WARNING: IF YOU SEE ME, YOU ARE IN GRAVE DANGER! I don’t have many other ways of putting this, but if you see a man with a machete, especially if he sees you, KILL HIM! Whether you have to run, get a weapon and hide to jump me or have something you can use as a weapon in hand, USE IT TO KILL ME!
Sorry, I’ll start my story from the beginning so you can understand why.
It happened a week ago, around midnight, my phone rang, waking me. Feeling groggy, I looked down at my phone; it was my son. I picked it up in annoyance and answered, “Tom?”
“Dad! Dad! I need help!” he sounded distraught, “I… I–”
“Slow down!” I interrupted, “Just tell me, what’s going on?!”
“I… I killed someone…”
My heart dropped. I was, however slight, still comforted by what he said next: “It was an accident! He was trying to kill me! I didn’t have a choice!” He became hysterical again, but this time, I had no words of comfort; I didn’t know what to say. Finally, his frantic explanation became a single, lucid question: “What do I do?!”
I was sweating and panicking, yet I had to answer him with something. “Just… wait where you are!” I said, “I’ll come to you! Where are you?!”
“I’m… I’m on one of the streets near home. I was… out… I–”
“It’s alright,” I said, knowing he was out clubbing again; he is underage, and I have caught him before. “Wait there and call the police!”
“But, Dad…” he squeaked pathetically.
“No!” I exclaimed, knowing lying would only cause more harm, “Wait where you are and call the police. We’ll explain everything to them. It was self-defence, right?” He didn’t respond, just whimpered into the phone. “Listen,” I said, “it will be alright. Please, wait there and call the police.” Silence, “Tom?!” Then he hung up.
I threw on some clothes and got into my car. My mind was distracted by the shocking revelation of my son’s call. But my resolve was straightforward: My son needed me! For some context, my son, who was only 15, lived with my wife in a flat she rented. I won’t get into the details of our relationship issues; only they separated us, and I lived an hour-and-a-half’s drive away. I couldn’t have been more unprepared.
It wasn’t an uneventful drive, however. I was only getting to a main road before my son rang me again. I stopped to take the call because the police might have pulled me over for being on my phone while driving. He was breathing heavily, and he said nothing. “Tom?” I asked, frightened of what might have just occurred, “Tom?! What happened, Tom?! Are you alright?!”
What he said shakes me to my core still. And it was the last and most terrifying answer he could have produced, “I killed Mum.”
The silence after that was unbearable and eternal. If my mind hadn’t entered a catatonic state, I would have thought my phone had turned off. Or, maybe the world had turned off, as there wasn’t a single sound whatsoever. Finally, my mouth said the dumbest yet most suitable response I think it could have produced: “What?”
Whether he heard it or not, I do not know, but he hung up again right after. I instantly tried calling him back, desperate for some explanation other than my son losing his mind and becoming some homicidal maniac, but he wasn’t answering. Instead, he texted me; I can only assume he felt so guilty that he could not speak to me. I think the best way to convey our conversation is to simply transcribe the messages, which I am recalling from memory, here:
Tom: I’m sorry
Me: What happened?
There was a very long pause between my texts here.
Me: I need to know
Tom: I just saw her
Tom: And something made me do it
Another long pause.
Tom: Dad?
Me: I don’t understand
Tom: I don’t know how else to put it
Tom: I saw her and some urge made me kill her
Tom: I think I am losing my mind
Me: Did she come to you?
Tom: No
Tom: I went home
I paused to think about what to do next.
Me: Did you call the police?
Tom: No
Me: Wait there don’t go anywhere I will come to you
Tom: Ok
I wanted to believe I was dreaming. I had no idea what was happening, and I don’t think I ever will wholly understand. None of it made any sense. Yet that night only got worse. And I only hope what I did next was the right thing.
Right after Tom sent that reconfirming text, I dialled 999 as fast as my phone would let me. “Emergency, which service?” the operator asked me. But I froze. I was so distracted by everything that had happened that I hadn’t thought about what I would say to the police when they picked up. “Hello?” the operator asked. But I was asking myself whether they could help or whether they would lock up my son; I would never see him again. I am not a dishonest man. Yet I knew something was happening that I couldn’t understand; my son wasn’t a mentally unstable person. He might be troublesome, but he wasn’t a psychopath. So, I hung up without a word and continued my journey.
I don’t know what I expected of my son, to be patient, I suppose. But he started texting me while I was on the highway not long later. I glanced down at my phone on the passenger seat, reading his texts while I drove. From what I read, he hadn’t listened to what I said:
Tom: Dad I know you said to stay at home
Tom: But I think I know where I need to go
I read his messages as I tried to find somewhere to pull over. I was unsuccessful.
Tom: I don’t know how else to say this but more is happening here than I can understand
Tom: I don’t want to put you in danger too
Tom: So please don’t come for me
I couldn’t handle what he told me while hesitating to pick up my phone. So, I just picked it up and called him then and there. He answered almost immediately, “Dad?!”
“Tom, what are you saying?!” I yelled, “What happened?!”
