Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27012445-20150923201343

Dear Matthew,

It does me proud to see the man you have grown into, but prouder of the fact that I can still see that sparkle of life burning in your eyes. It is such a rare and special attribute that my line of work often prevents me from appreciating. Very few have such tenacity, let alone the ability to maintain its intensity into adulthood. My children have all been special to me. They were my messages in a bottle. They were beacons of good tidings that transcended into realities far beyond the primitive senses of sight and touch. However, you hold a very special place in my heart. You are unique among a sea of automatons and far exceed their ability to acknowledge the limitless possibilities that exist beyond their simple and mundane repetitive lives. That is what brought you to me so many years ago. I see great things in you. Oh, the wonders I could show you. Together, we could be capable of piercing the veil with a force powerful enough to reignite realities that burnt out of existence a millennium ago. Maybe that is why I lost you for a while; you needed time to ripen and mature. But sadly, in the end, the simple truth is that all who come to my cellar eventually return to my cellar. You of all people know that to be the truth. It is inevitable. It is where you belong. You have run and you have hidden, but that only delayed the inevitable conclusion of the fate thrust upon you. A fate I chose for you for which I have the distinct privilege of executing to completion. I only needed to wait. But like they say, all good things come to those who wait. And I have waited. Oh, have I waited for so very long. I have waited with perpetual patience that held at bay an insatiable craving to see those eyes once again; those eyes that sparkle with such life. I wonder will they still sparkle when I pluck them from your skull and hold them in my hands. I definitely hope so.

Your friend in spirit and in mind, Petey

I read and re-read the email over and over again. It has been thirteen years since I first crossed paths with Petey; and eight years since his last known whereabouts. Now after all this time, I receive this email from him. I was beginning to believe that he was gone for good. I considered the possibility that he might be in prison for some unrelated crime or met a painful death due to his wicked ways. But deep down I knew he was too smart for that. I looked into those eyes. There was no insanity in there, at least none that would impair judgment or reason. There was only cold calculating intelligence fueled by his uncontrollable appetite for the young and innocent.

In the summer when I was nine years old, the northwestern part of the country was held hostage by the man I know as Petey. The panic had escalated to sheer terror when the thirteenth child was abducted. It had started nine months ago. In a 3 month time span, five children from the ages of 6 to 14 were abducted from their homes, from playgrounds, or simply right off of the streets. The kidnappings were done with such perfectly executed stealth that not one person witnessed any of the crimes. People from the entire region scoured the land searching for those kids. After three months, all five bodies were found. Details of the condition of the corpses were withheld from the press. The official statement released only told that the children were deceased. They were given no details. But I know what those kids endured. What that man did to those children was beyond anyone’s comprehension of evil. It was a month before the next 5 children were taken. At the end of the 3 months, all were found in the same condition as the first group of five. The whole northwestern part of the country was in a panic. Every precaution was taken to protect the children. In towns and cities across the region, playgrounds normally full of laughter stood empty. Any child in public view was always kept close to their parents as their normal day to day errands became as fearful as life-threatening quests into dark and dangerous lands. Despite all the extra security and precautions, the first child was taken, then the second and then the third. Jamie was the fourth and I was the fifth to be taken.

It was like any other night. I had school the next morning so I went to bed at my normal time. My mom and dad were separated and he had moved out quite a while ago. We had a normal sized house but still quite large for only two people. My mom’s room was upstairs and while I was on the first floor. It was like any other night, until I heard the scraping of the sliding doors from the closet. I’m a light sleeper, so the sudden noise immediately woke me up. My back was facing the closet. I laid there paralyzed with fear as the scraping stopped once the doors had been completely opened and the clothes hanger jingled on the rod as something emerged. Heavy booted steps slowly came my way. Thunk, Thunk, Thunk. The steps stopped once they reached my bed. I could hear heavy breathing just above me, then a wet smacking of his lips as he began to lower itself. Just then the door to my bedroom began to open. My mom poked her head into my room, to check on me like always. She had that warm smile she always has when she looks at me and thinks I can’t see her. I bolt up in bed and her eyes widen in terror as she takes in the scene. I am in bed with a large man holding a syringe looming over me. With almost inhuman speed, he charges my mom and with one hand grabs her by the back of the head and smashes her face into the wall. He does this over and over and over again. I scream “Stop!” The man then peers over his shoulder and I realize for the first time he is wearing a mask. It is a white mask of a goat with six eyes on it forehead. I scream at the sight of such a disturbing animal mask. He lets go of my mom’s limp body, opening the palm of his hand in a mocking and exaggerated way. The goat faced man then leaps from where he stood and lands on top of me, straddling my small body. The force of his body weight landing on my chest expels all the air from my lungs. Loud heavy gasps come out of my mouth as I try to catch my breath, but all the man does is press down harder. Once again he lowers the syringe and roughly jabs it into my neck. The drug quickly takes affect and the world comes in and out of focus. My mind is fuzzy and filled with surreal shadows and shapes. I barely feel the scissors cutting off my pajama tops and bottoms leaving only my underwear intact. For a brief moment, the haze clears and I see my mom slumped on the floor staring into nothing before I am stuffed into a thick duffle bag. I can’t be sure how long it took for him to carry me back to his destination. I was in and out of consciousness consumed by delusions that made reality become nothing more than a forgotten memory until unconsciousness finally completely took hold.

It was the vibration of the moving vehicle that aroused me into consciousness. I was still in the duffle bag but he must have pulled my head out while I slept so I wouldn’t suffocate. My body seemed to remain paralyzed from the drug I was injected with but I could slightly move my head around with great effort. I lifted my head up and saw a pair of frightened eyes looking back at me. A young girl, about my age was lying next to me. Her head was protruding from a duffle bag similar to mine. It appeared I wasn’t the only one who was visited by the man with the multi-eyed goat mask. I tried to move my non-functional body. My screams of terror only came out as low grunts. The fear gradually started to overpower the effects of the drug coursing through my veins and my movements became more pronounced and the grunts transformed into words. Then the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. The rear doors suddenly opened and the face of the goat with many eyes appears; the needle in his hands once again.

