It was about a week ago it happened. It was late, close to midnight, I recall. I was woken up by frantic banging and yelling at my door. I slipped on my gown and slippers and went to see what was happening, as perturbed and tired as I was. It was a boy in his mid-teens, desperately crying out for help. “All right!” I called back in response, “I’m coming, I’m coming! Just let me get to the door!”
“No! Don’t!” he shouted.
I stopped just a few metres away from my front door, analysing what he said. “No!?” I asked, “Wha… Why–”
“Just listen! Please, just listen!”
I ignored him and continued to the door, “No, it’s late! If this is an emergency, I must know who is there!”
“Please! You can’t!” he screamed, sounding more scared than before.
I stopped once more, this time right in front of the door. “What are you saying?”
“I… I can’t see you! I can’t explain it, but I must not see you!”
I frowned, “What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense! If this is a joke–”
“No, it’s not!” he interrupted, “I’m not joking, please listen to me!”
But I was fed up, “I’m opening it!” I stated as I placed my hand on the door handle.
“No, don’t!” As I felt the handle squeeze downwards, he banged his fist on the door one last time at the top so I could see it in the door’s window, something clenched in it. “If I see you,” he cried, “I will kill you!”
At this, I scrambled away on my back, not just because of his threat, but because I saw in his fist, glinting with crimson in my porch light, a machete. I scrambled till I reunited with the bottom step of the stairs I had descended, my heart fluttering like a moth’s wings in turmoil. I suddenly remembered all the slasher films I had seen and how I now found myself in one. Yet, the boy with the machete persisted in telling me to calm down; I could barely hear him over my heartbeat. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I knew I needed to get my phone from my bedside where it remained on charge, but I feared if I left the door unguarded, the boy would break it down, as unlikely as that would be from a boy of his size. So, in my petrified state of neither fight nor flight, I listened to the kid. The boy begged me, “Please! I don’t want to! I’m not a killer! I just want you to hear what I have to say! Please, I’m begging you!” He was scared, or at least he sounded scared. He was just a kid. A kid with a machete with blood running down it, but just a kid. “Are… are you still there?” he quizzed, “Please, answer me.”
I leaned forward and answered, with a trembling voice I couldn’t disguise, “Is… Is this a joke?! You’re pranking me, right?! Halloween isn’t here yet!”
His answer was straightforward, “No, I’m not joking. Please, I…” I heard him starting to sob, “I… I need help. I just need someone to know. I don’t know who else to go to. Please, I just, I…” After that, he broke down into hysterical sobs.
I just sat there with a dumb look on my face. His sobs slowly eased me because he sounded so sad. I needed to man up and face what I was dealing with. He was on the other side of my front door and seemingly had no intention of coming in, so I decided to try and reason with him. The way I viewed it, he may be a nutter, but he was just a kid, and I didn’t know what was going on. I got up and stood roughly a metre away from my door, supporting my numb legs by leaning against a wall and spoke to him in the most calming, motherly voice I could muster, “It’s OK. Just breathe. I am here.”
He apologised and said he was sorry, and I just kept trying to relax him. It went back and forth for some time, but he eventually stabilised. When he did, I said, “My name is Charles. Can you tell me your name?”
“It’s… it’s Tom.” he snivelled.
“All right, Tom.” I started, as I did with all my interviews, “I’m a journalist. You can tell me what happened; I won’t judge you.”
“You’re a journalist?” he let out a brief giggle and said, “You won’t believe me. But, can you tell my story in a report or online?”
I smiled, mainly because I knew I was finally getting to him, “Of course, but why would other people need to know?”
Tom paused, then avoided the question and said, “I… don’t know how long I have; can I just tell you?”
I wanted to push more on that but knew I had to hear his story to understand what was happening. After I asked him to continue, he told me a story I am unsure whether to believe. He sounded honest, and I would later confirm parts of his story, but the story itself was something else. I’ll try and recall precisely what he told me, as I feel only his words could bring out most of the details of his story, and I would never be able to do it justice. So, speaking entirely from outside my front door, this is what he said to me:
“OK. I was walking home from clubbing, and there was a guy dressed all in black and with a balaclava, and he had a machete. This machete,” he waved the blade of his weapon in front of my door window briefly, “He was– umm– standing over two bodies, a couple I had actually seen earlier at the club. They– they were dead. I realised when they had blood all over them, and the guy had blood on him, I freaked out. Then the guy saw me and– I just left. I ran. And I could hear him right behind me.
“I was crying out for help, but there wasn’t anyone in the streets, and I don’t think anyone in the houses could hear me. I couldn’t stop because he was right behind me. Then he caught up, and we both fell to the ground. He was screaming something, I was freaking out too much to hear, but I think he was telling me to run. He was on top of me, trying to drive The Machete down into me. I– I’m not sure how, but I think I got him off me somehow. Then next I knew I– I was on top of him and– I was pushing the machete into his chest. I was staring straight into his eyes; he was so– scared. Then he died, I– I had killed him!
