Frightful Tales #1: Rose's Thorn Read online

  Soon enough the hole in the ground was big enough to lay Rose to rest, so to speak. So he kept her in the bag and dropped it in the reasonably sized dent. After padding the bag down he began moving the dirt from the small pile back into the hole. He was thankful this was much easier than digging, and within a very short space of time Rose was accommodated safely and securely, with minimal evidence of the grave. He thought of how rash he was acting, and how if people, or Emily, ever found out about his presumably premature actions, they would judge and say how crazy he was.

  But even though the number of situations had been minimal, they were enough to creep him out enough, and prevent any sleep or rest within the short time it had all began, so he wanted to cut the rope before the flame reached the explosives. It had haunted several days of his life, it was not going to haunt weeks or months. From blogs he had checked out online, people had been living with possessed dolls for months, some even years, he was not willing to let it last that long. This journey of horror was over.

  He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his petite shoulders, a backpack full of fears and worries had been taken from him and discarded, or more specifically, buried. The days blurred together inside his violated mind, how everything had happened so fast, how his reactions had been very instant, and his actions quickly thought out in order to rid this deceivingly docile doll from his life. His body was now screaming for him to move and return to bed. So he abided his body's wishes and stood, wiping dirt from his pyjamas and shaking his feet free of any crumbs of mud that would cause suspicion in his father. As he turned to face his house, an upstairs light burst on and stung his eyes. Declan froze, as did his heart.

  He stood, paralysed in fear, struggling for breath, and fighting for a plan, whipping his brain for a way out. The light was that of the hallway, so hopefully it was just one of his parents going to the bathroom for a midnight leak. As the shadow moved toward the bathroom Declan seized the moment and ran to the back door. In the haste of his actions he had completely forgotten about the security flood light; It burst on and exposed the whole garden, including Declan.

  He didn't know how much more his heart could handle, regardless of his youth. This time though he did not freeze, he stepped into the kitchen through the back door and crossed his fingers, aiding for the Lord's help in the unlikely chance that one of his parents didn't see the flood light. He waited silently and patiently, hands trembling and body ice cold. He had locked the door and stood in the darkness of the kitchen, listening intently to the sounds coming from upstairs. Declan was predicting a flush, but nothing, no flush, but a sound that did echo was that of the stairs: heavy, slow noises. Footsteps. His father was coming downstairs. This both frightened, and surprised him. Daddy not so dearest was very brave when it came to hitting Declan, but against men his own age and size, he was a snivelling coward; a weak, miserable human being. He could and would not stand up for his family, he would cower in a corner like a frightened dog.

  Unless he knew it was Declan that was creeping around downstairs. He assumed that must be it as Declan found it hard to believe that his feeble father would come down to investigate the light and risk a confrontation with a thief: someone of his own size and build, not a little child he could beat on. Not to mention it could be one of many enemies his father had acquired over the years, his drunken behaviour and constant lies gave him a reputation for being unreliable, agonising, and all in all, a joke. But this provided a small slice of time for Declan to find a hiding spot as David descended the staircase. There was a cupboard under the stairs that he could just about squeeze into.

  It was used to store cleaning supplies such as: vacuum cleaners, dusters, mops and cloths. He would be willing to bet that his flagging father didn't even know that the storage space existed due to his dallying demeanour and alcohol poisoned memory.

  So the little boy scurried into the cupboard and crammed himself against polish and air fresheners, and pleaded for help from anyone that was willing to listen to his thoughts. The steps felt so close, growing louder by the second, it was as if his father was stomping on his back. Declan was once again stood, not moving, breathing steadily but faintly, and with his ears pricked up listening profusely.

  The oaf reached the bottom step and turned towards the kitchen, the creaks of his sturdy gait were causing Declan's breathing to spiral out of control, he was struggling to remain silent. As the sounds of wood receiving pressure got closer Declan chose to close his eyes and remain in a kind of denial, and make a wish that his father would simply go to the fridge for a can of beer and return to bed.

  A few grunts and the noise of wooden stairs moaning could once again be heard, his forbearer was fleeing back to his bedroom, without even grabbing a beer while he was downstairs, he was in shock, but could breathe more controlled now. He could not accentuate his overwhelming relief. While the cleaning cupboard had provided a rescue and safe shelter from the monster, the stench of various products were now intoxicating his lungs and burning his eyes.

  He gently pushed the door and crawled onto the floor, the absence of light still remained, so his patience prevailed in the wait for his eyes to make the necessary adjustments in order to make it back to his room without banging into a wall. The tissue at the back of his nose was still itching from alcohol cleansers and a bleach pungency that also tormented his tongue. But this was the least of his current worries; he had to retreat to bed in order to complete this task. The mission was only half complete, he now needed to remain undetected and make his way to his room. In order to not make the same mistakes his dad had made, he climbed up the stairs with his legs and arms fighting against each wall to the left and right of him. He felt like spiderman, climbing upstairs using the walls for a hushed approach. Except he didn't have the webbing power. Just as the muscles were beginning to let him down he had landed at the top step and gradually brought himself down and stood for a moment observing both sides of the hallway. The coast was clear, and the gleaming white finish line was finally within his grasp.

