February 9th, 1986
6:31 PM
Confession
My name is Marshall Jackson. Born December 3rd, 1956. This is my confession. To whom you ask? Myself, of course, and whoever else may need to read this to ease their mind. I’m not a crazy man. Atleast I don’t think I am. You see…between the time I was ten, up until one hour ago I was certain I was not crazy. Let me explain why.
It all started when we moved into the Freedom area, in the hills of Pennsylvania. I was ten, mother and father was going through a divorce. Of course I chose to stay with my father, since my mother said the divorce was my fault in the first place. I never did understand that? Anyway, my decision to live with my father meant me moving to Freedom, leaving all my friends at Hoovertown behind. That didn’t bother me much, seeing I didn’t really have many friends in the first place, but what did bother me was what came with the house me and my father elected to move into. I’ll get to that soon enough. My mother always said there was something wrong with me. There was times when I would just black out…go into a state where I had no recollection of what was happening, nor did I even know anything was happening. My mother said I had fits. My father took me to several doctors for these “Fits”, and had two CT scans done, with no results. As time went on, I was put on medication for a medical condition most people refer to as Epilepsy, and they say over time, the medication cured me. I can remember this one time when my father went out to get me a refill on my medication, I was watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I remember my dad getting back and asking me, “what the hell happened here?!?” To this question, I had no answer. “I beg your pardon, sir?” I asked. “The damn dog! What happened?” I remember looking over to where he was pointing and seeing the most awful, disgusting mess I can ever remember seeing…until now. But back to the story. I had absolutely no idea what happened to our dog. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember the damn thing’s name. All I remember is the look on my father’s face, and the look of that mess. It looked like tomato soup with pockets of matted hair and bone fragments. That is the best I can describe it. Not long after that incident is when I came face to face with the thing that killed my dog, the thing that has haunted me ever since.
2. The Creature
It was a creature. That is describing it to the best of my ability. Not like an alien…that’s not what I’m saying. No, it wasn’t even an animal. It was something in between the two. The first time I had seen it was in my room. It was dark out and I was reading one of my batman comics. To all this, I can remember well. I remember my dad saying goodnight, and shutting my door. I always had to read my comics at night, because my dad never liked me to have them because he said they were too graphic for my developing brain. I had a tiny AAA flashlight that I kept under my bed for this special occasion. My room has 2 doors. An entrance, and a closet. As I laid there skimming my comic, I heard what can only be best described as a whimpering. I still remember that sound. It was of nothing I have ever heard. I shined my flashlight toward the half cracked closet door where I kept my coat and toys I no longer played with. Nothing. I turned the light back to my comics. Batman was having an epic battle with the Joker. The Joker was always my favorite villain. But let’s not get side tracked. I was looking at my comic, and all I remember next was seeing this grotesque, disturbing thing looking back at me. I could not tell where it was coming from, all I could tell was this….thing….whatever you want to call it, was just snaring at me, foaming at the mouth. From the thing's mouth dripped long drool-droplets of foamy blood, as if it was bleeding from the mouth. I knew better. The creature reached out in front of me, as if to grab me, and touched me with something sharp. I knew at a later date what that sharp thing was. A claw. It touched in the area between the collar bone and the neck, and when the sharp thing made contact, I didn’t feel it on the outside of me, but on the inside as if something had ruptured. After that, I was staring at my comic book once again in total darkness. The flashlight had rolled off my chest, (the position I found it most convenient) and had taken a plunge to the floor. I grabbed at my chest and screamed something fierce. I ripped the sheet and blanket off of me, swung my feet out of bed and stepped on the damn flashlight. I remember this part as well as the creature because it hurt like hell, and I had to walk around for a week and a half with a cut on the bottom arch of my foot, which wasn’t fun, may I add. It hardly phased me at the time. I grabbed for the door and ran straight for my father’s room. He was already making his way out of his own bed, when I jumped for him. He fell right back into bed and asked me what the hell was going on. I told him about what I saw and what I was doing prior to seeing the creature. Every child has done it when they are frightened at ten years old, you sometimes narc on yourself, not knowing that your even doing it. I lifted my shirt to show him the spot where the creature had touched me, knowing there had to be a mark of some sort. There was no mark at all. Not even a slight red spot. I looked down at my chest with disbelief, and up at my father with fear soaked eyes. He said I had a nightmare. Of course he did.
