Content Warning: >!A scene of domestic abuse is described.!<
Sorry to leave you in the dark. After posting Part 1, I realized that typing this week’s events from hell was very exhausting. But I need to get this out there. People need to know about what happened. It’s what my grandmother would have wanted. If you haven’t read about the events of Sunday and Monday, I highly recommend starting there before continuing.
Day 3: Tuesday
The next day, my alarm went off at 5:55 AM. This time, I was ready. I bolted up the stairs before any noise alerted me to action, hoping to catch the creature who had been terrorizing us. Like always, I started my investigation by checking on Grandma. Asleep. Good, I thought as I shut the door and turned my attention to the rest of the house. I first noticed the scrapbook on the floor, with its pages torn out and strewn across the floor. I expected to find the book there, but something about the ripped pages felt sinister and menacing. I needed to clean that up before my grandmother had a chance to see the pitiful state of her treasured photo album, but that would have to wait until I scoured the rest of the house.
Next, I went to the kitchen. Nothing looked too out of the ordinary, but I noticed that one knife remained stuck to the ceiling while the rest had fallen to the ground. I was about to check the rest of the house when I heard a loud slam coming from the basement. It’s messing with me, I thought. The noise was louder than the previous days, and I was sure it had woken Grandma, so I decided to check on her again before investigating. Just as I suspected, Grandma was sitting upright when I walked through the door. She hadn’t turned to look at me when I walked in. “You okay, Grandma?” I asked. I wasn’t expecting a response since she had been nearly mute the past few days. Despite my expectations, she answered immediately. “It’s okay, Paul. They can’t hurt us today. Jay will protect us.” Jay was the name of my grandfather, who had been dead for over 20 years. I didn’t have the heart to remind her of his passing, so I said nothing and walked towards the stairs.
As I took the first step down, the loud banging noise repeated, sending a chill down my spine. I went to take the next step but stood frozen for several seconds. I managed to break through my terror and continue my plunge to the basement. Other than my room, there are two other rooms downstairs. A guest bedroom and a family room, which had slowly morphed into my personal mancave over the years. The sound happened a third time, and it was clearly coming from the family room. I peeked my head through the doorway but quickly shot back behind the wall. I had expected to see my not-so-angelic guardian angel, but crouched in the middle of the room was something far, far worse. It was bigger than the angel, maybe 8 or 9 feet tall. Instead of light, the creature emanated a blinding darkness, which seemed to be battling for space with the moon’s soft light coming through the window. Its hands were disproportionally large for its body, with long bony fingers. But the most notable characteristic of the monster, was what was covering its body. From head to toe, the creature was soaked in hot black tar, which dripped down to the floor.
The chemical smell was overwhelmingly potent, and I found myself struggling not to gag as I sat still and listened to the beast breathe. Curiosity got the better of me, and I shifted my weight, preparing to take another look. Before I could peer around the corner, the monster screamed, which sounded like the mix of a man and a dog. I booked it to the staircase, looking back, only to watch as the creature tumbled behind me with impressive speed. I reached the top of the stairs and almost ran for the front door when I remembered Grandma, who was still in her room. Thinking quickly, I leaped behind the island counter in the middle of the kitchen and hid myself, trying to make as little sound as I could. I heard the tar monster reach the top of the stairs and pause.
Thankfully, it didn’t know where I was, but soon began searching for me. I caught a glimpse of it as its back was turned to me, and I noticed it was carrying something large. Is that…a rug? I thought to myself. Then I recognized it. The thing was carrying the rug from underneath my coffee table. What on earth does it want with that? I turned my attention back to my hiding place and scanned for a weapon. As my eyes darted around the kitchen, I became transfixed on the window, or rather what was behind the window. A little blue bird. Just then, I heard something crash against the floor, and I spun around. The creature was gone, and my rug lay rolled up in the living room.
The rest of the day felt foggy. My head was aching, and no amount of acetaminophen could dull the throbbing. Grandma stayed in her room, not letting me in other than to bring her meals and make sure she was taking her medication. By the time night rolled around, I was ready to call it a day, but Jane came over for dinner, and her contagious, unending energy started to rub off on me. “So what did you do today? Find any more objects in weird places?” she asked innocently. I had almost forgotten that I hadn’t told her about the bizarre monsters I’d been seeing. I thought about keeping it to myself, but I could never lie to her. We had been friends since elementary school and together since high school. She was the one person on earth I expected to believe my story. So I told her about the Tar Monster and the Plastic Angel from the night before.