What happened next are just faint tiny wisps of coherence. My dad told me I was missing for 5 days and we later learned that the official investigation had determined he would keep his victims alive for up to 5 weeks. I only experienced a fraction of the hell he had created. I don’t remember much, only brief images. But I remember the fear I felt. Most people will never have to experience this level of terror. It is so intense that it hurts. I do vaguely remember being propped up on some type of chair, like an ottoman. I think I remember the other girl and the glazed stare that she had. A stare that was probably identical to mine. I remember the bright bursts of light. The flashes of light were blinding; one after the other. I vaguely remember someone saying “Smile for Petey” over and over again. My first clear memory is hearing the loud crash of a door being kicked in and yells of “Clear!” “Clear!” “Clear!” They found me in a wooden box, emaciated, dehydrated, and malnourished. The top of the wooden box was pulled apart and a woman’s face peered in and looked at me. The woman had a natural beauty and a voice that spoke with both authority and soft femininity. In my delusional state, I thought I was being rescued by Ripley from that Alien movie. But no, her name was Agent Barrett. Dana Barrett. She lifted me out of my cage and carried me towards the light saying, “Your safe now, honey. You’re safe now.” She rushed me out of the basement through a crowd of armed men, all wearing jackets with the words FBI on their backs. As we reached the doorway that exited the cellar, I caught a brief glimpse of three small shapes suspended from the ceiling. It was a hellish diorama of chains, hooks, and barbed wire. Seconds before exiting the room, one of the agents flipped on the lights and the horrific scene was revealed. For one split second I saw it. I saw the incisions. I saw the burnt and branded flesh. I saw skin bleached to a pale white held in position with rusty barbed wire. I saw two empty spots among the entanglement of skin and razors.

They never caught him. It was just blind luck that the FBI was able to locate his cellar, an abandoned cabin about 250 miles from where I was taken. They pulled me and the little girl out from that hole, but were too late to catch him. We were taken to the hospital and reunited with our families. I learned what I already knew in my heart, my mom was dead. There was nothing that could be done for my mom, she had died instantly. My dad tried his hardest to rebuild our lives again, but the experience had scarred me too deeply to recover and regain any ability to trust or establish any emotional ties. I tried to stay in contact with Jaime, the little girl who was also rescued, but I think she felt the same as I did. We were both reminders to one another of that man with a goat mask of many eyes. We eventually stopped messaging each other and went about our lives as best as we could. It was six years later until I heard anything about her. When I was fourteen, my dad received a call from Agent Barrett. Jaime was missing. She had been taken again. They suspected it was the same man as before. They never found a body. They never knew what became of her.

I read the email message again and again. I mouth the words silently as I read. Suddenly my phone chimes softly to alert me of a new message. This time it is a text message. It’s from him. He found my phone number. The message is more bullshit about my uniqueness and sparkly eyes. Then immediately a second text is delivered with the simple message. “I’ve arranged a very special reunion for you with and old friend.” I stare at the words. I smile to myself and zip up my jacket a little higher to protect my face against the cold bitter breeze of the night time air. From the thick brush of woods that conceals me, I see a large man emerge from the front door of the old run down house I have been watching for the past 3 hours. I lift the night vision binoculars to my eyes to get a better look. He walks to the side of the house carrying a large duffle bag. I hear a car door slam shut and then headlights from an old van pulls out of the garage and drives away.

When I turned seventeen, my dad suffered a heart attack and died leaving me alone. I loved my dad very much, but I could never reciprocate any affection or emotion after my abduction. With my dad gone and 3 months left of high school, I used that time to get my affairs in order. Come graduation day, I had sold everything I owned including the house. I legally changed my name and disappeared. With the help of Agent Barrett, I went off the grid. Unless this guy was some sort of super genius or a wealthy villain like in the movies, finding me would be next to impossible. Six months later, I enlisted in the United States Army. For the next four years, war consumed my life. I received the training to become a soldier. I was a killer. I was a warrior. At the end of my enlistment, I came back home and made public a Facebook account under my former name. Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter; anything that could be used to give me visibility; I had joined. It was my announcement to anyone who might be listening that I was here. I had spent the past four years building an imaginary life in secret based upon who I might have been if I had succumbed to the fear. If he was still out there, it would only be a matter of time before he took the bait. If I had done everything correctly, the last four years would be a mystery to him. His only source of information would be the fictional life of my former self that I had spent four years carefully constructing. The email he sent, that was meant to terrorize me. In reality it was the beginning of the end for him. Since the emergence of the internet, email, and social media, stalkers have taken these technologies and perverted them into tools to spread fear and terror to control the weak. It’s time we take it back and show them that they aren’t the only ones that can hunt using a computer.

I reach down to grab my bag and notice that the nylon rope is sticking out of the side. I push it back into the bag all the way and zip it shut. I check to make sure I have all my equipment before I move out. I am not sure how much time I have, but there is one thing I am sure of. It ends tonight. I have seen more horror than one person ever should. I have done horrible things as well. I know firsthand the kinds of atrocities one person is capable of inflicting on another. From all of that misery, the answer to regaining what’s left of my soul was revealed. From my time in the desert, I learned the truth. When evil becomes so great, goodness may not be enough. Sometimes the only way to defeat it is with another kind of evil.

The blood from fourteen children cries out for revenge from their graves. I have become that kind of evil so that I can answer their pleas. Tonight, our cries will be answered with his screams. We will find peace. 