A Fear Of The Dark, Uncategorized

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 8

The next morning my dad requested that I join him in the graveyard. He had such a languishing approach to grave keeping, an attitude with which I didn’t expect or appreciate.
He was full tilt by the time I joined him, nine-thirty in the morning, and I was still blurry eyed and half awake when he asked me to get the black paint from the basement, a request that would have sent shivers if it had not been for the early hour.
I had not yet explored the basement. It was warm and damp, as I remember, but my memory only serves to propel the feeling of what happened next. And what happened in that basement would torment myself and all of my psychiatrists, psychologists, and psychotherapists for the next ten years of my life.

To be continued…Ethan Owens

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 7

Don’t fucking doubt it. I was a smart kid. I was smarter than that asshole pounding on the door. I was smarter than those two freckly faced lesbian twin step brothers of mine. I was smart. And I knew what kind of sense it would make to bring up a ghost boy taunting me into my own bedroom.

So I didn’t say a word.

I needed some time to think. I needed some time to figure out the several different theories interfering with each other inside of my mind. I needed some time to feel safe. I needed my father. I pleaded with him for a spot in his bed, connecting my fear of my step family with my fear of sleeping alone. And it worked.

As my father fell asleep he joked with me. “He’s just trying to bring us down,” he said, laughing. “That just means that were above him. You’re with me now, Ethan,” he said. “You’re safe.”

And I felt safe. As I laid in bed and listened to my father snore I felt absolutely safe, even though there was something waiting for me in my bedroom. I know it doesn’t sound like the kind of ghost story you normally hear, the one where the haunted feels so scared that they couldn’t sleep at night.But as I fell asleep that night I knew everything was going to be ok. As long as I had my dad to protect me, everything was going to be fine.

I fell asleep that night with a sense of safety that I would never ever feel again, as long as I lived.

 

To be continued…Ethan Owens

 

 

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 6

As my feet reached the top step my father opened the door. The screaming from outside the front door ensued, and at once I knew who it was, but my attention was suddenly and starkly drawn back to my bedroom.

“They don’t like you.”

From the chaos downstairs the house echoed with screaming, my dad questioning and guffawing as the red haired demon beat the side of the door as he screamed. It was absolutely horrendous to know that the man I had come to fear was standing at my front door step, threatening and frightening my dad, while the boy in my bedroom stared at me and repeated, “They don’t like you.”

I stood in suspended fear, my body facing the stairs, my head strained ninety degrees, eyes glued to the little boy staring at me. The boy motioned for me to come, and he disappeared into my bedroom. I turned and stood, facing my bedroom door, questioning my sanity. And as much as it scared me to be away from my father, the screaming and pounding from downstairs scared me even more. I heard Alexander Pritchett spout my name, and as soon as he did my father slammed the door shut.

I’ll tell you now what I didn’t know then. Alexander Pritchett had come to our house that night to threaten mine and my father’s life. He was upset because my mother’s trust hadn’t been transferred into the Pritchett’s name, and my mom had unknowingly left her family’s fortune to my dad and me. I will get into what happened to my mom later. That is a whole other story.

When my dad rushed up to meet me in the stairwell he held me and consoled me again. But I wasn’t concerned anymore with what had happened at the front door. I was terrified by what was in my room, and why they didn’t like me.

 

To be continued…Ethan Owens

 

 

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 5

From behind me I heard the squeak of the door opening. I paused, staring straight ahead as I anticipated an attack, but at once realized I was no longer in the home of monsters. I was safe. So I turned, slowly. I turned my head to the door.

“Ethan,” I heard my dad say.

And with that I turned fully, placing my back against the window, watching my shadow reach across the floor to where my dad stood, his face pushing through the cracked door.

” I can hear every move you make,” he said. And as soon as he spoke there was a noise from downstairs, a knocking on the front door that started calmly, but as my dad and I stared at each other the knocking turned into slamming, a fist pounding upon the door with force. I watched as his concern turned into dread, and I followed as he turned and fled down the hallway  to the stairs.

When he reached the stairs my dad turned and told me to stay. So I stayed as he scurried down the creaky steps to the front door. I was standing in my doorway, knowing full well that as soon as he reached the bottom step I would creep as far as I could to the stairwell without being noticed.

The slamming on the door continued as I touched each toe further towards the stairwell. And then my dad answered the dooor.