When I finished, she stared at me with her jaw open. “Oh my goodness, Paul…this is just like that show Ghost Adventure or something!” she had a huge smile on her face, which was not the reaction I was expecting. “Um…maybe not exactly like Ghost Adventures, but it is pretty freaky,” I said. “We should like set up some cameras and catch them the next time they appear! We could be like famous or something.” she really did seem genuinely excited about the idea. “I’d like to see how excited you are when they appear in your kitchen.” I shot back, now smiling myself. “It’s okay, Paul, I’ll stay the night to protect you.” she offered. “Dont you work in the morning?” I asked. “Nope! We’re closed tomorrow, silly. You know how my boss is, always closing the place down whenever she goes out of town. She still doesn’t trust any of us to make the cinnamon rolls the right way. Anyways, she’s going to Disneyland with her new boyfriend, so I have the day off.” I didn’t say it, but I was extremely relieved not to spend the night alone. I was starting to get seriously terrified of my own home. “Well, it’s settled then.” I told her, “You can deal with the big evil monsters, and I will get some much-needed beauty sleep.”
The rest of the night actually felt pretty normal. We watched a horror movie at Jane’s request (what is it with her and this spooky shit?) and went to bed. I had this really weird dream that night about my mom. In the dream, I was young, maybe 7 or 8, and was helping her mop the kitchen. She showed me how to fill the bucket with water and how much cleaner to pour in. She handed me the mop and said, “Give it a try!”. I was so eager to help I nearly tripped over the mop as I swished it from side to side. We were cleaning up something wet, and I figured maybe I had spilled some grape soda again. “And then you dip it back into the water,” she told me. I plunged the mop into the bucket and was about to pull it back out when I saw the water turn a light red color. Confused, I looked at the ground I had just mopped and was horrified to see that the liquid I had been smearing around the tile was a thick, shimmering pool of blood. I screamed and looked up at my mother for her to comfort me, but I stumbled backward over the bucket when I saw her. As I lay soaked in soap, water, and blood, I watched my mom stare at me with the biggest smile. Her head was bleeding.
I shot up in bed, free from the nightmare. I must have been gasping for air because Jane sat up as well and started rubbing my back. “Hey, hey! What’s the matter?” she asked. Catching my breath, I said, “I just had the weirdest, most morbid dream of my life. I was a kid, and my mom was letting me help with chores, but she was bleeding everywhere, and I think she was dying.” Jane continued to comfort me and said, “That is weird. Your mom is fine, though, right? I mean, as far as we know?” To be honest, I wasn’t sure how my mom was doing. The last time I saw her was just before she went to rehab. From that time forward, I only communicated with her through letters. When I was 13, the letters stopped. “I’m sure she’s okay,” I said, more to reassure myself than Jane. We went back to sleep, and I didn’t have any more dreams that night.
Day 4: Wednesday
My alarm woke Jane and me up at 5:55 AM. “Why did you set the alarm so early?” she asked, pulling a pillow over her ears. I turned off the alarm. “I didn’t set it. It’s just been doing that. There should be a loud sound, kind of like banging, in a minute or two.” We sat in complete silence, waiting for something to happen. About 10 minutes passed, and I started to feel relieved. “Maybe nothing will happen today,” I said. Moments later, we heard a scream coming from upstairs. “Granny!” Jane shouted as the two of us sprang into action. I stumbled on the stairs but recovered quickly as I bear-crawled the rest of my way up with tremendous speed. When I reached Grandma’s door, Jane was close behind me. I burst through the door and looked side to side for my grandmother. She was gone. I ran to her bed and checked underneath, but there was nothing. We searched everywhere: the closet, the bathroom, the kitchen. Everywhere. She had just vanished. “Call the police, I’m gonna drive around the neighborhood in case she left the house.” Jane began dialing 911, and I heard her give the operator the address as I left the house.