It often frustrates me that your memory doesn’t always work for you the way that it should. For me, it seems that I only remember the really bad parts of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I do remember some good times, but from the time I was ten to about the time I was sixteen, I don’t remember much at all. Of course my dad took photos in those 6 years, but when I look at them I have no recollection of the event that was taking place. I met Stew in Chess Club when I was 14, and we became close friends. I was the only one who called him Stew, which was short for Stewart, and I know we met during Chess Club simply because Stew often would bring it up. Even today, at twenty-nine, I still keep in touch with Stew. You could say he is my best friend. He will often ask me to come over, usually on Friday nights, and play chess with him, in which the answer that I always return is “I don’t know how to play chess.” Which is the truth. I have no idea how to play or have any recollection what so ever of ever playing chess. And his answer is always “WE MET PLAYING CHESS!” Anyway, when I was sixteen, Stew, our friend Martha, and myself decided while we were in school that day that we were all going to go out and go see a movie. I don’t remember the movie we were going to go see because 1. My memory isn’t what it used to be, (Not that it was ever great in the first place), and 2. We never made it that night to see the movie. What strikes me as odd is I can remember this part very clearly. I was the one driving that night. I had to drive seeing as I’m the only one who had a car. Well, it was my father’s car, but he was the only parent who would trust their child to drive the family vehicle fresh on a new license. I remember driving, Martha was in the back, while Stew was to my right. The Doors were hot that year, and even the guys loved Jim Morrison. We were on a back road, making our way to the One Way Ticket Theatre, when Stew turned around and asked Martha, “Truth or Dare?”. This is the point where I noticed that Stew, nor Martha, weren't wearing their seat belts, but I said nothing. I didn’t want to be a nubby host, ya know? “Dare”, Martha said with such enthusiasm. Stew, as politely as he could, said “I dare you to flash us”. I looked in the rear view mirror, and seen Martha’s face had turned 3 shades of red, and her jaw appeared to be sitting on the seat with her. I instantly felt my own face flush, and turned to look at Stew to see what his shade was. Normal hue, eyes wide, jaw dropped, drooling at the mouth. I was speechless. I turned my attention back into the rear view mirror and to my surprise seen some of the redness in Martha’s face had left and she now had a smirk on her face. I seen her hands moving and they were actually grabbing at the bottom of her pink sweater, as if she was going to pull it up. “If I do, how many people will know by tomorrow?” she asked. “My lips are sealed, doll.” Stew said. I seen her eyes shift to me, but all I could muster up was “Uh Huh”. I was in shock. My first real pair of breasts. I looked down to the road and then turned my attention back to the rear view mirror, and that’s when I saw it. The creature. It was sitting right beside Martha, eyes wide with a sinister grin on that blood foamed mouth. Its teeth looked sharp as razors, and it had a set of horns on the top of its head. Martha started to pull up her shirt. She was sitting right beside it and she didn’t even notice it. Stew was staring into the back seat, and he didn’t notice it. How could this be? The creature looked into the mirror at me, and its grizzled grin grew wider, and it turned its head toward Martha. That’s all that I can remember. I woke up in the hospital sometime later. I never did get to see those breasts.
Martha had died in that car wreck. Yes, I had wrecked the car, and of course nobody had believed me about the occurrence that had happened in the back seat. But I know what I saw. They said I had a moderate concussion due to hitting my head on the steering wheel at the time that oak tree had so rudely stepped out in front on my father’s car, and said it was very unlikely I remembered anything from the crash. Again…I know what I saw. Stew was doing fine. He had minor cuts and scratches and two bruised ribs. Martha on the other hand was a different story. Autopsy reports say she was not wearing her seatbelt, and at the time of the crash she broke both of her arms, and somehow her shirt was pulled up and got caught around her throat and she suffocated. Wonder how that happened?
I still have nightmares of that night, and since this is my confession, I will add that I do feel like I am to blame for that young girl’s death. After all, I was the one driving, wasn’t I?
the sentence itself is repetitive as well. I have a rule...don't use the same word in a sentence more than once...