Page 1 of Descent into Darkness

Prologue

OSIRIS

Eternity of Horror Haunted House has been my home for quite some time. Every year, I choose a new town and fill my haunted attraction with pain, agony, and all new corpses. It's my passion, my obsession, and my purpose on this planet—to be the most brutal, cold-blooded monster anyone has ever seen. It's just how I was raised.

Father is the man that butchered my parents when I was a child. Instead of adding my body to the pile, he decided to take me on as his little pet project. This demon of a man spent decades doing everything he could to sculpt me into a ruthless killer, and, for that, I'd say he did a pretty good job. Give credit where credit’s due, and all that. Don't get me wrong, I hate his fucking guts for what he did to me and my parents. For dousing my soul in pitch blackness.

But I wasn't always like this. Long before I met Lilith and her friends, there was a brief moment where I tried to be a regular human. A small fragment of time where I tried to suppress all my urges and desires.

This is my descent into darkness.

Chapter1

Break in the timeline

10 YEARS AGO…

The long walk back to this place I call home gets more painful each time. Father sends me to the store for food and any supplies we might need for our “activities,” as he calls them. He refuses to let me use the car because he says having to travel on foot will teach me the importance of only taking—and, in this case, getting—what is needed. I guess he’s right. My stomach immediately rolls at the thought of giving him credit for anything.

My feet slightly drag along the small dirt road leading back to our place. Dense forests line either side, filling the September air with the sounds of its inhabitants. I hate this walk. I hate him. I hate the fact that he knows he can send me off on my own, and I will always come back because I know no other way. He has been carefully crafting me into what I am since I was a toddler—a fucking monster that is petrified to be alone, even if it means living with something even worse.

Father is not my dad—a point that he reminds me of almost daily, even almost 30 years later. No, he’s the man that brutally butchered my parents when I was just a baby. I didn’t see him kill my dad; I just saw the aftermath. My mother, however, well… I watched the whole thing. I wish I could say that I have fond memories of them, or I can hear her voice telling me she loves me; however, all I can see in my mind is her agony-drenched eyes as the light faded from them before he turned her into a human meat puppet. Father likes to tell me the story of how he killed my parents as often as he can. He’s either intrigued or just enjoys the different reactions he gets from reminding me throughout the stages of my life thus far. Pair that with the physical abuse of being beaten until I blackout and the mental abuse of being reminded how worthless I am. How I’m such an absolute failure—such a disappointment that even my own mother didn’t love me enough to save me. He tells me how wet my mother’s pussy was when he was killing her—simply because she was just that excited to not have to pretend to give a fuck about me anymore.

This was Father. This was how I was raised.

The house grows bigger with every step I take toward it. The wind sighs in my ear as it passes by, crashing into the small branches that hold the dying leaves, causing them to shiver. It feels like a warning—like even Mother Nature herself knows this place is evil. You don’t have to warn me, though; I’m part of the depravity that takes place behind those walls. I’m no saint. Slaughtering people is rather enjoyable to me. Father made sure of it.

I take the last few dreaded steps toward the door. The sounds that seep through have my head cocking to the side and my eyebrow raising in curiosity. I have heard countless people scream, cry, beg, and ultimately die through this door. Nothing has sounded likethis. It almost sounds…… not human.

As I open the door slowly, I see Father sitting on the couch. It faces the wall I enter through, giving me immediate answers to the questions I had moments ago. In front of him on the coffee table is a pile of bones, hunks of meat, and tufts of fur. I hear the animal, a cat, screech again in his hands as he continues to tear it apart. Fury clouds my vision, and I see fucking red.

“Well… don’t just stand there like a fucking idiot. Go put that shit down in the kitchen and get back in here,” Father bites.

My body is frozen for another moment with a rage comparable to when I was a child. My feet are cemented to the floor as the overpowering emotion consumes me. Father would make me kiss a framed picture of my mom’s dead, broken, and gutted corpse every night before bed. He still makes me keep the picture on my nightstand as a reminder. My eyes darted around to the mangled chaos before me—their mutilated bodies reminding me of my poor mother.

