The Black Chronicle
Page 18
The other boys seemed as unhappy as the priest and all this in turn made him very unhappy. He missed his parents... even his father. He would cry all day, every day if he didn't think the other boys would tease him for it. And then one day it suddenly all made sense. Why the boys and priests and anyone who seemed to enter this gloomy building seemed sad. Because just like him they didn't want to be there. They were also separated from their families and friends so what reason was there to smile in a place like that?
All the priests at St. Joseph's scared him but father Mcdermend scared him the most. He was a tall pale man with a bizarre flap of skin like a wrinkly bat wing which hung from underneath his tiny chin. Simon couldn't guess his age. Ninety-four? A hundred and seven? Who knows. Whatever age he was, he was ancient and walked very slowly as though his whole ancient body ached with each creaky step. When he looked at you it was like – well he didn't know what it was like really. His eyes always seemed angry but his face stayed perfectly still, like all the muscles in it were asleep or dead. He could tell that the other boys were scared of him too. He tried his best to avoid him but of course that wasn't always possible.
Late one night, Simon had a dream about his mother. They were in a park, a beautiful park alongside a very wide river. Somebody had taken sea shells and made huge complicated patterns with them along the bank. They didn't talk, just very simply walked together and looked at the shells. And then without saying goodbye his mother slowly walked into the river. Simon thought maybe she was just going for a swim but she just kept walking deeper and deeper until she was under the water completely. Gone from his sight again Simon felt like how he did that first day she was gone, staring at the pile of unwashed laundry in the basement. He began to panic because she was gone so long. What could she be doing down there? Should he have jumped in and helped her? He held his breath as though he was down there with her. Then, finally she came back to the surface and Simon could breathe again. But he hadn't even finished exhaling when he realized something was wrong. She wasn't moving. She floated on the surface of the water and as the current slowly spun her around he could see her blank face turned cold and pale, her eyes empty and dead staring up at the sky as though looking to God for an explanation.
Simon woke, moist everywhere with sweat and tears. He knew he should stop crying, the last thing he wanted was for the other boys to hear him, but there was an itchy spot in his heart he knew wouldn't go away until he let out his sadness so he made his way to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet in case anyone came in and cried into his hands until he felt better.
After washing his face he quietly went about returning to his bed but Father Mcdermend was standing in the hallway. It was as though his black priest’s robe was made of the night itself and the only part of him which Simon could see clearly was the man's old, droopy pale face and he nearly screamed when it appeared in the darkness floating like the head of the Cheshire cat.
“Why are you not in your bed?” Father Mcdermend asked, raspy and toneless.
“I was just going to the washroom Father,” said Simon, trying his best to keep his voice from shaking.
“Simon is it?” The priest asked and came a few steps closer and with each step Simon could feel the urge to cry coming back stronger.
“Yes, father.”
“Do you know what a great sin it is to lie to a priest?”
“I... I was crying,” Simon admitted staring down at his own little socked feet.
“Yes, I can see that child. Why?” The father asked taking another step closer. He lifted his boney finger and wiped away a tear from Simon's cheek. His touch made his skin crawl, though he was sure, deep down Father Mcdermend was just a nice old man and so he swallowed the urge to pull away in disgust.
“I had a dream... about my mother,” he said feeling even more embarrassed now but wouldn't dare lie a second time. He thought Father Mcdermend would say something to make him feel better, not that anything he could say would, but at least try. Tell him he would see her again someday, or something, anything. But he just looked down at him, his always angry eyes burning out of place at the centre of his old calm face, which scared him so much he was about to fall into a wild panic and run back to his bed.
“You have a new family now,” he said. “A much bigger family. And now you have many fathers. And the church itself is your mother. And if you do as you’re told, and trust in them, you will one day be in heaven. And God himself will wipe away all your tears.”
Simon didn't have the courage to tell him that that sounded great and all but he didn't want a new family, or even a better family. He wanted his family. And in any case couldn't he have both? Did God only love orphans?
“Yes, Father.” He said, feeling suddenly very tired.
“ No more tears child. You should count yourself lucky to find yourself here. What if the church wasn't here to take you in? Where would you go?”