  Only the finish line was not shining, or white, it was the dankness of his bedroom, which was only a matter of tiptoed steps away. Using all his skills of agility, he made his way towards his bedroom's entrance. He kept his body tight and tensed, ready for any sign of trouble, and his ears were yet again jolting outward from his head, listening to every audible sound possible. The threshold soon came within his reach and his hands travelled through the air and touched the wooden frame to his door. The relief was exhilarating, he was becoming addicted to this rush of adrenaline and the euphoric feeling he got from completing a scary task. The handle was eased down with caution and nudged open. Within seconds of entering his room he noticed how unnaturally cold it was.

  An icy bitterness, not unfamiliar to that he had endured outside, had enveloped him within the room. The smell of grass and dirt reeked and stained the air particles with its ripe stench; this made Declan feel dirty. A howling of wind whistled loudly unnerving him slightly. But he knew it often made that racket when he had left his window open and small tunnels of wind ploughed through the gap. But to his knowledge he hadn't opened the window. So as he slowly closed his bedroom door he began to put the wheels of his brain in motion. Had the heating broken down? He just wanted to know why it was so cold in his bedroom.

  His mother would have never left the heating off with such cold temperatures outside, it would be on pretty much constantly, as his father would be at home most of the day, not working or accomplishing anything, but wanting to be kept warm. This thought infuriated Declan's entire emotional being, he found it to be completely unfair that when he was at school, and his mother was working, his father had a warm home to lay around in. What an utter slob! Declan scowled. I hope they get a divorce. But he knew that the chances of that becoming a reality were slim. His mother was so modest she was completely unaware of what an amazing woman she was: caring, warm, generous, forgiving, selfless, always willing to help others, trusting, open mind
ed, just the absolute definition of a great humanitarian. His mother deserved so much better, but the real question was, would she ever discover this and free herself of this horrid marriage? He often dreamed of a life with just himself and Deirdra. Where she had a job she loved, and one that paid generously, and they were happy. She would find a new husband, one that would treat her with kindness and total respect, and appreciate just what an incredible person she was. As his thoughts were spinning around like a Frisbee, his eyes stopped in their tracks as they noticed that the window was in fact open.

  Had his father come in and opened the window? Had he seen him? Or had his mother? It was likely his mother, as his father would have raced downstairs and released an excruciatingly painful walloping. So yes, he made the safe assumption that his mother had observed his midnight outing, but why didn't she stay downstairs and ask him what exactly he was doing? Unless she didn't want to scare him, and had decided to ask him tomorrow before school? A world of questions scrolled down in his mind, but these questions could wait until the AM. Declan was exhausted: physically, mentally, and emotionally; he had hit the hat trick of exhaustion.

  He stumbled towards his bed to see the open window, it was an old fashioned window that opened from the bottom, and there was about a ten inch gap from the window pane's rear and the windowsill.

  Why would his mother open the window that far? Yet another puzzle he would piece together tomorrow. His body kept commanding him to rest, but his brain was reluctant to follow these instructions. He reached out to grab the window and pull it down, but as he did his peripheral vision spotted something. On the left of the windowsill Rose was stood in her plastic bag, cloaked in darkness, her porcelain face looking angry.

  Declan almost screamed like a banshee of the night, almost cried like a hungry baby. She was stood, draped in the translucent bag that had sprinkles of mud and grime on, which had dropped onto, and dirtied the windowsill. Her face had somehow contorted, the subtle smile and raised eyebrows had transformed. Her eyebrows were lower and ever so subtly frowning, and the lips were straight now, no longer with a little upwards flick. This was a nightmare, it had to be a nightmare, the fictitious workings of his over active imagination, an expression of his deepest anxieties and exploration of his mind's vivid eye. But somehow in the midst of these comprehensions he knew it was real, fiction had fled and fact had formed in his current situation.

  Declan's body was once again vacant of motion, with the exception of his heart's phenomenally fast beating. Blood was rinsing every inch of his carcass like a car-wash cleaning a dirty motor. Glossed half moons formed over his eyes as tiny tears skidded down his cheeks and entered the corners of his mouth, bringing with them salty tear water to invade his mouth. Goosebumps had mutated his skin into a scaly fish-like texture, minute dots covering his flesh with mini hairs poking from each pore. He could feel tingles caressing the back of his neck like the heavy breath of someone exhaling behind him. He began to doubt his sanity, this was not physically possible, it must be his mind that was at fault. But he knew his intellect was still intact, and this was the work of a haunted, or possessed, doll. A doll he had angered.

  Chapter 4

  The Arctic-like wind whispered through the window's gap and blew the bag with a scrunching noise. From his sheer panic and indescribable level of fear his eyes drifted to the window and his reflection. He noticed his bedroom door was somehow open and his father was behind him with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

  Declan became hysterical and feared for his very life. How had his father even opened a locked door? Then Declan thought hard and could not make a firm decision as to whether he had actually locked it.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” his father yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Declan spun to face him and drew his arms inwards. He squeezed his torso as if this would protect or camouflage him.

