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Member
Join Date: May 2006
Gender: Male
Posts: 19
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The Haunting-Chapter One
Hey. This is the first chapter of m prospective horror novel. Hope you like it.
Chapter 1
He is only six years old, but that doesn't stop him from knowing what is about to happen. He is huddled in the corner of his bedroom with his hands over his ears, gazing fearfully at the door. The door was shaking terribly, and with every tremor came a loud thud. He is not so much frightened by the shaking itself, but the cause of it: his father.
"In! I want in, boy! Open the door!" His father bellows. An alcohol induced slur is clearly perceptible in his father's voice. Of course, the boy doesn't exactly know what alcohol is yet, but is nevertheless aware that something is wrong. Something that has wrought a dramatic change in his father over the past eight months. Though he doesn't know what it is, he is deathly afraid of it, so he makes no move to get up and open the door for his father.
The pounding crescendos to its climax, and then abrubtly halts. He hears the sound of his father's uneven footsteps, fading as the man makes his way down the hall. The boy takes his hands from his ears. Though his father is gone, he feels no relief. Instead, he removes himself from his corner, lays on his belly, and slides himself under his bed. He doubts that this will do much good, but at this point is out of options. He pulls up the bedclothes and peers out at the window, which is open. It is no good. It is approximately a fourteen-foot drop from his window to the ground. To a child of six, this seems impossibly high.
He hears what is unmistakably his father coming down the hallway again, and his heart begins to beat faster. His father reaches the door and stops. Then there is a sharp rap. The boy jumps. A muffled curse comes from the other side of the doorway, and the boy sees a faint ray of hope. Maybe his father won't make it through, maybe the doorknob will hold. But then the rap comes again, and again. But the third time is less of a rap, and more of a crack. The boy hears his doorknob hit the ground and roll to a stop against the wall. Then there is a brief moment of silence, in which the boy's heartbeat increases yet again, as does his rate of breathing. It has been bad before, he thinks, but never like this. Where in God's name is his mother?
The door flies open. The boy can see his father's worn, dirty workboots in the doorway. He covers his mouth and nose to muffle the sound of his breathing. He watches those boots walk to the closet and open the door. His father curses again, as he peers into the closet and finds it empty. The boy has not been raised to believe in prayer, but nevertheles breathes a few words to whatever God may exist. Oh God, he thinks, let him go. Just let him leave.
But those hateful workboots do not head for the door. They instead turn and are coming straight for him, and are now stopped in front of the bed. A large, tanned, calloused hand reaches down and grabs a fistful of the bedclothes, and then pulls them up. Then his father's face is beside him, not a foot from him, and smiling an awful smile. This smile does not seem to be the product of happiness, but rather of achievement, as if they are both part of some sick scavenger hunt, he the prize and his father the seeker, and his father has just recovered him. That same massive hand reaches in and encircles his wrist, and then jerks his arm. He sldes out crazily, his eyes wide with fear.
"I told you to let me in, boy. You disobeyed me. That's a sinful thing to do." His father is laughing now. Not with his mouth, but rather with his eyes. And with a jolt the boy realizes that his father is enjoying this. Enjoying the fear that he is causing. The man pulls back his arm now, and strikes his son across the cheek with his open palm. The boy cries out in pain, but says nothing. His father does not seem to mind.
"A sinful thing to do," His father says again, and his voice sounds angry and harsh and amused all at once, "Do you know what that makes you, boy? A devil. I won't have no devils in my house, boy." This time his father draws back his fist and swipes it across his son's jaw. The boy screams this time, and feels two of his teeth come loose. His father smiles again, and then pulls back his fist for another blow.
"No!" The boy wails, tears rolling down his face, "I won't do it anymore, daddy. I won't be a devil. Don't...don't..." His father gazes down at him, and he looks into those eyes for a hint of compassion, a hint of sorrow. He finds none.
"Won't have no devils in my house." His father says quietly, almost to himself this time. Then he raises his leg and brings a grimy boot down on his son's face. The boy screams again as he feels the bridge of his nose snap, and warm blood running down the side of his face. He begins to feebly try to push himself away from his father. I'm going to die, he thinks, I am going to die.
But then his mother is there, in the doorway. Tears run down her face, and her frame is trembling, but her jaw is set, and she looks determined, "That's-" She begins, but then pauses as her husband turns around to face her. She winces, "Th-That's my son." Her voice is shaking. "That's my son, and you won't touch him again."
The boy gazes into his mother's face, but she does not look back. He sees his father begin to kneel, sees the hammer that his father uses to remove his doorknob. The man picks it up, and then stands up slowly.
He grins.
"Won't have no devils in my house."
Jack Rollins awoke.
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