Celebrating Women’s Horror Month, please welcome my special guest Meka James, author of Fiendish. Fiendish is a dark, twisted spin of the classic fairytale Beauty and the Beast. Lately, we’ve been bonding over writing. Maybe one day, I’ll have her join me on the dark side hee hee. Please enjoy her psychological suspense short story.
Like Father Like Son
By: Meka James
I sat outside the dilapidated old gate. Years of neglect covered the foreboding iron blockade. I was certain that without the weeds, the whole thing would have fallen apart.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. Why was I here? Why had I been drawn to this place? For years I’d tried to ignore the curiosity I’d had about my biological father. Mother tried her best to avoid talking about him. Giving me only tidbits of information. Everyone around me was that way. He was some dark, dirty secret they didn’t want me to know about.
I was pacified for a while, but the older I got; the more I wanted to know. I needed to know. Who was he? My mother loved me. That was clear. My step-father loved me. That was clear. I wasn’t treated any differently, but it’s hard not to stand out when surrounded by your siblings. I didn’t match. I didn’t fit in. I had my mother’s light complexion and the bright blue eyes that only could have come from my father, along with my black hair. It was a stark contrast to my siblings more sun-tanned complexions, brown hair and light brown eyes. Even without the physical differences, I felt different.
My thoughts sometimes were what people might consider disturbing. The ways I’d imagine hurting my annoying classmates, or my Chemistry teacher when she’d failed me on my lab. Hydrochloric acid to her eyes then watching her stumble around like a buffoon was my favorite. Sewing the lips together of the bitchy cheerleader before slowly carving away at all those features she prided herself on; that thought got me through a lot of long days.They were the kind of thoughts that should have scared me, but they didn’t. Instead they really got my blood pumping, my adrenaline rushing. I never shared them with anyone. They wouldn’t understand.
Eventually I stopped asking my mother. The internet has a wealth of information. I never quite looked at my mother the same once I learned how my father really died. He was killed, by her hands. One would think I’d have been angered by that knowledge. I wasn’t. I was intrigued. I dare say I even held a new appreciation for my mother after that. She’d killed a man. My father. The article said it been in self-defense. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know it all. I needed to know why. I kept digging.
It’s how I ended up here. At his house. After his death, my mother got it all. Tax records showed she owned this place. Why? Why was she holding on to it? Why hadn’t she sold it? I stepped out of my car, approaching the gate. I pushed. It creaked. I pushed harder. It gave way just enough for me to squeeze through.
A long driveway stretched out before me, overgrown with weeds and tall grass. Standing in the distance, a large house in disrepair from the years of neglect. It was one of those houses you’d see in a horror movie, the one that would scream run the other way. It called to me. What was the significance of this house? Why was it left to rot?
I started walking toward it, answering the call. With each step I felt a connection. With each step I felt as though I’d found that missing piece. With each step I felt like I was home. This house belonged to my father. This house would hold the answers to the questions no one would answer.
I climbed the stone steps onto the front porch. My fingers traced along the elaborately carved designs on the door. My heart rate increased. On the other side could be the insight I’d been searching for about my father. I pushed. The large wooden door wouldn’t budge. I stepped back looking around. I could break a window. No that was a last resort. I didn’t want to damage his property if I didn’t have to. I walked around the back of the house. The tiny shed looked out of place. That door opened with ease. Nothing but a spiral staircase and a single bulb hanging from a line. I tested the stability of the stairs before making the descent.
My pulse quickened. At the bottom of the steps, a cell. It appeared to be a replica of Hannibal Lecter’s cell from Silence Of The Lamb. Stone walls. Plexi-glass front. Open toilet and shower along with a rusted twin bed with a stained mattress. Blood maybe? That thought excited me. This room alone was right. I felt the connection to a man I’d never met. A smile grew on my face as I looked around. This was what I needed. Something told me I was my father’s son. My thoughts. My desires to hurt people and watch them suffer, I could have learned from him, but at the same time experimenting on my own held an appeal. The musty, iron smell was strangely comforting I took a deep breath. I was home.