To be continued…

 

 

 

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 4

That night I laid in bed talking to my dad for hours. We talked about my mom, why she left, why she died. We talked about my experience with the Pritchetts. He held me as I cried and told me things that made me feel comfortable.

But when he left I had a chance to look around my new, dark, drafty room. There was one big window facing my bed and the moonlight was streaming in through the curtains. I remember laying in bed looking out at the moon past the branches of the oak tree. I watched the shadows of branches fan across my room. I listened to the creaks in the house. I thought of how scary the house was. But after living in a brand new house with three red haired demons and a mother that wouldn’t listen to me, the old creepy house on the hill felt safe.

As I closed my eyes and my mind started to wander, I remembered the one thing my dad and I hadn’t talk about that night.

The graveyard.

My eyes popped open and I sat up. I slid out of bed and there was a loud creak at my feet. I walked slowly, creaking the wooden floorboards with each step until I was framed inside the large window. I looked down at the dark graveyard. It was mysterious and scary looking with the moon casting long shadows with each gravestone. The largest shadow was from the oak tree. The tree swing was rocking back and forth, in and out of shadow.

I squinted as the swing rocked back and forth again. I pressed my face closer and squinted harder as the swing rocked faster. Out of the shadows came two feet and two legs, and then the swing rocked back into the shadows. It happened a few times until I knew it was real.

I heard the door behind me slowly creak. And the swing stopped moving.

To be continued…

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 3

I stood next to my dad at the funeral, across from the red-haired monsters. I feel sad when I think back to that time. But when I was there, standing next to my dad, I felt safe. I felt better.

On the drive home I felt like I had just woken up from a nightmare. I did fall asleep, actually, and woke up to my dad ruining an Elvis song, and a back seat full of my personal belongings. My dad was odd. I always thought that. He was goofy, gangly, naturally blond and balding. I got my blond hair and light eyes from my dad. I got bad eyesight and bad memories from my mom.

I remember my dad pulling off the highway in some place very unfamiliar. I reached for my black-framed glasses as my dad said, “Welp, here she is, the homeliest little home in town.” And through my glasses I saw the house. It was like the Bate’s motel house without an attic. It was on a hill, the gravel driveway curved up and past a rusted, wrought-iron fence that wrapped around the rest of the property. When he pulled up to the house and I stepped out of the car, my eyes were fixed on the land next to the house. My dad grinned his big, goofy grin and said, ” I don’t know what all the fuss is about, but people are dying to get in.”

The old, rusty, wrought-iron fence encircled a small graveyard with about thirty really old, weathered gravestones. A large oak tree grew on the far side of the graveyard and a tire swing rocked back and forth in the breeze.

“Get it?” my dad added. “Dying to get in.”

To be continued…Ethan Owens

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A Fear Of The Dark

A Fear Of The Dark – Part 2

I used to be normal. I had a normal house, normal friends, a normal childhood, normal fears. I mean, everybody has a healthy fear of the dark. It’s normal. Everything was – for lack, or care, of finding a better word – absolutely and wonderfully normal.

And then everything changed.

My mom left my dad for some fat, red-haired dick head with two red-haired dick head kids. I have absolutely nothing against red heads. Before I was forced out of my home, and my school, and my normal life, my best friend was a red head. But imagine being bullied day and night, not by one, or two, but three red haired dick-faced assholes. Imagine the feeling of desperation and isolation as you watch from your window as your mom’s car backs out of the driveway, and you close your eyes and can count down, in seconds, the moment until two, overweight, sexually ambiguous curly haired goons beat your door in and hold your face down on your bed…

If this were a movie you would have seen me walking away from the house covered in blood. Not my blood, their blood, with a big evil smile on my face. I pictured that moment every time my screaming would capture the attention of their pathetic fat fucking father and he would walk in to break things up, only to slap me for not being able to defend myself. In my daydreams I would kill him first. While his kids watched, waiting for their turn.

You get the point.

Alexander Pritchett. Ollie Pritchett. Sammy Pritchett.

Dead. In that order. Do not tell my psychiatrist I said that.

It was only three months, but it was a significant and scarring three months for an eleven year old boy. After three months of begging my mom not to leave, catching her alone in solitary corners of the house, crying to her to listen to me, my mother died, leaving me in a state which I can only describe as traumatizing.

But it was only after that when the real trauma started.

To be continued…Ethan Owens

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