“Move. Your. Ass. I have a job for you,” he says, tearing another handful of fur off and tossing it on top of the pile with a wet slap. “You get the honor of cleaning this mess up,” he says with a cheerful tone. His mood quickly shifts back to anger. “And if you take longer than I think it should, I’m going to fuck whatever's left up your dipshit asshole with a butcher knife.”

Something inside of me snaps. I lower my eyes and silently walk past him toward the kitchen, as I was told. Before I can cross the threshold, he turns to me, “And if you happen to die like the pussy that you are, maybe I’ll take a picture and frame it. Put it up next to Mommy Dearest.” He chuckles to himself as he turns back around, snapping more pieces off the now dead cat.

I put the bags down on the counter as a brief moment of calm washes over my senses—a calm that absolutely terrifies me. Images that I’ve painted in my mind of him killing my parents flash like slides on a projector—my father’s head split in half by an ax; my mother hacked open from the neck down with all the flesh peeled from her back. The images flip faster and faster, with nothing but the squelching sounds of bloody flesh and the snapping sounds of broken bones as the soundtrack. There is a zero percent chance that I’m letting Father survive what's about to happen.

Looking down at my hand, I notice I'm now holding a hammer. The drawer it lives in is open, and I have no memory of taking it out. Everything feels like slow motion. I blink, and I’m standing behind the couch. Father is twisting and pulling at the animal. There’s barely anything left. I blink again, and my arm that has the hammer is pulled back. Every muscle in my body is on fire. I feel like I am swimming out of an abyss. The closer I get to the surface, the louder everything becomes. No, it's not me frantically swimming to the surface; it's my blinding rage. And it’s about to fucking erupt.

I let out a scream as my hand swings the hammer at Father’s head. The blunt end makes contact with his right temple. A zap of vibration thunders through me from hitting solid bone. It shoots through the handle of my weapon and into my arm, followed by the give of bone breaking and allowing the hammer entry into his eye socket. He falls. His arms and legs straighten and tense up like he suddenly went from being made of flesh and bone to being a solid statue that got tipped over. I’ve seen this before. Father said it's called the fencing response. I look at him, blood rushing from the hole now split into the side of his head. He gasps for air, fighting for this shitty life he has created. This motherfucker still thinks he’s allowed to breathe.

I drop the hammer and kneel over his chest. My fingers curl into fists as I stare into his eyes; even though I know only one of them still works, I lean down close to his face. “I just want to thank you, Father,” I say with absolute hate. “Thank you for giving me the strength and the stomach for what I am about to do to you. There’s not enough pain on this fucking earth for what you deserve.” I pull my fist back before swinging it down to his cheek bone. I alternate fists, each of my next words hitting in between strikes.

“I. Am. Not. WORTHLESS!” I scream as my knuckles begin to tear the flesh covering his skull. I sit back, my chest heaving with hot hatred. Father coughs, blood and bits of broken teeth seep out of the corner of his mouth as he whispers.

“You…. will always…. be worthless… just like… Mommy and Daddy,” his laughter vibrating around the pool of blood in his mouth. The pleasure I gain from stifling his amusement with my fists fuels my rage—the rage I have held onto all these years. I scream. I scream so fucking loud I can taste blood in my mouth, not caring if it's mine or if it's his splashing up into my face after every punch.

Over and over, my fists collide with his face. Every hit leaves evidence of where my knuckles landed. The sound of bones breaking as I bash into his face fills my ears, with no way to discern if they are his, mine, or both. I’m completely numb—void of all physical stimulation. Decades of hatred pour out of me through my fists, and it is all-consuming.

I blink. I’m still punching, but my knuckles are now hammering the blood-soaked hardwood floor underneath his head. The only barrier between my strikes and the solid ground is a pile of eviscerated flesh and squishy brain matter. It's interesting how pale it actually is and how it almost looks like chewed bubblegum. The remnants of what's left has been fanned out around where I delivered each impact—like an artist masterfully painting the rage I feel for Father on the hardwood floor.

I’m still angry. I’m still not done.

I get to my feet and place one foot just off-center of his rib cage, doing my best to keep my balance on his chest. Bending my knees, I lift myself up off the ground, using his body as leverage to jump and pull my knees up before firing them straight down. Both of my feet land on his ribs with a mighty crack, and I can feel his bones breaking, caving inward—no doubt puncturing all the organs they once protected.

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