Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26444401-20150715024759

My father passed away when I was 14 years old. I am now 24, he died over a decade ago, leaving me with broken promises of concerts and walking me down the aisle at my wedding. I was his only true daughter, which is not to say that my little half sister is not a true daughter, but my father was married to my mother. My half-sister’s mother was a whore, a drugged out whore who’s downstairs parts I cannot imagine looking any better. My dad never married her and could care less about my little half-sister. He would always come back to my mom and I, maybe it was because I was smart and would somehow meet her and figure out he was cheating.



I would tell my mom and ruin his life. Or maybe it was his only way of showing me he cared. My father did not love me. He abused me. He gave me death threats. He even had a plan to sell me to a sex ring. My biggest fear was to have a sibling and I think he knew that and therefore kept us apart. But I digress; this has nothing to do with the tale you are reading. My apologies. When I was twenty, I met a man and we fell in love. I turned twenty-one and we decided to move in together. He worked a lot and sometimes not even in the same state as where we lived, so I was alone most of the time, but being an abused, only child, I was used to being alone, at least he’d send me photos and leave sweet text messages and would call when he could.



David loved me. And even though I knew that, our home, creeped me out. To me, it was not home. If David was around, all I could sense was someone watching, a sense I am familiar with. But when David was gone, I felt vulnerable, helpless. I felt too scared to pull out my Ouija boards. Or even look at the urn of my father. He may have been a monster but I kept an urn of his ashes, the reason may be a tad morbid, but hey. The story starts with me on the sofa. I was reading a used novel: Midnight Fright: A Collection of Ghost Stories by such authors as Charles Dickens and Oliver Onions. I was reading the Dickens story: Signalman.



I looked up from the pages and saw one of stuffed Funko! Dolls had fallen off the shelf, my 24th birthday present from my living parent, Rocket Raccoon. I picked him up and sat him back on the shelf, next to my figures of Groot and Star-Lord. I looked down at my hands and noticed ash. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands on the unknown ash, but thought nothing of it. I usually lit an insane number of incense. I came out of the bathroom in time to hear a chainsaw, not my actual, real life chainsaw but one on the TV. I had not turned the TV on all day. I went to the living room and saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Next Generation was on.



The remote, which we usually kept on the side table, was presented on the coffee table. I picked up the remote and powered the DVD player down. Then, picked up the TV remote and powered that down too. I went to bed pretty early but that’s what happens when I read all day, my brain becomes too full and I need to sleep. Something had woken me up and I checked my phone. I had a text from David. Maybe that is what woke me up. His text was odd.



“ Can you see him? He can see you. 2:00 a.m.”



“ Can you see the dark figure? The dark figure can see you. 3:05 a.m.”



I looked at the top of the message page and noticed that David’s name was all garbled. I looked at his number. It was a number I did not recognize. I turned my phone off. Maybe it was having a brain fart or something and went back to bed. I stared up at the ceiling and saw a dark figure. In what I guess would be the head, the figure had two glowing red orbs. Needless to say, I spent the whole night at the bar with my good friend who operated on two hours of sleep. I tried to tell her what happened but she dismissed it by pouring a margarita down my throat. By the time, I went home, David was home.



<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I told him what happened and he did not dismiss it with a margarita but with showing me something in another room. The urn had been knocked down and ashes were scattered everywhere. He wanted to clean it up, but wasn’t sure what way I would find it respectable. He knew I did not love my father but at the same time, did not wish to disrespect me. I wonder if the urn lid being open released my father into the house. He died of an overdose on drugs, so why he was watching me and not snorting away his afterlife up his nose is beyond me. And why I was so scared of a spirit of a family member, again, it was beyond me, but David never gave me crap for being scared.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Needless to say, we gave the urn to my grandmother who sprinkled it on a grave where she could go and pray. We ended up moving, after an engagement shot I took and posted to Instagram. The dark figure loomed between my fingers and odd comments by some garbled user name were left on the photo in question. The house we live in now is dad free. <ac_metadata title="Dear Ol&#039; Dad [Unreviewed]"> </ac_metadata>