So I’ll start this off by introducing myself. My name is Aelia Red and I’m 25. I’ve never made a post like this before so i apologize if the format is off and for any typos… but lately the things that are happening have begun to get so extreme… that I figure my best bet is to get this story out here before something happens to me and I am unable to do so. I don’t know how much longer I can take this but I hope it’s enough to get the whole story out. I know he’ll make it look like an accident, or a suicide, but no one would believe the truth anyway. If this happens to make it to the public eye, I beg you all, please stay out of the northern Maine woods at night. I’m still not 100% sure what my father stumbled upon out there, but I don’t want anyone else finding it or going through what I’ve went through.
I’ll give a little context on my parents and the house I grew up in first and then I’ll try to start from the beginning. All of this started happening when I was very little though, so some of my memories are a little hazy at best. At first I thought that my tiny kid brain was turning it all into fantasy, you know, as some sort of fucked up coping mechanism - thats what all my therpists always said anyway. I tried my best to believe them but then when I was around 15-16, things started happening again. I knew it was him but for a long time I was in denial, I think. OK- anyway. My parents met each other young and no matter how many times my mom tried to leave my dad, she was always too afraid of him to make it far. From what I understand he was always abusive and controlling - even in the beginning.
They both grew up in the city in southern New England, and after a lot of “life exploration” and my father’s increasing temper towards the general public getting more serious, they decided to move to the country. Way up into the northern most parts of Maine to be exact. They saved up all their money for a decade or so and then bought property up there. My mom continued to work in the city and commute during the weekends while my father built the house we lived in.
I believe there’s something very wrong with the property they bought. I also believe my father discovered that something, and allowed to take over him completely. Slowly at first, until his soul was no longer his and whatever it was that he let inside him… grew into a massively evil entity of sorts. But I’ll elaborate on that further a little bit later on.
Upon completion the house was fairly small but it was most certainly a “family home”…. at first anyway. At least that’s what I think. Things were already pretty worse for wear when I entered the story.
Sorry, I know I’m rambling. The house. The layout of the house. OK. When you walked through the front door the very first thing you would is the Wood stove. It was set on a slate tiled floor. To the left was a small “hallway” of sorts that led to the kitchen. Facing right was an open layout that held the living room. Past the stove was a hallway that had the stairs to the second level and the bathroom. The second level was more like a small attic consisting only of two tiny bedrooms. One of which you’d have to walk through to get to the other. Now on to the start, well, MY start to the story.
I was born on a hot june afternoon, 4 weeks earlier than anticipated. I was so small, (maybe 3.5-4lbs) but it didn’t take ongoing for me to fill out and grow into myself. I was always a wild kid. ADHD, ODD, & BPD all started early on for me but all of which was undiagnosed until I was about 13.
My father was a mean, crazy, old drunk the entire time I knew him. Mom used to say there was a time when he was still abusive, but wasn’t evil or psychotic yet. In fact I vaugely remember her telling me that he was very smart. Something about a photographic memory, I think.
I didn’t get to enjoy that version of him though, sadly. Jack Daniels was his main choice of poison, but he’d have a cup of coffee in the morning and then drink budwieser until around dinner time. Usually during the day he was inebriated but rather normal. Well, as normal as a voilent drunk can be anyway. After dinner the hard stuff would come out and that’s when things would get really scary. He would yell at my mom for hours about how horrid she was, how much he hated her. I would lay in my bed and listen to it all. Sometimes too afraid to move. Sometimes I’d sneak to the top of the stairs and watch, frightfully. Other times I’d go down and sit on my mother’s lap, hands covering her face and ears - trying desperately to shield her from his madness.
That went on for the vast majority of the first 6.5 years of my life.
To be honest I don’t know how my mother even ended up with him - she was the complete opposite. A total Saint. She was such a good person, always helping those in need. “Taking care of her neighbors” she would say. My uncle has told me aot about her and i wish she wouldve gotten to be a bigger psrt of my life for aonger smount of time. Those first few years of my childhood weren’t great but they weren’t TOTALLY awful either… Mom worked to support us and that left me with Dad for a babysitter during the day. He wasn’t all bad, really. We spent most days riding around on backroads while he drank his beer and popped in on his equally drunk friends. Evil was not a word I would’ve used to describe him at that point… until the night I found them outside in the yard instead of the kitchen, that is..I’d…
The best way I can describe the way he looked that night would be monstrous. His normally cold, blue eyes looked black under the moon light and there was a hint of something else besides anger in there. At the time I thought it was pure psychotic rage. I’ve now come to know that look as the very definition of evil.
