Bedtime Stories for Disturbed Kids.

The vacant eyes.

Thursday 2, May. 2003.

12:30 A.M.

The moon was shining, high above in the sky. Silent, watching. The eternal guard of the night. The clouds bellow it made it nearly impossible for one to appreciate it's splendor. But she was still there.

The creator of all things wicked. Of creatures that not even your nightmares dare to mention.

It was their time to be out. The wee hours some call it. Truthfully; we all know, no one dared to be out on the streets at 3:00 A.M. for it was at that time, that not even their Guardian had power over them.

The moon watched which creatures were to be let out. In order to maintain a balance on the world. This had to happen.

Everything happens for a reason.

The reason as to why, the moon let this thing out is a complete mystery.

The dogs howled at the moon. Trying to warn it perhaps. Or maybe not warn her, but us. The humans. The ones still awake. Perhaps they knew what was coming and they were mourning ahead of time.

The night was cold; freezing, actually. It was as if someone had moved the North Pole to my street that night. It was unbearable.

The street light that stood right outside my window, twinkled incessantly. It could be easily mistaken for a warning in Morse code.
If you had taken that ever changing gleam, and placed it in a music sheet as notes; you would've had the saddest yet most beautiful symphony in the world.

As my parents slept in their room, the light in the houses on the street were slowly and one by one, turning off or dimming out. Eventually, the only light source on the entire street was coming out from my house- specifically, my room- and the street light across it.

Now. I deeply apologize if the following that I'm about to tell you, does not make any sense to you. They keep my brain sedated; my memories: blurry, foggy. They've turned it into a mush.

My moments of clarity are brief. Short lived. But they're also filled with dread, and anxiety. And the voices.

So. Many. Voices.

I can't shut them up. They won't shut up.

That's why I like the mush. I like the quiet, the tranquility. How it keeps me from hearing its laughter, the screams, the sound of the knife stabbing the lifeless bodies of what used to be my parents.

In a way. The mush keeps me sane.

Nobody believed me. But who would've? The only way to believe me is to have lived it.

I'd never wish that upon anyone. Not even my greatest enemy.

One thing I can assure you. Even with my painful memories being blurred, I can still feel, as if I was living it all over, again and again.

It torments me every single night. Drives me mad.

Perhaps, it's better that way. I'd rather be completely off my rocker than seeing it all over again.

Maybe, if I had been sleeping that night, I would be with them right now, and these people wouldn't be filling my blood and body with drugs.

It took my soul that night.

My soul, my voice, my sanity; my freedom.
I'm no longer owner of my body, my thoughts, my dreams.

It all belongs to him.

It all belongs to the faceless one, with only dark hollowed sockets. Yet, that night, it seemed as if it had a mouth. And not so much of a mouth itself, but a line etching along what it would've been its face.

I say this, because there's no other way that this thing, would've looked right at me, and smile the way it did, when it hold in its hands both my parents heads.

And now I'm here. Locked up, lifeless, bound against my will and unable to assert my word.

I swear to everything that I'm left; that the reason why it came that night, was not because of something I did.

I had never seen nor heard about it before. I still remember, that night, I heard someone in the kitchen roaming around, then going up the stairs, each one of its steps growing louder than the one before. Once it reached the top floor, I heard the footsteps going towards my parents bedroom. So far I had thought it was one of them; until I heard them scream.

My mother's blood curling scream was what made me lock my already closed door, turn off the lights and get underneath the covers. I also heard shooting. One of them must have found the gun my father kept in case of a robbery. It did not work. I heard the shots, but along the shots, I heard my mother's cries.

Then, the stabbing.

I tried to keep as quiet as possible. I found that it was harder than normal to keep my cries and sobs to myself. Next thing I know, the sounds of the bodies being dragged out of the house to the front yard, right under my window. It coming back into the house and up the stairs, this time, the footsteps approached my room. I drew in a breath and I could feel my heart thumping against my chest; it was so loud I thought it would've found me by the sound of it.

It tried the doorknob, and I closed my eyes. I heard it opening my door, and that's the last thing I remember.

Trust me that I do not remember how it opened up their bodies in half, ripped out their hearts, severed their heads and took their eyes out, leaving only, empty sockets in its place. I do not remember either, the writing in blood on my walls, not how it placed both my parents heads on both sides of my bed, so that they would look at me with their empty sockets and open mouth.

Even though I was hidden, I know the moment he entered my room, he laughed, and smiled at me. I might have lost consciousness, but it haunts me in my dreams. And I can still hear its laughter. I can still hear the screams.

As it came, it left. Traceless.

According to the police, the handwriting is something they've never seen before. They don't have any records of it. There weren't any fingerprints on he scene. Not a clue of what it could've been.

So they blamed it all on me.

They said that I'm guilty of everything. That I had an attack of schizophrenia; and made it all up, which made me unable to control my actions.

There weren't any witnesses but my eyes. No one but the moon and I.

But I can still feel it. It's like a nagging in the back of my head. That I'm watched. That IT knows where I am, and knows that he'll be able to get me and finnish what he started.

That is the only thing I can think of that explains the picture I received. A picture of the wall in my room, taken the morning after that night. The wall that contained a message for me.

"I'LL ALWAYS BE WATCHING."

THE END.