I spent the next 15 minutes driving up and down the roads close to home, but there was no sign of my grandma. Jane texted me that the police had arrived, and I returned to the house. The police re-checked the home and talked to someone on their radio about having all officers on the lookout for a wandering and confused elderly woman. I explained to them that her scream sounded frightened and that I thought she might have been taken. They listened to me explain as much as I could without making me sound crazy, and when I had finished my story, they told me the most likely scenario was that she had left the house on her own. I didn’t try to argue. I knew how my story must have sounded, and there was nothing I could say to get them to believe me. On top of that, I wanted them to be correct. If Grandma were out on her own, as dangerous as that would be, it would be better than being taken. The officers left the house to search for Grandma.
While they drove away, I held Jane, who was sobbing into my shirt. Jane and I drove around town the rest of the day looking for her. When we were tired of driving, we returned to the house and searched again. We repeated this cycle until it started to get dark, and we decided to try again the next day and allow the police to do their jobs. We remained in contact with them throughout the day, but their search had turned up nothing. I was devastated and felt like crying, but I held back the tears all day. I was not afraid to cry in front of Jane, but I felt like I needed all my energy to go toward finding Grandma. I couldn’t waste any time crying. While at home, Jane passed out on the couch, exhausted from the emotionally taxing day. I stayed up on my computer creating a flyer to put up around town the next day. I kept my phone ringer on so I wouldn’t miss any updates from the police. Eventually, I started to drift off while sitting upright in my chair. I felt the world getting fuzzy as my eyelids slowly fell, fluttering back open a few times and falling again.
I was seconds away from succumbing to full unconsciousness when I heard a voice whisper, “You don’t remember, do you, sweet boy?” I jolted awake to find the Plastic Angel peering its head from behind the sofa that Jane was sleeping on. Its long fingers wrapped around the back of the couch. “J….Jane…” I managed to squeak out. “Jane, wake up!” She didn’t move. I knew she was a deep sleeper, but come on, Jane! “You need to remember.” The Angel’s voice was shrill, like nails on a chalkboard. “Remember what?” I asked. “You need to remember Paul. You were young. Your mind was easily molded. But it was not the truth.” The Angel began inching toward me as it continued. “You need to see what you were forced to forget.” When the Angel had reached my chair, it slowly lifted its pointer finger which began to glow brighter than any light I had ever seen. The finger landed on my forehead, and I fell into deep sleep.
15 Years Ago - A Forgotten Memory
When I was 8, my parents fought a lot. One summer, when my father finished his 3rd stint in prison, he returned home to find that my mother was not conducting their finances the way she had before he went away. She spent more money on groceries and less on pills. She bought me new shoes and even took me to the movies once. This caused them to fight to no end. Whenever they would argue, I would sit outside our mobile home on a concrete slab and wait for it to be over. One day, I sat out in the sweltering sun and played with a group of ants that found a small splash of grape soda I had spilled. I let them crawl on my fingers and then back to the hot ground. The air was wet and thick, making the heat hard to swallow. Each breath drew in almost as much moisture as air. The yelling from inside became unbearably loud, so I stood up and began walking.
I didn’t know where I was walking to. I just wanted to be somewhere safe. After about a half mile of wandering aimlessly, I saw a girl sitting on a tire swing hanging from a solitary tree. I tried not to make eye contact because I was 8, and girls were icky. As I was walking past, she called out to me, “Hey, kid!” Shocked, I turned to see her with a warm smile on her face from ear to ear. “Hi,” I replied sheepishly. “Could you push me? I’m not very good at pumping my legs.” I felt a little weird about it, but I didn’t really have anything else to do. I decided to comply since pushing a girl on a swing seemed more interesting than walking. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Paul,” I said, warming up to her more and more by the minute. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Jane,” she said matter of factly. We played for around an hour, and I decided it was probably time to head back home. My parents didn’t like when I was gone for long. After that day, every time my parents would fight, I’d walk over to Jane’s house, and we’d push each other on the old tire swing. On one particularly rainy day, my parents got into another one of their heated arguments. I put on my rain boots and was about to go to my room to get my coat, hoping to meet up with Jane. Maybe we could find some big puddles to splash in, I thought.