“Dad, I know you said not to go anywhere!” he explained in a rushed, panicked manner, “But I had to go back! I needed to get the machete!”
“What machete?!”
“The machete I was attacked with, ever since I used it to kill that guy, I’ve…”
“Tom?! What are you talking about?!”
If I could see him, I imagined him starting to cry, and it hurt to imagine it. “Dad… I killed Mum. Then I went back, and the police were there…”
“The police?”
“I don’t… I don’t think they were police. They had guns, I don’t know how I did it, but I–”
“Tom!” I felt my resolve return to me, “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you! This is serious! And I can’t help you if you just keep talking nonsense!”
“Dad…” something changed once more in his voice as it sounded more mature, “You don’t understand; if I see you for even a second, I… I won’t be able to stop myself…”
“Where are you?!” I shouted, fear and anger erupting from me, “Tom! Please! I–”
“I’m sorry…”
Then he hung up once more. I had become an emotional wreck after that. However, I didn’t try to phone back, as though I knew how pointless of an endeavour it would be. I just stepped on it.
It still took me three-quarters of an hour to get there, and for that entire journey, I heard nothing back from Tom, which had my worries and fears peaking. I was lucky, nonetheless, as so much adrenalin was coursing through my veins that the time went by quickly. Down one of the streets, the one I think everything my son described to me happened, there was a swarm of police cars, more than I have ever seen in one place outside a film. It was simply chaos. It did confirm my son wasn’t pranking me, which I silently hoped would be the case, as remote as it was.
Before I continue, people reading this might wonder why they haven’t heard of this happening. All I can say is to keep reading, and it will become clear.
My first course of action was to contact my son. I tried calling him, but he wouldn’t pick up. I began fearing the worst, but I would not give up. I thought about talking to the police; maybe he was in police custody. But, if he wasn’t, the police may have questions for me regarding my son. Either way, I wouldn’t be allowed to see him. I thought about finding the place he mentioned in his messages, but he didn’t give me enough information on where he would go to find answers. So, in my mind, there was only one other place I could hope to find him, as long as he went somewhere familiar: home.
As I got to the flat’s front door, it was left open, which disturbed me but didn’t turn me away. I believed if Tom returned to the scene, he wouldn’t care whether he had closed the front door. The scene I walked into was far worse than I imagined.
I’m unsure how my mind forgot my son telling me he killed my wife, but I must have misplaced the memory in disbelief. Some people can find closure in confirming the identity of their deceased loved one. However, not many people would have to identify them by only their clothes. I knew it was her only by her nightgown. Her face was unidentifiable, crushed inwards. I would wonder how, but it doesn’t matter. No one is ready to see such a sight, even if they expect to see it. I broke down for a minute or two, thinking about how I could have prevented everything from happening the way it did. I know it is never good to blame yourself, but all I could do was think about if I had just been there: if I could have avoided the petty squabbles I and my wife had.
It took a few minutes of embracing my wife before I found the strength to search for Tom once more, though I was running out of possible actions I could take. So I resorted to phoning him again. Each ring was tenser than the last, and I didn’t think he would pick up. Then, when I had hesitated to hope, I heard his voice, “Dad!”
“Tom! Tom, I’m here! Please tell me where you are!”
“Dad…” his voice sounded even bleaker than before, like a young soldier would after witnessing war for the first time, “I’m sorry.”
“Please, Tom! We can figure this out!” I cried as I re-entered the street, “Please!”
“You’re not listening, Dad. This is bigger than I could have ever expected! I can’t rope you in as well!”
“Tom, don’t! It’s not too late, and I don’t care what’s happening! Please, just tell me where you are!”
He paused for a long while before sternly saying, “No! No, I can’t! It’s too late. Just don’t try to find me. I… I…” he paused again, this time as though alerted by someone or something. When he came back, he was quieter, “Oh god! Fuck!”
“Tom?” I asked.
“Shit! Shit! It’s hi–”
“Tom?! Tom!” But he had hung up yet again.
I slumped against a wall in defeat on some street I don’t remember the name of, tears rolling down my cheeks and nowhere left to look. Then, reacting like I heard a car horn, I heard a gunshot, which sounded suppressed, almost like a firework. It was echoey, but I could just about tell where it originated from. Without wasting a second longer, I ran towards the sound’s source.
My dash down the street toward the gunfire almost became pointless, just as my search for my son had. Then I found a man in his dressing gown, looking across the street, in front of his open door, in the middle of the pavement, looking confused. It could have been useless asking him, but I didn’t know where next to go, and I was running out of time. “Excuse me?!” I pleaded to the man, “Have you seen my son?! I think he was just here! He is only 15, and he couldn’t have gone far! Please! He must have been here! Please!”
The man looked into my eyes while his face remained emotionless and ghost-like. Then he weakly raised his hand to point in some vague direction and quietly said, “He went that way.” I thanked him and hastily made my way towards where he directed. I couldn’t thank him properly, as I never got the chance to see him again or find out who he was. Nevertheless, whoever he was and no matter how little he did to help, I thank him for it.