  “I....I... she... this isn't my....” Declan stuttered, he wanted to say so many things at the same time his brain struggled to settle on one thought.

  “FUCKING SPEAK BOY!” once again he screamed.

  A loud fumbling sound echoed in the hallway and seconds later his mother appeared. She was tightening her dressing gown and combing hair from her face. Her eyes were wide open but her face looked tired, marked with pillow creases. She began rubbing her body to warm herself from the sudden drop in temperature.

  “Declan, what is going on here?” Deirdra asked completely befuddled.

  Just as Declan was about to answer, his biological proceeder interrupted him.

  “IS THAT A FUCKING DOLL?!” he roared, spitting as he did so.

  “Can you stop shouting please David?” Deirdra asked.

  “Don't tell me what to do!” he replied angrily.

  “Declan, why is she in a bag?” Deirdra gently inquired.

  “You'll think I am crazy...” he did not know how to even begin an explanation of tonight.

  “No we won't, just tell us what is going on please.”

  “Well Emily gave me Rose as I, you know, Christmas and stuff...” he didn't want to enrage his father by saying Emily gave him Rose due to David's neglect so he rushed past the details. “So she gave me Rose to play with but then weird things started to happen.”

  “Like what?” his mother seemed bewildered by her son's story.

  “Who gives a shit what happened? That little bitch gave him a doll when she knows he ain't allowed, he isn't a fucking girl, or are you a bender eh? Are you a big puff? Did I raise a fucking queer? Jesus, I’ll ring her fucking neck when I see her,” he roared, blue veins bursting from his neck.

  “David, no you won't, just let Declan continue.”

  Every muscle in David's body clenched in fury, and then he exhaled a long breath, expelling his current animosity.

  “She started to move, and even when I locked her in places, she moved, and it was getting really scary. So I went online and researched about possessed dolls, and read that I had to bury her in a garden, after midnight, in a bag.”

  “So that's what you did tonight?” Deirdra clarified.

  “Yeah, I went downstairs and buried her, but as soon as I came back upstairs she was on the window sill, which is impossible.”

  Declan found his abhorrence for his dad was nothing compared to the angst Rose had created. He was trembling.

  “Why don't you sit down on the bed for a second sweetie, do you want a glass of water or something?” Deirdra offered.

  “You think I am crazy?” Declan sounded hurt and offended.

  “No, it's just, you have been through a lot tonight, maybe your mind is just working overtime, and our mind plays tricks when we are tired or stressed,” she explained in a soothing voice, as if singing a nursery rhyme.

  “I am not crazy mum, I promise, this has all been happening, honest.”

  Contemplation played on Deirdra's face as she trusted her son with every fibre of her being, but to believe this, was a concept she was struggling tirelessly with.

  “Please mum, you have to believe me,” Declan pleaded.

  “You're a fucking nutter!” David burst in, now laughing, his vile beer breath filling the room.

  “David, that is not helping, go to bed,” Deirdra tried to dilute her husband's attitude.

  David hesitantly walked off, giving his son an evil stare, gritting his teeth and cursing under his breath. Declan knew that specific look meant he would later be back with vengeance so he had better prepare himself.

  His mother then sat by him on the bed and stroked his back, noticing how cold he was.

  “You believe me mum, don't you?” he asked with puppy dog eyes.

  Once again, he could tell by her facial expression that she really wanted to believe his words, but this story seemed too delusional to be true.

  “I want to, honest I do, it's just...” she chewed her lip.

  “I know, it sounds mad, I would think I was mad if I was sat where you are right now.”

  “Just go to sleep, try
and rest, and we will talk in the morning before school okay?” his mother smiled, like an angel.

  “Okay, but what about Rose?” he worried.

  “I'll take her,” she rubbed her son's head.

  “Don't let dad see her because he might damage her and I don't want to do that. Emily gave me it because I didn't get presents at Christmas. It was a really nice gesture, and I don't want to upset or insult her by breaking it.”

  Deidra's heart felt as if it had been gripped by the world's strongest man. Hearing her son say those words, expressing with his tone and face how wounded he was from Christmas morning, stole a little piece of her soul that she would never get back. How had she let this happen? Why did she rely on her waste of a husband to do anything anymore? He couldn't be trusted to clean the house or recycle his beer cans, so why did she think he was capable of going out and buying presents?

  Her throat stung as she held back tears and suppressed the growing urge to sob relentlessly. She could feel a lump in her throat, a lump she was desperately trying to swallow.

  “I'll keep her safe, I promise. Now get to sleep,” Deirdra kissed his forehead and tucked him under the covers. Deirdra walked over to Rose and placed her on the desk while closing the window. Then Rose was back in her soft embrace and she was headed to the door.

  “Night mum, I love you,” Declan whispered as if saying those words were a punishable offence.

  His father had no doubt, in a roundabout way, taught him to never show affection, just by his own lack of caring and emotion, excluding of course, distemper.