“I was fucking freaking out! I had his blood all over me, and he was– dead! I had fucking killed him, and– but it was in self-defence, and he was going to kill me! I didn’t know what to do. So I called Dad. I told him I– Well, you know. And he told me to call the police and that he was on his way. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t tell him, so I hung up. I think I just– stood there for a minute. I knew I had to phone the police, but what will they do? I just fucking killed someone, and I am supposed to– I just couldn’t do it. I just wanted to go home, so I just ran. I shouldn’t have, but I just wanted my mum.”
Every word from his mouth sounded so difficult to say. I told him to take his time and continue when he was ready. But after two deep breaths, he said he was OK to continue.
“I went home. I went home, and I wanted to tell Mum everything. But then I saw her– I saw her, and I wasn’t myself. I– I don’t know what came over me, but I– I had this– this urge. It was almost instinctual, but– like– not my own. She asked me what happened, but I just walked up to her and– and– I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I– I…” I stopped him and told him he didn’t have to tell me if he didn’t want to, but Tom felt he needed to. I believe he wanted to confess. “I– I murdered her. I murdered her by hitting her head against the kitchen counter.
“I– I– err– just cried after that. I was begging myself to stop, but I couldn’t. And when she was dead, I– I– I just broke down. Then I must have called Dad because I had my phone up to my ear, and he was speaking. I just told him I killed Mum, and I– I couldn’t talk. I just hung up. My phone kept ringing, but I couldn’t– I couldn’t, so I let it ring. He wouldn’t– he wouldn’t stop, so I sent him a message and told him I was sorry. He messaged back asking what happened, and I told him what– what– I was going mad. He asked, and I told him I was at home, and he said I shouldn’t go anywhere. So I– I waited. I waited.
“Then our neighbour, I think her name was Jane, knocked. She was asking if everything was all right, that she heard, and I went to our window, but I stopped myself before looking through it at her. I didn’t want to kill her too, and this time I didn’t. I’m not sure, but I think I only wanted to kill Mum because I saw her. I didn’t know how to– I needed to get rid of her. I didn’t want to be alone, but I knew I couldn’t see her, or involve her.”
“Why?” I asked.
He told me he didn’t want to risk her life, “I didn’t want to kill her,” he said, “I– I knew she couldn’t help, and– and… Anyway, I just told her that I was fine and that she shouldn’t worry. I’m not sure whether she believed me, but she left. I hope she is all right.”
I reminded him I was there to help him, but I’m unsure he thought I could. He continued, “After that, I just had this feeling… A feeling I couldn’t get out of my head. I– err– I wanted to go back. It was dumb, but I wanted to go back to where it all happened. I didn’t know why, but I felt something was back there for me, something pulling me back, something– missing. Then I remembered The Machete and looked around but couldn’t find it. I thought I still had it, but I must have dropped it. I left it there. I knew I had to go back and get it. I just had to, so I ran back. I ran back, and it was still there, but– but three– three police officers were there. I don’t– I don’t think they were police.”
I furrowed my eyebrows and asked, “Why don’t you think they were police?”
“They weren’t,” he replied, sounding certain this time, “They weren’t. They didn’t act like police and looked like they didn’t want to be seen. They were inspecting the scene, looking around, and one was putting something in a case. It was The Machete in a plastic, see-through bag– an evidence bag? But that wasn’t what made me question who they were. I– I saw them, and just like Mum, as I saw them around the corner, I wanted to kill all three of them. As I approached, they were asking what I was doing there, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I stopped because I felt something when one of them put their hand behind their back. He– he was holding a gun. I don’t know how I knew that then, but I knew he had a gun. He told me to stay away, and I backed up. Then he– he started shooting at me. It was like I knew that was what he planned to do, and I avoided it and took cover behind the corner I came from. They chased me, but I– I– I don’t know how I did it, but– I– it was like I knew how to fight them. My instincts told me what to do to survive, and I just– did it.”
“Didn’t anyone hear the gunshots?”
“No, the guns had silencers, and no one was on the streets. After I killed them, I went back and got The Machete. It was– different now. I should have mentioned it, but it was rusted when I first found it. Now– now it is almost clean, like what you saw. I could make out a symbol on the side of it; it looks very occult-like.” (Note: I know I should have questioned Tom further on the symbol on The Machete, but I never got another chance to ask more about it, which I regret because it may have provided some answers.) “This made me think, and I remembered an antique shop nearby: The Shop Without Name, you might know it. It is that one shop no one notices, but I remembered a rumour from school that it is cursed. I thought that whoever worked there might know something about The Machete. So, I decided to go there because I knew it wasn’t far.