My search led me to some dark alley, out of sight of the public. What I found there simultaneously terrified me and brought me great relief. I found my son on top of someone, a man wearing jet-black combat gear, looking battered and war-torn. My son was strangling him with the intent to kill. I knew everything he told me was true, but the fact still shocked me: My son was murdering people. I was roughly 10 metres away from him and without other action than to call out to him, “Tom!”
I wish I didn’t. When Tom was distracted by me, he glanced at me with some strange mix of grief and malice. Then, within that brief moment, his face contorted with pain; as he was stabbed in the back by the dying man on the ground with a machete, the same machete my son had. Somehow, The Man In Black had it and showed little hesitation in using it. I ran over, cradling my child in my arms like when he was a baby and wishing for my nightmare to end, which it never did. The Man In Black bloodied with the blood from his awful wounds, spat out one final retort which evaded my ears but sounded something like, “I finally got you.” before he passed. My attention was still on my son, huffing his final breaths. I remember pulling The Machete from his back, which I shouldn’t have done for obvious reasons, and uttering words of comfort I cannot recall yet meant nothing. His stare is as fresh as the moment my mind focused on his face then, drained and hollow with great sadness and fear. But I have dreams of that same scene, and his face wasn’t sad but blank with some hint of something else, something I couldn’t understand. Then his breath ceased.
I heard something behind me after the eternity of staring at the corpse that was my son. I turned and saw a woman, who I assume came out to see what was happening. She looked scared. I got up and walked towards her, covered in my son’s blood and asking for help. However, she backed away, and as she did so, I realised how the scene looked. I tried to explain as I followed her movements, but it was getting clear she wouldn’t understand. Then The Urge took control of me, and as my son explained, it was simply an urge and nothing more. I cannot say how The Machete, which I had forgotten was still in my charge, left my hand and flew at the woman. The blade landed in her face, between her right eye and nose, about 3 inches deep. Then the realisation of what I did hit me, just like how one fights the urge to eat another sweet only to find they have eaten the whole bag, or how one tries to stay awake only to open their eyes and find out they dozed off. I was horrified; perhaps I would have been more so if my son hadn’t already told me of his curse and I hadn’t realised that I now possess it.
I slowly walked over to The Machete, which I felt connected to, dislodged it from the woman’s face and examined it, as my son must have done before. I should have added this detail in my warning at the start. The Machete has something engraved on its side. I remember wiping the blood off the blade to see it, a symbol depicting a burning tower struck by lightning with a man and a woman falling out of it. At the top of it is the Roman numeral for 16. I don’t know what it means, but maybe some people reading this know.
After examining the weapon, I heard the sirens of the police not too far away. I didn’t know what to do, so please don’t judge me for what I did next: I fled the scene.
I couldn’t say how I got away. I won’t lie and say no more people died that night, but I won’t tell you how many, or more specifically, how many were killed by my hand. All I can say is I survived long enough to see the dawn. I thought the following day would be even worse, but apparently not. Yes, I was still killing every person I saw, but no one looked like the man my son slayed in that alleyway. Well, none yet.
I was able to watch the following day’s news report. I was hoping something would come up about the previous evening, but by some miracle, there wasn’t any mention of gunfire or violence in the streets, there wasn’t any mention of multiple people dead or missing, nothing. There was, however, a local report of some young boys breaking into an old antique shop not too far from my wife and son’s home, stealing illegal bangers and setting them off in the streets while running amok before running away. The report must have been that long because they moved on without stating anything else. Even at the time, I thought someone, or some secret organisation, must have covered up what happened, just as my son theorised. I still hoped it would be impossible to cover up what happened that night with such a flimsy cover-up story, but no one seemed to notice. Whoever was behind covering it up has done a thorough job of it and has left no clues I could use to find out the truth. It boggled my mind because I thought people would notice me, my wife and my son go missing; they would have to. Then again, people go missing all the time.
The following week was hell. I travelled from place to place on foot, eating out of bins and sleeping in back alleys, all of which reminded me of what happened that night. Some people died, but you’d be surprised how likely it is to walk through an unpopulated part of a town without seeing anyone. In the latter half of the week, I would sense people following me from the shadows. I know they must be responsible for all of this, and why the police have not caught me. I dare not make the first move against them with The Machete because I suspect they would expect that. Ever since The Machete fell into my hands, I’ve become more and more proficient in killing and surviving. So, The Blade has turned me into a serial killer of sorts.
I won’t say how I am writing this story, only that it doesn’t matter. After everything that has happened, people must know my story, my son’s story or what little I know of it. I’m not mad, though I wish I were. I must warn people of me and whoever is chasing me. I have thought about what I should do next: I want to face my pursuers head-on, taking as many of them down as possible in one final stand and using my curse to attain vengeance. Or maybe I just want to die. But then I think about the people I saw in the news report I watched and my new killer instinct telling me to hunt them down. I don’t have long, don’t bother trying to contact me. Just remember, if you see me, KILL ME ON SIGHT!