As I trodded over to my bedroom, I heard my mother scream. It wasn’t a scream of anger (that wouldn’t have been novel enough to catch my attention). It was a scream of pain. I ran into the kitchen, where I saw my mother holding her face, which was quickly turning a dark color. My father was standing over her with rage in his eyes. Fear held me in its grasp. I wanted to turn, to run! But the fear held me in place, staring at the violent scene before me. Wide eyes filling with tears, I looked at my mother, then at my father, and back at my mother. My dad looked at me and shouted, “You see, Paul! This is what happens when you step out of line!”. I was paralyzed. I wanted to help my mother, tell her that everything would be okay. I wanted to hurt my father for hurting her. But most of all, I wanted to scream! I wanted to scream so badly, but I couldn’t. All that came out was a sob. My crying only made my father angrier. He took a step towards me, but my mother shot up off the ground like lightning and lashed at him, screaming, “Stay away from him, you monster!”. My dad shoved her off and went to hit her again, but my lungs finally released the death grip they had held on my oxygen, and I screamed, “Stop it!” This caught him off guard, and as he turned to face me, my mother jumped to her feet once more and rushed to the knife block, pulling out the biggest one.
Before she had a chance to use it, my father grabbed her from behind and threw her down. Her head slammed into the counter on her way to the floor. With a thud, she landed on the ground. She lay motionless as a pool of blood formed around her. “Oh shit!” my dad yelled. He started grabbing at her head in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding. “No, no, no, no…” his voice trailed off. As I watched this unfold, my vision became blurry, and my peripheral vision faded out, locking my gaze on the crimson stream flooding from my mother. We sat in silence. Minutes passed, then an hour. I didn’t dare say a word. I couldn’t. There was nothing in my 8-year-old mind that could understand what had happened. My mother never woke up.
When my father finally composed himself, he stood up off the ground and began rummaging through drawers in the kitchen. After a minute of searching, he found what he was looking for. He dropped to his knees next to my mother with a package of saran wrap in his hands. He lifted her head a few inches and carefully wrapped the plastic around her head. He was thorough, making sure the blood couldn’t continue to drip from her wound. Once he was satisfied with his patch-up job, my mother looked like a shiny mannequin. He laid her head back down and left the room, returning a moment later with the rug from under our coffee table. He wrapped her tightly, and to my surprise and relief, he never asked me to help. I had to stand up to avoid him as he dragged my mother out of the kitchen and through the front door. He latched the deadbolt behind him, and a moment later, I heard his truck’s ignition.
Peering out the window, I watched him drive away. He didn’t come back for several hours. The whole time he was gone, I stayed in my corner of the kitchen, curled into a ball. When he did return, he walked in slowly. He was sweaty and tired and wore a look of shock on his face. He took a shower, got dressed, and then called me into the living room. I did as I was told and shuffled my little feet until I found myself sitting on the couch beside the man who had raised me. He was quiet for a while and seemed to be lost in thought.
Eventually, he looked at me and said, “Pauly, you know mommy had to go away for a little bit, right?” I looked at him, confused. He continued, “Mom has been fighting some tough battles these past few months. She used a lot of drugs. You know she used drugs, dont you?” I nodded. I said nothing as he thought for a minute before telling me, “Mom had to go somewhere to get help. A rehab center. It’s kind of like a hospital.” The more he spoke, the less I understood. “But she was bleeding! Where did you take her?” I felt more lost than I had ever felt. “No, Paul,” he said sternly. “She wasn’t bleeding.” “But, but you-” I stammered. “No! Paul, no!” he shouted. “Mom is fine. She just had to go away for a while.” he sounded really frustrated. “She had to go away,” he reiterated. “So when someone asks you where your mom is, what do you tell them?” He was looking me right in the eyes now. “I..” I thought for a minute. “I..tell them she had to go away for a while.” “Yes! Yes, Paul, that’s right!” he buried my face in his chest as he forced an embrace. “That’s right, son. Mom just had to go away for a little while, and that’s all we know.”
When he left the room, I sat there a little longer before standing shakily to my feet and walking out the front door. I sat on the wet concrete slap, unsure if I should cry. I was so confused. I really wasn’t sure what had happened, but I wanted to believe my father. If he were telling the truth, then Mom would be okay. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still loomed overhead. Just then, I heard a quiet tap on the concrete beside me. I turned my head to see the most beautiful blue bird.
I awoke drenched in sweat. I was in the living room chair where I had been before the Angel had touched my head. Jane was still curled up on the couch. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. It was 5:50 AM. My alarm would be going off in 5 minutes.
I’ll wrap up the events of the week in my next post. Thank you for your support. It feels good to share my story with others who might understand.