“On the way, I felt I needed to text my dad at least one last time; I didn’t– know what would happen, and– I knew– I knew I didn’t know what was happening. I felt I was on my own, that the whole world was against me. So, I told Dad I knew somewhere I could go to find answers but couldn’t tell him where because I didn’t want to get him involved. I didn’t want to put him in danger as well. I told him not to come. He called me right away, and I picked up. He was panicking and asking what was happening. I tried to explain, but– I didn’t know how to. I just told him I went back to get The Machete and that the police I met weren’t– weren’t police. He didn’t understand; I don’t think he could. I just told him if I saw him, even for a second, I would– I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. He begged, and I just– I just said goodbye…”
He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then, as if the world heard his prayers, his phone rang; it was his father. He told me so, but I said nothing; I wanted him to pick it up, but I also wished to hear the rest of his account. Without another word on the subject, he let his phone ring twice. Once it stopped, Tom continued his recount:
“I reached the store and went straight in, and inside were two more bodies. They looked like the person in a balaclava I killed; they also had similar wounds to the couple he had killed. The place was smashed up, with glass all over the floor. The shopkeeper was hiding in a closet– actually, he told me it was his panic room. He talked to me through the door like we are now, but the shopkeeper spoke with a thick, cockney accent. I asked him what happened, and he explained three men had broken in while he was working late and tried to rob the place. He was forced into his panic room, and they just started ransacking the place. They found a locked case with a weapon inside, The Machete, and started breaking into it. The shopkeeper tried to warn them not to, but it was too late. He didn’t tell me what happened next, but I think I know. I assume the last burglar panicked and ran out, only to find me.
“He said he needed to find the weapon or– you know. I decided to tell him I had The Machete, and he went quiet. I asked him if he could help me: if he could remove the weapon’s curse? The shopkeeper told me he could, but he needed to come out, and I would have to look away; otherwise, I would kill him. He asked me a few more times to be sure I was looking away, and I kept telling him I was. But my eyes wondered at what I saw elsewhere around his shop, and they landed on a mirror. In it, I saw him, for only a second, not only leave his panic room but with a baseball bat raised in his hands. He was old; his mad hair and beard showed it, as well as his clothes, which looked like they were from the nineteen-twenties. My body reacted, swinging The Machete at him, and he was backing away, his failure written all over his face. He tried backing toward his panic room, but I didn’t let him; I came at him with The Machete, but it got stuck in his bat. I was begging him to tell me what was going on, what was happening to me, and why he was attacking me. He only gave me one answer, that the curse couldn’t be broken unless– unless I die.
“I was going to kill him, but as I snapped his bat in two before raising The Machete to strike the final blow, I sensed something. My instincts told me to retreat, that there was someone else there. I got away from the old shopkeeper as bullets flew between us. I glanced at the store’s entrance, where the shots came from, and I saw a man in an all-black combat outfit like from Call of Duty. His weapon was suppressed, just like the police officers’ guns. I got away; I was lucky that the shop had a back exit.”
I was still confused about how he got away, so I asked, “Wait, didn’t you say you would attack anyone you see? How did you make yourself run away?”
“No, I didn’t want to run away– maybe I did, but that’s not why I retreated: I instinctively retreated. Just like with the police officers before, I have these instincts, which make me more efficient at killing. Like some uncontrollable superpower. I retreated because I couldn’t win in that little shop, and my new instincts knew it.”
“So, you don’t want to kill those men any more?”
“No, that’s not it. I still want to– I mean, have to kill those men. Just thinking about them makes me want to lash out and attack them. I just don’t know where they are, so I can’t.” he paused as he took a few breaths, realising what he said, “Maybe– maybe I have to die? I can’t– I can’t stop…”
I needed his story to stay on track, “OK, I understand. What happened then?”
“Well, I came here. I ran and ran and then just knocked at a random door. I– I didn’t know what to do. The only person who could have helped me tried to kill me and told me– told me– it’s hopeless. So, I just needed to tell someone. Someone who– just someone.”
I didn’t say anything after that; I just let his story sink in. I think anyone can agree it sounds mad, and yes, I believed that. Now I’m not so sure, but I’ll get to that. At the time, I thought it sounded like some B-movie slasher plot: a boy finds a cursed machete that makes him go on a killing spree. Yet, he didn’t sound dishonest. But I also knew it didn’t matter whether I believed the story. What mattered was that Tom did. So when he said I didn’t believe him, I told him it was a lot to digest. Now, I think it does matter.
