joke and the cruel fucker behind it go and ride the wave of life. That nagging need to know the truth, however, forced my hand.

  “The anniversary,” I said casual, free from any pain in my twisted lips as if I were saying Pop quiz or Forgot my lunch or Detention again.

  A solemn face and slow nod acknowledged Donnie’s understanding. We slunk off to Spanish in silence, crashing at our desks as the bell rang. My hands cradled my book as I stared intently at the second note spread across the page.

  “Tengo un padre, una madre y dos hermanos,” Ms. Spencer lectured. “Mi padre está furioso. ¿Cómo está tu padre?”

  I pushed away her drone and searched for the killer’s next message. Looking past the gay slashes and circled abuse, faint underlined letters once again rose to the surface. “Jesus, Christ, am, alienate, problems, assault, 27, youths, police, attack, wicked.”

  My hands tightened. Total nonsense bullshit!

  I closed my eyes, inhaling deep, and slowly released. I’d figure this out if it killed me.

  I scribbled every underlined letter and number: J, i, m, l, l, l, 27, o, o, k, k. Words began to form. Jim. Ok. Look. Kill. But nothing that used each letter only once. And what about the 27? Dad was how old when this happened? None of this made any sense!

  Waving the note in the air, I shouted, “Which one of you fuckers is doing this to me?”

  Silence choked the muggy classroom. Ms. Spencer scampered in my direction, but I shoved past her and stormed out the door. My sneakers echoed in the dark, empty hall. I thought I heard something, a sound separate from my hurried footsteps, creeping in close. Every few seconds I peeked behind me, expecting someone to jump from the shadows.

  But every glance confirmed that I was alone.

  I headed outside, fat raindrops plunking against the tin roof covered walkway, and trudged on to the only place at Union Park High that felt safe. My palm slammed the swinging door open to the boy’s locker room.

  I crashed onto a wooden bench, my head in my hands. No amount of musk aftershave could cover the rancid heat of hairy armpits and sweaty feet and jockstraps. Old pipes hissed and kicked, wailing in protest, just like my father had ten years ago. I lifted my head, my watery stare pointed blankly at the wall of lockers. Get it together, Scottie. You might not have been there for Dad back then. But you can do this for him…now.

  I pulled out the note—“J, i, m, l, l, l, 27, o, o, k, k”—and scrutinized every detail. Letters. One number. A capital J. The rest lower case. Jim. My gut clamped onto my father’s name. Three L’s, 27, two O’s and two K’s. Jim, 3, L, 27, 2, O, 2, K.

  Wracking my brain, my eyes bore into the metal lockers. I was getting nowhere. I failed my father again, just like—wait!

  3. 27. 22. That was my freaking gym combination! Jim lok. Could it? I leapt up and raced to my locker in the next aisle. My shaky hands turned the dial and out fell another note.

  Heavy footsteps lumbered in my direction. I sucked in stagnant air, my body tight.

  Within seconds, Coach Beast greeted me with a hoarse, “What you doing here, Scottie?”

  I sighed, my back deflated as I sank back onto the bench. “You wouldn’t begin to believe it, Coach.”

  His huge, hairy paw rested on my shoulder. “Try me.”

  Without a word, I unfolded the third note. Maybe Coach Beast could help put an end to this evil menace stalking me. His ginormous shadow alone frightened every other opponent soccer coach our team encountered, despite their bench press weight. Coach leaned in close, eyeing the letter tucked inside, pieced together like a ransom note with taped on words in various colors, fonts and sizes.

  “What is this?” His breath heavy with raw onions watered my eyes.

  “This has been my day.”

  Dated today, April 25, 2008, the letter was addressed to the editor of the Orlando Sentinel.

  “The greatest misconception: a hate crime. Hate? Yes, for James Monroe hurting his son. I saw it. My scars prove my expertise. Every punch, every cut, a cry for justice. I had to do it. I had to save Scottie.”

  I sliced the note in half over and over, imagining each rip a cut across this maniac’s throat, until the paper was nothing but dust.

  “Scottie,” Coach said, his gruff voice attempting to put me at peace.

  I slammed my fist into a locker. A burning throb surged through my knuckles and up my arm. I recoiled, clutching my spazzing hand against my thumping chest.

  “This psycho claims he had to save me? What the hell is he talking about?”

  Coach reached towards me, but I pulled away. Thunder rumbled outside. The overhead lights flickered and eased back in with hesitation and what felt like a dimmer wattage.

  “Whoever this sicko is,” I said, “what right did he have to judge and execute? What did my dad ever do to this nut job to deserve to die?”

