A Family of Violence Read online

  A Family of Violence

  Jon Athan

  Copyright © 2016 Jon Athan

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information on this book or the author, please visit www.jon-athan.com. General inquiries are welcome.

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  Twitter: @Jonny_Athan

  Cover designed by Sig: www.inkubusdesign.com

  Thank you for the support!

  WARNING

  This book contains scenes of intense violence and unpleasant themes. Some parts of this book may be considered violent, cruel, disturbing, or unusual. Many of these scenes include a young teenager. Certain implications in this book may also trigger strong emotional responses. This book is not intended for those easily offended or appalled. Please enjoy at your own discretion.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  A Haunted House

  “I swear, the house is haunted. I've heard it from five, maybe six people already. You can hear a ghost screaming in there. A girl ghost, you know? She screams, then she runs at you. They say she tries to grab you 'cause she lost her kids or something. It's crazy, man,” Richie Adams said.

  Richie planted his palm on a moldering tree trunk, then he stepped over a muddy puddle. He left an imprint of his black-and-white sneakers in the mud with each calculated step. He moved slowly, trying his best to avoid an embarrassing tumble. Traversing the dreary woodland was difficult considering the recent rainfall, but he was able to persevere.

  Trailing behind him, Stanley King said, “Yeah, yeah... You think we'll get there soon? It's getting late and I have to get back home before it gets dark. My dad will be pissed if I'm late again. You know how he gets.”

  “I know, man. It's right around the corner. Besides, we still have an hour or two. It's not going to get dark right now. Relax, man, take it easy.”

  Stanley huffed at Richie's nonchalant demeanor. Richie, a close friend, was not going to get in trouble for running late. It was easy to dismiss Stanley's concern when it was not one of Richie's problems. Should the sun fall within the hour, Richie would emerge unscathed and Stanley would fade into his bedroom – a never-ending grounding.

  Richie was a naturally blasé young man – 13 years old, to be exact. He was a chubby teenager. His dome was covered with curly brown hair, like if a filthy mop were sprawled across his head. He wore a red windbreaker jacket and blue jeans. He didn't care for fashion or popularity. He was a free spirit, pursuing his interests on a whim.

  Richie turned towards Stanley with his index finger on his lips – shh! He whispered, “Do you hear that?”

  Stanley slowly shook his head and said, “Nope.”

  Richie glanced towards his left, Stanley followed his lead. Before another word could be uttered, a neighboring bush rustled. The shrub swayed and crepitated like if it were hit by a flurry of wind. The pair stared at the bush, pondering the reason behind the motion. Can a ghost leave the house?–Stanley thought. The idea seemed preposterous, but a bush moving without a draft seemed uncanny.

  Richie coughed to clear his throat, then he asked, “Is someone back there?”

  A squirrel darted out of the bush and hurtled towards Stanley and Richie. The pair stepped aside and watched as the squirrel scampered away. The woodland critter sought shelter in a dying woodland – a hole in the ground or a bush with leaves. The prying couple couldn't help but chuckle at their fear. A squirrel was nothing to fret over.

  As he stared at the furry critter with deviant eyes, Stanley asked, “Do you want to kill it?”

  Richie furrowed his brow and tilted his head. Astonished by the question, he asked, “What?” Stanley continued to stare at the squirrel as he deviously smirked. Richie snapped his fingers and asked, “What did you just say, Stan?”

  Stanley blinked erratically as he snapped out of his unusual trance. He stared at Richie with a raised brow, baffled. He could not force himself to admit it, but he actually couldn't remember what he said. As far as he knew, he did not utter a word. He remembered the squirrel, but he could not remember his words.

  Stanley shrugged and said, “Nothing, nothing...”

  Richie narrowed his eyes as he examined his friend – his best friend. Stanley was the same age as Richie – at least for a moment longer. He was an introverted teenager, still growing accustomed to his skin. He was lean and tall, consequently moving with an awkward hunch. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, he did not want to stand out in the crowds.

  Stanley's resplendent brown hair was combed over to the right, feathery and wispy. His dark brown eyes were indecipherable. Duplicity and deviance occasionally sparked in his pupils. He wore a black jacket over a white t-shirt. His black jeans and black sneakers were muddied by the pair's trek. Like his friend, he did not care for his appearance or popularity.

  Richie shrugged off the violent offer. He said, “Well, we should check out this house before it gets dark. I don't want you to get in trouble. I know you won't stop complaining if you do. Come on.”

  As Richie walked ahead, Stanley jogged to catch up. Walking side-by-side, the pair strolled through the desolate woodland. Richie dug his hands into his pockets and kicked at rocks and clumps of dirt on the ground. Stanley hit the passing bushes with a large branch. The couple were searching for any activity to lighten the mood.

  Richie asked, “You excited for your birthday party?”

  Stanley smiled and responded, “Adventure Planet? Yeah, man, I'm excited. You're coming with us, right? Your mom already let you go?”

  “Yeah. I was going to go anyway. She says 'no,' but she really means 'yes.' At least, that's what I think she means. You know how it is.”