And to this Simon didn't have an answer.
“Go back to bed child.” Father Mcdermend ordered and turned to inch his creaky bones through the darkness of the halls. Simon watched as he vanished back into the darkness again before returning to his own bed.
He couldn't get the image of his mother's lifeless body floating down the river out of his mind. Where was she? Why hadn't she come to get him? Had his father killed her?
It took him a while to get there but eventually he found himself right at the very edge of sleep. At the place where your thoughts may actually be dreams, or your dreams were thoughts but you were too tired to even wonder which. He could see Johnny. He was in class. Gym class. And was playing floor hockey, and wining of course. He was good at sports. Much, much better than Simon was.
Then he saw his mother floating down the river. The sun shined down on her like God's love and the water sparkled all around her like blue and white jewels. Then she turned her head and looked directly at him. Her eyes still cloudy and unfocused by death and said:
“I will see you in the river Simon.”
CHAPTER 31
Jeremy sat in his dark car as silent as death. He had driven around the block at least six times before finally deciding to park at the end of the street. The duffel bag of items sat in his back seat waiting for him.
Tears were not an option. Over and over the image of his son's face came to him in harsh strobe flashes. He most certainly was crying if he was alive. If he was alive he was crying and begging and pleading and it wasn't fair. And there was no reason. And there was no God. And if there was, he was an asshole.
Who were the people inside this house and why them? Why him? Why Mary? What did this sick mother fucker want?
He hadn't called Katie. Not yet. He couldn't. Maybe if he did this thing Mister would release Charlie. He would have his sick little satisfaction, and would let Charlie go and then turn his sadistic game on someone else, on Mary, or whoever. He didn't care. Hell, he could stay fixated on Jeremy if he wanted, but not Charlie. Not his boy.
He had to turn it off. Turn it off and do this thing. How could he not? A stranger or two dies or his own son. Either way someone would have to pay the price. He would pay it himself if need be, but not Charlie. Not his boy. His life hadn't even begun yet.
He pulled the duffel back into the front seat and slipped into autopilot. Turned on the clinical detachment. He unzipped his sweater and slowly pulled it off one arm at a time. He removed his t-shirt and slipped into the white cotton dress shirt. One button, two buttons, three buttons, four, five, six.
This was going to happen. This had to happen. This had to happen and it wasn't his fault. He had no choice. It wasn't his fault... he had no choice.
He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them off, put on the white ones. White socks. White shoes.
He could feel the violent pounding of his heart in his temple and his throat and his eyes. If he was going to do this, he would have to get angry. He would have to get vicious but felt as though he barely had the strength to clench his fists. If he w
ent in there like this he would fail. And worst than failing he would be caught. Charlie would be killed and perhaps the world would think that he was in fact Mister all along.
Was that his plan? How did he know this wasn't just a set up? The police could already be on their way for all he knew.
He looked up and down the street. It was quiet. No sirens, no nothing. Just a soft and peaceful suburban hum.
He had no choice.
White tie, white gloves, white jacket.
He reached into the bag, removed the hatchet and the gun and placed them across his lap then removed the last thing left in the bag. White face paint. He had no choice.
He began to apply the paint. He had no choice.
He had no choice.
Once every inch of his face was covered in the white paint he pulled the hood attached to the jacket over his head to hide his hair.
The reflection in the mirror was repulsive and cued a certain frequency of thought which was strange and new but maybe put him exactly where he needed to be. For a long time he looked at the pale demon staring at him through the rear view mirror, and it stared right back. The light blue of his eyes the only trace of colour on his entire being. Was that the point of the costume? The eyes are the window to the souls and he guessed Mister wanted his prey to look deep into his soul as he extinguished their flame. He tried to push the softness from his eyes. To hide anything human in them. Whatever he did in this house would be attributed to Mister, not himself and to be able to do what he had to do, he had to become Mister. Jeremy would never do this. Could, never do this.
He tried to make a fist again and still felt too weak to do so, so he clutched the hatchet as tightly as he could and that made him feel a bit better.
He wasn't Jeremy, he was Mister. He was Mister.