  “Not me…what he did to you.”

  My body froze. Slowly, my eyebrows drew in.

  “What?” My cheeks burned.

  “That night, at your T-ball game.” Coach’s eyes flickered. “The way James dumped on you when you struck out and missed that fly ball…such ugly, demeaning words. The kind that slices your self-worth into chunks of self-loathing.”

  This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening. Not Coach. Anyone but him. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging to return to my world of denial.

  “You were young,” he continued, “and I could save you from a lifetime of hell. Like the hell I lived thanks to my shit uncle. So I followed you home and when the moment was there, I took action.”

  My fingers slowly curled, my skin tingling, as I imagined my hands wrapped around Coach’s throat.

  “All these years, the media and police tried to spin my rescue into a hate crime. I don’t give a fuck about fags. It was justice for the young, helpless and abused. I did it for you.”

  I stumbled backward and slammed against the concrete wall. With every pounding heartbeat, the realization sunk further in. Coach Beast murdered my father.
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br />   “But…,” my head dry and sick, “you had no right. He was my father. Not your uncle.”

  Coach’s wild eyes locked with mine. Bile shot up my throat.

  I pictured his heaving ape-sized body tying up my dad. His massive paws slamming into Dad’s jaw. Every stab. Slice. Punch. And kick. Dad Jaime’s screams choking on his own blood. Until there was nothing left. But a bloody deformed corpse.

  My ears ringing, I ran to Coach’s office. Footsteps trampled behind me. I locked the door. Time dragged like nails across a chalkboard.

  “Open the door, Scottie.” His fists pounded. The door groaned.

  I became boneless. A coward in the corner.

  “I’m your savior!”

  Coach’s body slammed over and over, clawing his way in to kill me, because I hadn’t shown him any gratitude. Hopefully now I’d suffer my final agony.

  My eyes swept over the room. Florida Southern diploma. Sports Illustrated calendar.

  “Let me in!” The door rattled.

  Newspaper, scissors, pen. My gaze landed on a diamond shaped award.

  No more words. Just grunts. And Coach ramming against the buckling door.

  I snatched the glass trophy off his desk. And scrambled by the door. My grip tightened.

  CRACK. The door shivered open. Coach fumbled inside.

  I thrust the heavy weight at his melon head.

  With a pained moan, Coach clutched his forehead. He stumbled.

  Adrenaline surged through me. I swung the trophy again. Coach toppled. His head smacked the edge of the desk. His neck thrust in an impossible direction with a loud crunch. His body smashed to the floor. Glassy eyes wide. Fixed on me. Blood trickling. Staining the concrete.

  Was it luck? Or God’s will.

  My mouth fell open. But I made no sound. Shards of panic slid down deep inside, into spaces long forgotten, releasing an overpowering calm. I stood silent and brooding, my eyes fixed on the burn scar racing up my forearm, my pink skin rippled with hills and valleys.

  The trigger pulled, slices of hostile father memories came rushing over me.

  His deliberate hurt—worthless…useless…stupid…loser—thrown around as smooth as his gin and tonic. Broken ribs from “falling down”—clumsy fool. Black eye from “running into a door”—idiot deserved it. Scalded arms from “boiling water on the stove”—nosy dumbass. Belt marks branding my back. My backside. My legs. Nightmares that Babbo couldn’t hug away.

  Because the boogie man was real.

  All these years, my subconscious or whatever had protected me from the truth. Now, I was helpless to push these father-and-son moments out of my mind, but that wasn’t the worst part. My guilt, bittersweet on my tongue, wasn’t solely from saving my scrawny five year old ass from Dad’s killer. Some dark part of me had smiled during Dad’s screams of agony. I pictured his rotting flesh, melting away along with the years of abuse.

  My thoughts returned to Coach. Congealed blood framed his fat head. Insane with bravado, my lips twisted into a wicked grin. I had to do it. I had to save myself.

  Author bio: Sonja Thomas, a recovering CPA, writes for children of all ages, from quirky picture books for young people to humorous middle grade to young adult fantasy. Raised in Central Florida (the wonderful world of Disney, humidity and hurricanes) and transplanted to DC for 11 years (go Nats!), she’s now ‘keeping it weird’ in Portland, OR. To stay sane she dances, doodles and plays with furry, four-legged friends. You may even hear her belt out an awesome Xena yodel. Visit her at www.bysonjathomas.com or follow her on twitter @bysonjathomas.