  Stanley nervously smiled and said, “Yeah... I'm just worried about having to go back to school the next day. You know Mark and his punk friends are going to try to hit me or... or, I don't know, they're going to try something. I know it.”

  “Don't worry about those punks, man. They're a bunch of little bitches. They only want to fight if they're together. Besides, you ride the Shriek-and-Creak with me and I'll handle those guys for you. I'll take care of those punks. I've been teaching myself how to box. I think I can knock them out with a few punches. Yeah, I can do it...”

  As Richie shadowboxed, Stanley glanced at his friend and nodded. The compromise was bittersweet. On one hand, Richie would offer a sense of security to him; on the other hand, he would have to ride a thrilling roller coaster. Although he had some strange tendencies, like the occasional suggestion of violence, he was not very fond of fear. Yet, in the back of his mind, he knew Richie would protect him anyway – roller coaster or not.

  Stanley sighed, then he asked, “Are we almost there? It feels like we've–”

  Richie interrupted, “We're here.”

  Richie stumbled over a bush, barely keeping his balance. The thick foliage was tangled around his feet. Stanl
ey jumped over the shrub, avoiding the mess. The pair stared at the secluded house in the woods, awed by the discovery. The house was a local legend, a cautionary fable told to bad children. Don't go into the woods, there's a haunted house out there!

  As he gazed at the house, Stanley said, “Wow. It's... It's bigger than I thought.”

  The white two-story house was surrounded by towering trees. The dilapidated house was hidden due to the overgrown area. Although visible at a close range, the house could not be spotted from afar. The shrubs, the foliage, and the trees veiled the legendary home. The planks of wood on the exterior were chipped and every window was shattered.

  Richie said, “Alright, let's get in there. You have your phone? I want to record something. Get some proof, you know?” Stanley did not respond. He stared at the house, paralyzed by the lingering dread. Richie gently shoved him and said, “Come on, man. Don't bitch out now. We didn't walk all the way out here for nothing. Let's go.”

  Stanley glanced at Richie and sighed. He wanted to drop everything and run home. Yet, he knew he'd be deemed a coward and he knew Richie would not let him live it down. He was in a lose-lose situation, so he opted for the less demeaning option.

  Stanley sighed, then he said, “Okay, let's go...”

  ***

  The hinges squealed as the door slowly swung open. The splintered front door opened up to an entrance hall. There were three doors below the staircase to the right. To the left, an archway led to the living room. A vile miasma wafted through the hallway, pummeling any vulnerable nostrils with an odious stench.

  Richie held his jacket to his nose and said, “Damn, it smells like crap in here. Smells worse than my toilet after we had Mexican food. You remember that?”

  Holding his shirt to his nose, Stanley nodded and said, “Yeah, it was my toilet.”

  “Oh, yeah. It was your toilet, wasn't it? It doesn't matter. It smells bad in here. Even with the broken windows, this place smells like crap. I wonder what it is. Dead animals or something?”

  “I don't know and I don't care. Why don't we just go home? Huh? We'll leave the door open and let it air out, you know? Let's come back some other time. This is too gross.”

  Richie huffed, then he said, “No. If we leave now, I know you'll never come back here. I know you, man. Just follow my lead. Let's check this place out for a few minutes.”

  Richie walked into the living room, glancing around the unfurnished area. There was only a single couch towards the center, directly across a sooty fireplace. The couch was ripped to shreds, the original color was unidentifiable – puke green, perhaps. The floorboards groaned with each step, like if the ground would collapse due to their weight.

  Stanley muttered, “We always do this stupid shit... Damn it...”

  Stanley reluctantly followed his persistent friend. He was repulsed by the trash lingering on the floor. Rotten food wrappers, contaminated syringes, and used condoms clung to the floor like lint in a wallet. Yet, he was not sure if the garbage was the source of the stench. As he walked through the next archway, Stanley found himself in the kitchen.

  Richie opened the refrigerator, then he gagged. He looked away and said, “Holy shit, man. This place is sick...” He held his forearm to his nose and walked away. In a muffled tone, he said, “It's like someone's been living here. Shit, man, this might be some sort of hobo hideout.”

  Stanley stood on his tiptoes and peeked into the fridge. To his utter surprise, the broken refrigerator was stocked with food – meat, milk, and juice. The food was rotten, but it was stocked nonetheless. Richie's theory seemed to have some weight. A nest for hobos, Stanley thought, I have a bad feeling about this.

  Richie glanced up at the ceiling. He asked, “You want to check out the second floor or should we head home? I don't hear any ghosts around here. Must have been a bunch of lies...”

  Stanley said, “We should just go home. I've probably got less than an hour to run back to my place. I don't know if your mom cares, but my dad does. I told you we were wasting our time.”

  “I don't know. I thought it would be pretty cool. I swear, Jennifer, from math, she said she was up here with Isaac and they heard a woman screaming. They said it was a ghost, but it was probably some bum. They're so stupid.”