Before he had a chance to think about it the car door was open and he was moving towards the house. To be concluded in part two
Conclusion:
I would like you sincerely thank you for purchasing and reading my book. This was a real passion project of mine and I hope it came across in the writing. If you enjoyed this book would you be so kind to leave a review here. Every review counts. Thanks again! You can find the conclusion here. The Black Chronicle: Part 2
Excerpt from The Black Chronicle: Part Two.
Charlie's mouth felt disgusting. He could still taste he blood from where his tooth had been ripped loose. At some point through the night he had become tired of spitting it out and just started swallowing it.
He wanted to talk to the girl and the man who were in the room with him but they had warned him against it. 'He is watching' they said. So instead he just spent the night trying not to cry which of course was the stupidest thing ever because what did it matter if he cried or not? Did he really care what these people think? They were all going to die in that fucking room, so fuck what they think, right?
He could die. Not that he had a choice. But he could face it. Mister would blow his brains out with a gun or slit his throat or something and it sucks- well stepping in dog shit sucks, math exams suck, this was a nightmare. It was horrible. But he could do it. He'd be dead and that would be it. He would just stop being, so it's not like he could feel bad about it, or suffer. But he knew his mother would suffer. She would suffer for the rest of her life knowing what happened to him.
And his dad... his dad was probably already dead. He had over heard him and his mom fighting about him being in the FBI again, and it must have had something to do with Mister because he wrote that book on the Mister copycat and he was like an expert on the subject now, or whatever. But a lot of good his expertise did him because Mister had killed him took his son just to rub it in! Mister: two. Dad: a big fat fucking zero. Then before he knew it he was crying again. He pictured his dad dead in his own bed. So unhappy alive and now dead in the most unhappiest of circumstances.
The door to wherever they were screeched open and he tried his best to stop crying. The footsteps came closer and closer to him and then hands were on his ankles, removing the chains. He thought the rope around his hands would be next but instead he felt a foot hit him on his side, more of a push then a kick, and he was falling with the chair, his hands instinctively and uselessly trying to reach up and protect his face. His head bounced off the floor so hard he could feel it in his teeth. This was is it, he was about to die.
Mister grabbed the chair and dragged him a couple feet. Charlie’s face rubbing against the floor so bad it felt like it was on fire and his blindfold was torn loose. The room he was in was exactly what he imagined only bigger: An empty basement or warehouse space or something, grey cement floor and walls. He caught a glimpse of the girl, who was very pretty, long blond hair, dressed like stripper or something and her large naked breasts had dry blood all over them.
Jesus what did he do to her?
Charlie tried to crane his neck to see who else was in the room but Mister started dragging him across the floor again. The sound of the chairs scraping against the cement was loud and painful in his ears and echoed back at him from every wall. And then he saw Mister. He was naked. His entire naked body painted white. There was something about his body that scared the shit out of Charlie. He was skinny. Boney even, yet muscular at the same time. The muscles in his body looked like how a piece of string does when you hold each end of it and twist it and twist, like all tight and knotted up entwined. Was he naked because he was going to rape him? There was nothing he could do but squeeze the chair and squeeze his eyes tight. He squeezed everything inside of him, the way you do on a roller coaster or when someone scares you really bad.
When he opened his eyes again he was in a different room. It was narrow and maybe twenty feet long and empty except for a cage with a very pissed off looking cat inside it.
Down load part two now!
The black Chronicle: Part two
Also by Oldrich Stibor:
Fear The Monkey King.
When Remy first hears the monkey cry he doesn't realize it's the harbinger of his destruction. His idealistic life caught between two lovers quickly unravels and he comes face to face with a truth that will either be his salvation or doom.
Part psychological thriller, part erotica, part horror. Fear the Monkey King is a fast paced story about one man's descent into madness.
*****PLEASE READ BEFORE DOWNLOAD***** This fictional book is an EROTIC THRILLER and as such deals with themes EXTREME SEXUAL CONTENT and GRAPHIC VIOLENCE.
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Table of Contents
The Black Chronicle:
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
Chapter 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
Conclusion:
Excerpt from The Black Chronicle: Part Two.
Down load part two now!
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