I’m in quite a dilemma, and I have been led to believe that this dilemma can only be solved by telling my story and coming to terms with it as the truth. My tale is a story not of triumph or justice. Heed my warning, there is no happy ending, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. My tale is one of tragedy, torment, and death. None of these are even close to the reason why this tale is so consuming and destructive. The terror still consumes me to this very day.
I was eighteen when my life took a turn for the worst. I attended a continuing education school in Vancouver. Ever since I was sixteen, I began to slip into a depression that completely hindered my work ethic. My struggle was tough but I managed to overcome a lot of my problems as I became fascinated with literature. The desire to become an author pushed me hard, so much so that I went to get back on track with work. You could say, it was a miracle. The last one I would ever experience.
I began dusting off the old inbox that was my email to check homework and projects from months previous. I logged in.
This startled me; a click came from my speakers. My audio wasn’t even on; this thought rang through my sore head, which only intensified those damn echoes in my head. It was probably letting me know what I made was a huge mistake, persisting that I should have turned back. Why the fuck didn’t I listen to myself? I know that from the time I recovered from my depression, I had to be wary of my mind playing tricks on me, as I was a compulsive liar. Dear God, why didn’t I listen?
There was one email in my inbox. I felt a strange combination of fear and the more prevalent feeling of disappointment. How could it be possible that no one was concerned for me, my health, or my progress enough to just check up on me once? Does anyone care about me at all? It brought back a feeling of dread I haven’t felt in months. Anyways, I digress, let me continue. I looked at my inbox, more dumbfounded than before. The sender’s name was ‘Michael -------------.’
“What the hell?” I said out loud in shock. I have never contracted any spam, not once, and even if that were the case, why would it spam my own email? I really wish I never learned the reason. I saw the subject, which was literally (no subject). Pressing forward, I opened the email. The click echoed in my ear again, more present as before.
I can only describe what I saw as, the prime examples of horror, malice and... pure evil.
They were pictures of my family and friends, all dead. Not just dead, but clearly murdered. And not only were they murdered but... they were mutilated. I saw each picture, with a date under each, but it wasn't possible, because the dates were all on or past the present date. It was all in chronological order. I scanned the first photo; it was today’s date. Upon the sight of what the picture contained, I began to weep. The bodies hacked to a barely recognizable couple, most likely in their fifties... were my parents.
I had to make sure they were okay. I phoned their house while saying the number out loud to keep a voice present, to avoid feeling any sort of loneliness, to give me some sense of security. Even if it was just me speaking, it was all I had. Someone picked up. “Hello,” I said in a frantic manner. No response, just heavy, yet oddly satisfied breathing. “Dad! Mom! Who the hell is this?” I shouted. More breathing, breathing that wouldn’t seem possible for a human’s body to handle without fainting from exhaustion. He said the only word, which to this day, has any significance left to me.
“Click.” I was destroyed, to the point where I couldn’t cry due to the distracting pain within my heart. It created a wound that would never heal; it was a wound that my teenage angst and depression could never create. It was worse, much worse, and for years, it had only increased in size.
With each brutal murder of my friends and family, I grew more and more fearful. Each death, on the correct dates as listed in the cryptic email. The police didn’t seem to understand what the hell was happening, as it appeared to them that each of the victims died naturally and slowly. Autopsies included things like cardiac arrest during sleep. I don’t understand how they could come up to these conclusions! I saw the bodies! I saw them all! They even had open casket funerals. People saw them as victims to the clock of death that kissed them as they rested and kindly led them into the pearly gates.
For each funeral I went to, I saw the corpses, mangled and beaten. How I was the only person to see this, I had no idea. I didn’t really care all that much either; after all, I was more concerned about my date to die, August 23rd, 2014. Another thing that held my attention, was the clicking, that consumed every fiber of my being. My only chance of survival was to flee my residence and get the hell out of my town. I didn’t really care to investigate what’s been killing my family, I didn’t care how hard I have to contain myself from completing his goal years in advance, all I cared about was surviving.
It’s been two years; friends, family, acquaintances, enemies and mentors, all dead. I’ve been hiding out in my car in a hick town populated by 200 people, avoiding whatever has been killing everyone I once held dear. I knew the worst was about to come for me. Today was August 23rd, 2014, the day listed under my photo. It depicted a hacked up body, smirking apathetically. I try to pass the time, waiting for my fate. What else could I do?
I pull out a book from the registration compartment. I opened the book to witness not the words of the brilliant Auerbach, but one word, repeated in succession. Click Click Click.... It echoes in my head over and over as if each time it was listed on that fucking page, it was valued at 10 clicks banging against my head like a jackhammer.
I want it to end; I want it all to just fucking end. It’s far too much, I missed everything and everyone this fucking demon has taken from me. The only way to end my misery is to give this ‘thing’ what it wants, and the only way for that to happen... is if this heavy breathing bastard sitting in my back of my car will kill me.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” I said to him, with a curled smirk reaching from my left cheek, to my right.
Written by Mikethepastamaker8888