His phone rang again, and he didn’t need to tell me it was his father. When it sounded like he was going to let it ring again, I had to voice my opinion, “Tom, you wanted my help. I’m not sure what is happening to you or what has happened to you, but I can tell you that I think your dad is very worried about you. And if you don’t pick up that call, you may regret it!” Tom didn’t reply; he just answered it.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear what his dad said to him, and I didn’t think it was my place to listen. Nonetheless, I did listen to what he told his dad. “Dad!” his voice sounded reinvigorated as soon as he answered, “Dad…” but he soon started to let out his emotions, “I’m sorry… You’re not listening, Dad; this is bigger than I could have ever expected! I can’t rope you in as well!… No! No, I can’t! It’s too late. Just don’t try to find me. I– I–” I could hear Tom turning to look out into the street as though he heard something. He said in a quiet but alarmed tone, “Oh god! Fuck!” I began to panic. I found myself backing away again. “Shit!” he swore, “Shit! It’s him!” I heard his phone hang up and him turn back to my door, whispering, “Listen! The man from the shop is here! I think– I think he saw me! Please tell my story! People must know what happened! I– I have to go!”
That was the last thing he said to me because before I could reply, I heard his hurried footsteps rush off into the distance, followed by a gunshot.
I did nothing. I was frozen to the ground as I heard a second set of footsteps sprint past in the same direction. And I was still frozen as the silence resumed in the street. My mind was ablaze with what just happened; I wondered if I narrowly avoided my death, I wondered if I was on the right side of the door. But more than anything, I wanted to know if his story was true because the gunshot sounded suppressed, just like what he told me. Then I realised how stupid I was; his story may have sounded crazy, but it didn’t sound like a crazy person’s story. I hadn’t considered if his story was true, or at least parts of it, and just assumed it was nonsense; this was my biggest mistake.
I did eventually step outside once I was sure the coast was clear. I just stood there wondering whether I was the subject of some elaborate prank or I was just losing my mind. Then someone came up behind me hastily and asked, “Excuse me?! Have you seen my son?!” I didn’t turn to face the stranger speaking to me; I only listened, “I think he was just here! He is only fifteen, and he couldn’t have gone far! Please! He must have been here!… Please?!” I glanced at the man’s face before pointing zombie-like where I heard Tom’s footsteps fade away. “Thank god! Thank you!” he said, then ran in the same direction.
I wondered, and I still wonder, what happened to that man: was he able to help his son, or did I just send him to his death? I don’t think I will ever find out what happened the rest of that night.
The following day was surprisingly ordinary. People still wondered what all the commotion was about on the streets, but the morning news report explained it all. It stated three young men had broken into an old antique shop (they didn’t mention its name) and started causing havoc in the streets with illegalised bangers before disappearing. The police want any information about their whereabouts, but I know no one will find them. It is a good cover-up; any loud bangs heard were assumed to be from bangers rather than suppressed guns, and any other people who went missing would simply appear unconnected. It’s not like anyone would suspect a secret, conspiratorial organisation to be responsible. Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t fully believe Tom’s story, but something else is going on, and I want to get to the bottom of it.
On the subject of missing persons, I found a report of Tom’s disappearance, which included his full name (which I will keep confidential) and what he looks like. He was allegedly last seen a few miles from where I last saw him. Though I expected to find his father in another missing persons report, I couldn’t find anyone with the same surname as Tom and my mind never fully registered what he looked like in the brief moment I saw him. But I imagine he is on there along with the others who went missing that night, all explained away as separate cases. My guess: Tom’s and his father’s surnames were changed to make them look unrelated, which sounds impossible. Still, looking at everything else that has been explained away, it seems only a small feat for whoever is covering up what happened that night.
I also decided to look into Tom’s neighbour, Jane. But I couldn’t find a Jane in the area who had witnessed anything strange happen the night in question or had a family of three go missing next door.
So, I had one lead left: The Shop Without Name. Despite its unique name, I couldn’t find it on Google Maps, but I still had no issue looking for it. The shop was moving; removal vans were being loaded with vast oddities outside the store. I decided it would be unwise to ask them any questions lest I become another disappearance. Instead, I waited a few days until the vans were gone and the shop was empty. Then I decided to let myself in (I have never broken into a place in my life, but given the circumstances, I decided it was more important to see what I could find). As I said before, the place was empty, but I found a closet missing its door that could have been the safe room Tom described. However, more interestingly, I found some plastered-up holes near the back door, which I highly suspected were bullet holes.
After everything, I still don’t know what to believe; I want to believe Tom’s story, but I can’t believe it. It just sounded so unrealistic. But, as a journalist, I must put my facts together and make a story. I thought about posting it in a newspaper but quickly realised it was too risky. So, I am posting it here. That night, I believed the man behind my door wanted to kill me, but as it progressed, I realised there was far more to the story than that. If anyone has any ideas or information that can help me find the truth, please contact me. Otherwise, spread this story because, as Tom said, people must know what happened.