  The Breath Within The Darkness

  By Essel Pratt

  Case #BF4985369101

  Journal transcribed from notes scribbled underneath a series of tables, in green crayon, in an abandoned diner. The establishment was unexpectedly abandoned, with no indication of where the owners disappeared to, and FBI agents were sent in to investigate.

  Table One:

  We must have lost track of time. Everything outside is black. We attempted to leave for the day, but the door appears to be stuck shut. My partner Avery and I tried to force the doors open, but to no avail. It is so dark outside; we cannot even see our car from here. I tried to call for help, but my phone battery died. We started to hear strange noises, so Avery went to investigate. That was hours ago, and he has not come back. There are literally four rooms in this diner, including the bathroom, and I cannot find her anywhere. I have been on the force a long time, and I am freaked the fuck out.

  ~Agent Kenny

  Table Two:

  It has been almost a full 24 hours. I have only moved from table one to this table. I feel like there is something staring at me from the dark kitchen. I cannot see it, but I can hear its breath. I have one hand on my pistol and the other holding this damned green crayon. I found Avery’s cell phone under this table, but it is dead. I hope that isn’t an indication of his status as well. My eyes are growing heavy, the darkness is tiresome.

  ~Agent Kenny

  Table Three:

  I was woken by warm breath upon my face. Without even thinking, I fired off a couple rounds from my pistol into the darkness. Of course, there was nothing there. Yet, I can still hear breathing from the kitchen. I must stay awake until help comes for me. I just hope they are not trapped in this darkness as well.

  ~Agent Kenny

  Table four:

  I fell asleep again. The warmth of the beast’s breath awoke me again, but my pistol was missing and I could not defend myself. Now, defenseless, the breathing is heavier and now a pair of glowing blue eyes stares at me from the kitchen. I am getting thirsty and hungry, but the fear I feel is much worse than pain in my stomach and dry throat. The eyes in the kitchen don’t blink, they only stare. Am I going insane, or is this really happening to me? I won’t fall asleep again tonight, unless it is night now. This damn darkness makes it so hard to tell for sure.

  ~Agent Kenny

  Table Five:

  I have not fallen asleep since the last table. However, the beast has come out of the kitchen and now stares at me from in front of the counter. It is so close I can actually feel its breath from here. The warmth is eerily comforting. I did not realize it had become so cold in here. I wish some light would come in so I can see the beast that is stalking me from within the darkness. My head hurts so badly right now, probably from the hunger and dehydration. I think I will take a nap and rest my eyes.

  ~Agent Avery

  Table Six:

  I slept longer than I had hoped to. The beast is a couple feet in front of me now, staring incessantly through my soul. I feel so weak right now, I think that the beast can sense my frail state and is playing games with me. Regardless, I am a seasoned officer of the law and will not go down without a fight. Instead, I will play this staring game and I will be victorious.

  ~Agent Kenny

  Table Seven:

  Damnit, I fell asleep again! I am so tired and my entire body is aching from hunger. My gun was in my lap when I awoke, and the beast has slowly moved closer to me over the last hour. I am seriously freaking out right now. I have yelled at the beast until it was a mere inches from my face. That is when I started to hit it, except there was nothing to hit. Those eyes seem to just float there bodiless and the damp warm breath coats my face in moisture. How the fuck can is it so close to me, yet not there at all. I just checked my gun and there is only one bullet, it is in the chamber. How can I shoot the beast if I cannot even feel it with my own bare hands? I need to figure this out fast.

  It has been a couple hours since I last wrote. I know this because I have counted off the seconds. 7,980 seconds to be exact. I thought about shooting out the glass in the front door, but I cannot even see where it is in this darkness. I thought about shooting at the beast itself, hoping for the best. But what if I miss? It has toyed with me this long, it might tear me apart a piece at a time, prolonging my torture. There might be a thousand options right now, but there is only one choice. I need to s
hoot myself, through the chin, and into my brain. There are two more tables left in this diner, but I can’t risk waiting to see what will happen when I get to the last. I can’t chance the gun disappearing again either. I need to do this now, before I chicken out. I thought I was tough. I am not. I am afraid. I am weak. I don’t deserve to be an agent of the FBI. I am a dead man, and that is all. Please tell my grandmother that I love her, and I will tell grandpa that she loves him.

  ~Charles Kenny

  Further observations: Table Seven was splattered with blood, and distressed with marks that resembled claws. There was no sign of Agent Avery’s body at the scene, nor was it ever found. The diner was never opened again. Instead, the town decided to burn it to the ground, allowing a local priest to light the match. Although the case is considered open, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has opted to hold it in the archives until a time in which we are better suited to understand the limited details that are contained within.