  “Let's just–”

  A bloodcurdling shriek disrupted the friendly chatter. The feminine screeching echoed through the home, reverberating through the lonely woodland. The ghastly scream was filled with agony. The awed pair glanced at the floor. The racket clearly came from below.

  Wide-eyed, Richie said, “The basement.”

  Richie stumbled back into the main hall. He glanced at the three doors, eagerly searching for the correct answer like if he were on a game show – what's behind door number one? He was hurtling towards the horror, sprinting towards potential danger. Although reckless and dangerous, he was not going to pass up on the opportunity to see a ghost.

  As he rushed to his side, Stanley said, “Let's go. Come on, let's get the hell out of here.”

  Richie stared at the first door in the hall with inquisitive eyes. He shook his head and said, “No, no, no. Hell no. We can't just leave. We could find something here, man. We can become legends. Get your phone out and start recording.”

  “No. None of that matters, Richie. There could be someone in here. It could be a bum waiting to throw shit at us or something. Let's go.”

  “Don't be such a–”

  A ghoulish groan interrupted the argument. Once again, the moan was filled with pain, raspy and long. The pair stared at the door directly ahead, shocked. The scream seeped from the crack beneath the door, calling to the couple – a call for help. Of course, Richie was willing to answer.

  Richie grabbed the doorknob and said, “I'm checking it out. Just have your phone ready in case you have to call the cops. It's that simple.”

  Stanley rubbed the nape of his neck and said, “I don't know about that. It's not that simple. It's never that simple.”

  Disregarding Stanley's concerns, Richie opened the door. He stared down the rickety stairs with a furrowed brow. Due to the ominous darkness, the stairs appeared to be endless – a staircase to hell. Richie swallowed the lump in his throat, then he descended into uncertainty. Stanley shook his head as he watched his foolish friend. As much as he hated his carelessness, he couldn't allow Richie to enter the basement by himself.

  Stanley pulled out his touchscreen cellphone and muttered, “It better be worth it, Richie...” The stair howled like a wolf to the moon as he took his first step down. As he reluctantly proceeded, Stanley whispered, “It better be worth it, asshole.”

  Chapter Two

  A Family of Violence

  The basement was unusually cold, frigid like a snowy plain. The eerie ambiance amplified the sensation of the cold temperature. Stanley and Richie could see each quivering breath as they shivered. The couple found themselves frozen by fear. Their minds told them to run and shout, but their bodies were locked in place – fight-or-flight was a tricky phenomenon.

  The friends could see the basement in all of its bloody glory. The makeshift dungeon was splattered with dried droplets of blood. The grimy gray brick walls and cracked concrete flooring were the canvases for a splatter artist with a love for crimson paints. Chains and shackles were connected to the walls. Deadly home improvement tools – hammers, screwdrivers, and coping saws – were littered on the ground.

  From the bottom of the steps, the frightened friends could see the source of the screaming at the opposite end of the room. A man stood to the left and a woman stood to the right – Edward and Katina. A grunting brunette woman was sprawled across a hardwood table in front of them. Her unclad body was riddled with lacerations.

  With a quivering lip, Stanley stuttered, “I–I–I... We... We weren't...”

  The young teen was struck with apprehension as he gazed into Edward's sharp brown eyes. The man had resplendent grizzled hair, long and slick. His thick, unkempt beard covered his th
roat – a bush of hair on his face. He wore a white tank top, revealing his lean physique. In cursive, a tattoo on his chest read: Carnage. The man appeared mean, his scowl fueled by an uncontrollable hatred. He had a malevolent aura.

  To Stanley's utter dismay, Katina smirked and twirled her long black hair as she gazed at him. She had a kittenish demeanor, winking and licking her lips. Regardless of age, she was naturally flirtatious around males. She could not help herself. The deviant sensation was hardwired into her brain. Her mind ran amok with aberrant ideas.

  The young woman wore a low-cut white shirt, showing plenty of cleavage. Her blue jeans were spattered with blood. Although she was not tattooed, she had a bizarre scar on the left side of her face. The marking ran horizontally across her cheekbone with several stray lines, like a black centipede crawling on her face.

  Edward tilted his head and said, “Well, it looks like we've got ourselves some visitors, darling. They don't look like pigs. No, they're far too young and they're not squealing. They look like... They look like kids that just fucked up. I mean, they really fucked up.”

  As Edward chuckled, Katina said, “Oh, I don't think so. I mean, maybe they're looking for something to fuck, but I don't think they 'fucked up.' I might be happy to oblige, at least for one of them...”

  “Of course you are. That's nothing new.”

  As the sinister couple shared a chuckle, the woman on the table whispered, “Help... Help me... Please...”

  Katina smiled and said, “I'll be happy to help you, sweetie. It's my pleasure to help the weak and pathetic. I have to contribute to society somehow, right? Well, let me make my 'heartfelt' contribution now.”

  Katina grinned from ear-to-ear as she grabbed a framing hammer from the table. She examined the hammer with inquisitive eyes, like if she had never seen the common tool before. As she stared at the petrified teens, smirking and giggling, she nonchalantly struck the woman's dome. Each hit was stronger than the last, each thud echoed through the basement.