I had just fallen asleep when I heard a scream come from outside that was guttural and horrifying. I bolted upright in bed and and listened hard. I heard another scream and that second one had me up and running down the stairs as fast as my little six year old feet could carry me. When I didn’t see either of them in the house my stomach dropped. Another scream and I was flying out the front door and into the yard.
As I turned my head looking to find out just what in the hell was going on that night, a flickering of light caught my eyes. My father was standing in the middle of the yard, in the center of a cicrle of black candles. He had a wild look in his eyes and their normally blue color had darkened to a solid black. He didn’t even really look human anymore. As I turned to watch, eyes wide with horror, he picked up my mother’s bruised and broken body by the head of her hair. He yanked her up so that her throat was completely exposed. It was clear she didn’t even have the energy left to hold herself up. I noticed two things almost at the exact same time.
The first being that she was bleeding. A lot. It looked like she already had multiple stabs wounds in her chest and abdomen. I’m assuming that’s what caused the screaming that woke me up.
The second was that he was still holding a very large kitchen knife in his other hand.
I felt completely frozen in fear, like I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t move my legs to do anything anyway. He threw his own head back and laughed when he saw me standing there, but it wasn’t a joyous sound. It was one of those laughs you hear come out of a demon or a possessed person in a horror movie. It was cruel and dark anf i felt every hair on my body stand on end at the sound of it. This wasn’t my father. This couldn’t be my father. Maybe I was having a nightmare or maybe it was happening to someone else, I thought. I prayed for that to be true, but I knew it wasn’t.
When he stopped laughing he looked back at me with those cold dead eyes.
He said, “and now this slut will burn for an eternity, and I will rise to rule over her torment, and yours.”
I don’t know why such a “grown up” phrase had been burned into my mind since I was six years old but those words are the one thing that I can still hear clear as day. His voice sounded like his, but also like there was something indescribably dark behind it. Like there was two voices making up one, and one didn’t belong to him.
He started chanting something I couldn’t understand for the life of me but the strange rhythmic way he’d chanted is will forever be burned into my mind.
Halfway through the chant he stopped, bent down to kiss both her eyelids, and said “it shall be done.”
Then he slit her throat. The sound it made was so disturbing that my vision started to blur. There was so much blood. So much blood. I remember thinking that mommy’s throat looked like a fountain and that it had to be a really bad booboo for that to happen.
Her eyes looked at me in agony and horror for the first few seconds, then they went blank. When she went limp he dropped her body on the grass like a dead weight. I guess the sickening “thud” it made was what snapped me out if it a little bit. I screamed for my mommy as loud as my little lungs would allow me to. Dad just continued chanting while still staring me dead in the eyes. Ot was almost as if he was staring THROUGH me.
I fell to the ground on my knees and I think at some point I must’ve passed out but not before I watched him turn the knife on himself and slit his own throat too.
When I woke up it was eerily silent. Too silent. All the candles had been blown out and just the smoke still lingered. I ran to my mother and tried to wake her up but she was long gone. I had no idea how long I’d been out for. When I realized she wasn’t coming back, (or “waking up”) I ran into the house and called 911.
Cops and medical personnel arrived shortly after. Everyone was so horrified that a six year old child had witnessed something so brutal that they didn’t even question me, at the time, when I said my dad was the “devil.”
I guess they figured it was my way of processing what had happened. That changed as I got older my story didn’t though.
I recounted the events of that night, many times over the next week or so to various cops, detectives and counselors. In an attempt to keep me out of the state system my uncle and aunt came to stay with me. They asked if I wanted to move in with them instead, but the house was the only thing I really had left of my mother so I wanted to stay. I wanted to be with the memories of her tucking me into bed a night, of her coming home from work to me racing stbher a full speed for a hug yelling, “MOMMMMYYYY!!!” at the top of my lungs. I know they thought it would have a negative effect on me. Maybe it did. Afterwards I thought the nightmare was over and I could begin to heal from the awful tragedy that was my father’s existence. I had no idea what was coming in the years that followed. For years I thought that maybe I was psychotic too.
Little did I know… that night was only the mere beginning of my nightmare.
I’m going to try to update you all again later - I just saw him standing across the street. I have to go double check all my salt lines, window locks, curtains, and blessed candles. I think everything is the way it should be, but it never hurts to make sure. In fact, it could save my life. It already has. Hopefully, I’ll be back after dinner. Take care, everyone.