Where decay and death are inspired to grow unhindered by peeking eyes.

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Where decay and death are inspired to grow unhindered by peeking eyes

By

Huitzer

I have determined that the final short story to add to my true supernatural horror story anthology will be rescinded from the final edition of my book. I found the contents of the story relayed to me to be far too demented and unsuited for the sensibilities of our modern day. However, due to your pressing need for answers, dear editor, I will share with you the story in hopes you will respect my wishes in finding another story to complete my anthology.

 Kind regards,

 Bartholomew.

In a small fishing village in northern Maine lived a single father with his only son, Raphael. The two not only lived together as families do but we’re both fishermen by trade. While the father-son pair were not on the best of terms ever since the mother had died years prior, they lived a mutually content life despite their lack of communication with each other. The father, however, began to notice a change in Raphael after around five years following the mother’s death. The young man started to exhibit erratic behavior: aggressively catching fish to the point they bled excessively, chopping fish heads off with unreasonable power behind his slices, and sometimes he would hold bass or salmon up to his face and appear to commune with the aquatic creature. He would stare deep into their eyes and mutter incoherent words when he thought his father was not watching. Once he had his fill of that bizarre staring contest, he would squeeze the fish head so tightly that the eyes would pop out of their sockets and hang loosely, attached to pulsing blood vessels.

The father, concerned that this behavior would only escalate to more, mammalian beings, such as himself, he felt that it was only right that he should be the one to execute his son. Rather premature of him to make that decision, as the young man had shown no hostility to his fellow humans at all. As a matter of fact, Raphael had always been kind and courteous to everyone he had met, so the reasons why the father decided to exterminate his son is still unknown to this day, but more speculation on that later.

So, on a foggy spring day where the ships could scant be seen from the docks. The father awoke early in the morning, grasped his lucky knife and stabbed Raphael through his chest, and plunged the blade deep into his heart. And proceeded to unleash a flurry of stabs to his son’s abdomen for good measure to ensure he died. The father then took out several heavy-duty black trash bags and loaded his son’s corpse into trash bags, and dumped him in the back of his rusty old pickup truck. The father’s actions of loading the oddly human-shaped trash bag into his truck did not go unnoticed, however. The village’s old priest, the one who told this story to me, described the old fisherman’s facial expression as ‘non-compos mentis’. Or, not of sound mind.

Anyway, the father buried his son in an unmarked grave at the very center of the forest that bordered the village. Why the center? Because that is where decay and death are inspired to grow unhindered by peeking eyes.

The father was seen by the good old priest driving back to his house in a daze and approached him on where he had gone, the blood on his jacket. The father simply stated that he had gone for a walk and asserted the blood was just from cutting up fish from earlier that day. The priest was taken aback by the look in the old fisherman’s eyes, it was as though he was now lucid of something, something that frightened him. And, when asked about his son, the father’s eyes darted to the ground and he fell silent, instead opting to rush inside his house than answering the question.

A few days later the father pleaded with the priest to hear his sins as something had shaken him to a considerable degree. The father explained to the priest the events leading up to the fateful morning where he had murdered his own child and that Raphael had resurrected through some means to murder him. Through slurred words, he explained that his boy had crawled through a window, both of his eyes eaten out by scavengers and decaying flesh flopped around as he moved. Those soulless voids where his eyes had been searched eagerly for his father, a dirty knife in his hand. The father said that his boy whispered his name as he searched the house on his homicidal mission.

The father said he grimly and quietly took out his pistol and followed behind his son, silently as he searched. He said that he had the pistol aimed at his reanimated son’s head but was unable to bring himself to pull the trigger. He however admitted he wondered why he refused to do so. The priest then asked why he murdered his son in the first place and expressed regret to me for even asking that question in the first place. He said that the father looked directly into his eyes and uttered a sentence that was as chilling as it was confusing.

“It was what his mother would have wanted.” Unable to respond to that, the priest ended the conversation and gave the father his penance. But before he left, the fisherman told the priest to take care of the forest and to avoid the center of it, or he may too be hunted down by his child. And if he does, that he should be quiet if the boy pays him a visit.

Following the father’s death a few days later that was ruled a suicide by ‘self-inflicted’ stab wounds, the priest felt he was no longer compelled to keep this story a secret from the public. Thanks to that, I was able to become privy of the story in its entirety and the curiousness of it caused me to search for the grave of the young man in the center of those dreary woods near the village. And while I did find a crude grave, I discovered nobody rested within it. And since that night I have been subject to nightly terrors, namely, piercing metal scratching on my doors and windows. Not only that, but the faint whispering of a name that I suspect belongs to the poor bastard who has already left his world. Take head, my dear editor, respect my wish to not allow this story to be published as I do not wish for others to fall prey to it as I have.

            Best,

            Bartholomew.

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