Alright, I know it's not nighttime, but this is my attempt at a real scary story. Of course it's still going to make you think a little, but here it is.
Hello, my name is Ethan. Ethan O'Brien. I'm afraid that some of the younger readers here might be disturbed by some of the more graphic scenes in my story, so here's my warning; this story may not be appropriate for everyone. It's scary, it's gory, and above all it's frightening. I should know; I've lived it, and I can swear on the terrifying qualities of the tale. I don't know exactly why I've chosen to compile what are, by far, the worst moments of my life into a story, but I have. Perhaps I thought that I could share this burden with the world, perhaps I just wanted someone else to know. But now everyone will know the story of Ethan O'Brien. Some question the validity and truthfulness of the statements below, and I hereby assure you they're real. I lived through every syllable. So pull the blankets up high, turn off the lights, and watch as the moon dips below the horizon in the night sky outside.
I give you the story of Ethan O'Brien.
Black Knight: The Story of Ethan O'Brien
You know something I've always thought was strange about life? The things that you remember. Take me, for instance. I don't remember being born, I don't remember my sister being born, I don't remember meeting my grandparents for the first time or going to the beach with my parents or any happy memories like that from my childhood, memories I'm sure most children hold tight and cherish for the rest of their lives. Not me. No, the things that I remember are much darker; the first day of school, when I was tormented constantly by bullies, and could not find my way anywhere. I was humiliated, I was embarrassed, I was miserable, and I just wanted to see my Mom or hear my Dad, have them hug me tight like they always did and say that everything would be all right. But no matter how much I wished for them to be there, they never appeared. Another thing that I remember is when my little kitten Sassy died. She was a little white scrap of fur with a black nose and green eyes, the cutest thing you could imagine. I had just gotten her for my sixth birthday and my friends and I were playing with her at the party. Then, my little sister Hannah, who was three at the time, walked in. She demanded to play with Sassy; I told her no way, it's my present. She told me to shut up; I told her to make me. Childish, immature stuff like that. Long story short, she practically tackled me. That's the thing about Hannah and me; I might be the older one, but I'm more of a nerd. Hannah is a lot stronger than me and always has been, even at three years of age. We tussled, rolling around on the floor slapping, biting, punching, whatever we could do that hurt. Finally, our parents, who had been preoccupied with cleaning up another little boy's accident on the carpet, broke up the dogfight. It was only then that I noticed Sassy was just lying there on the floor, limp like a noodle. I prodded at her but she didn't move. I realized we had rolled over Sassy during the fight. Tiny little kitten that she was, our combined weight had crushed her to death. I lifted her paw. No response. I poked her in the face. No response. I listened for her little heartbeat or a breath, and there was none. On my sixth birthday, I cried myself to sleep, and when I dreamed I dreamed of a cat ten times the size of our house stepping on it with one paw by accident, and killing us all.
As traumatizing as my sixth birthday might have been, as miserable as I might have been on my first day of school, everything from my childhood pales in comparison to the one thing that stands out most prominently in my mind even now, sixteen years later. It was July 6, 1984. Two days after the Fourth of July barbecue, and my parents were still cleaning up. My dad was scrubbing clean the grill, my mom was cleaning the dishes, both of them working hard while my sister and I were playing outside. At this time, I was eight, and my sister was five. Although we never really became friends, sometimes we got along and sometimes we hated each other. I'm sure that if you have brothers or sisters, you know what that's like. Anyway, so this day happened to be one of those days that we liked each other, like a brother and a sister should. We were playing dodgeball with a few kids down the street, and as usual my sister was winning. In this case, that meant I was winning too since I was on her team. Suddenly, our mom called us in to the house, to do our chores for the day(which had gone undone). Muttering rebelliously, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked inside. Once there, we got an earful from our mother about hard work and responsibility, blah blah blah. We got into an argument with her, some stupid reason, this, that, excuses, excuses. It got a bit heated, to say the least. It was just then that I heard a loud BOOM! of earsplitting volume, and I dropped to the ground on my knees, clutching my ears in my hands. I curled up into a ball on the ground as the noise continued, louder and louder, lower and lower of pitch, until finally I was certain my head would explode. Hannah and Mom just stared at me, disbelief, shock, and concern crossing on their faces. Mom knelt and said something to me; I could not understand a word of it. I could not hear a thing other than the earth shattering sound ringing through my ears. I screamed, and Mom stepped back, taken aback, almost fearful. Dad ran in, and this time I could read his lips; 'What's wrong?' he asked Mom, and she replied 'I don't know.' I yelled, tried to warn them. I knew something awful was coming, something horrible, something from the deepest pits of hell but they wouldn't listen. Why couldn't they hear this noise as well? Why wouldn't they listen to me? Why wouldn't they take my warning? Hannah finally freaked out and ran away, her little legs taking her away as fast as possible. Dad ran after her, ignoring me. Hannah ran out the front door, tailed by Dad. As the noise, if possible, got even louder, I saw a man walk into the living room. He was tall, with a thick bushy black beard, unruly dark hair, and darting eyes that I would swear were red. He wore a suit of black armor. As he approached slowly, I could hear the noise getting louder and louder, lower and lower, and I shook with fear as I saw him come. I held my mom's hand with a death grip, till both our knuckles were white. She knelt next to me, oblivious of impending doom behind her. I literally quaked with fear and finally she looked behind. Her eyes widened fearfully and I knew, finally, that I had gotten the message across to her. I let go of her hand, certain that now one of the adults knew of the matter, it would be taken care of or would simply disappear. But it was not to be. I saw the "dark knight" man walk slowly to our kitchen and take the butcher knife out of the knife rack, and slowly walk towards Mom and me. Mom stood and, holding my hand, started to run away from the black knight. But the black knight blocked her, his immense bulk stopping her cold. As if it was happening in slow motion, he drew back the butcher knife and stabbed it into her once. Her eyes popped open with pain, and I saw her mouth move in a scream. I saw the black knight pull out the knife, his hand shaking almost as if he was scared too, then stabbed her again. And again. And again. Blood spurted onto all three of us, completely covering me, and him, until he was more of a red knight than black. I just stood there, frozen in place like a statue, and unable to tear my eyes away and run. And honestly, as I watched my mother being brutally murdered right before my eyes, I didn't want to. I didn't think of anything. I was simply in shock, unable to do anything or even think. All I could do was watch. Watch as the black knight turned away from my mom, drawing out the butcher knife for the final time. I watched as she slumped to the floor, dead, and he began to approach me, one foot at a time. His heavy metal boots clacked with a solid sound even on the carpet. Step. Step. Step. I watched mesmerized as he approached, blood dripping from his knife. Drip. Drip. Drip. Once he got close to me, he stopped. I could only watch, mesmerized, as he drew back the knife to kill me as he had done my mother. Then, he just faded away, the blood-covered butcher's knife falling from his ethereal hands with a THUD. It was only then that I was able to move, and think. Overwhelmed, I crawled over to my mom's dead body on all fours and buried my head in the carpet next to her, sobbing uncontrollably. When my dad returned, Hannah in tow, they found me asleep on the floor, lying next to my mom's corpse, a blood-covered butcher's knife a few feet away.
At first, the police accused my dad of the crime, but Hannah was able to get him off the hook with her testimony. Then they attacked Hannah, but my dad's testimony proved her innocence. That only left me. The police attacked me relentlessly; they thought I was guilty as sin. And after hearing them say I killed my mom, over and over and over, that they had evidence against me, that I had to have done it, I believed them. I did. I bought into their story. I thought that the black knight was a figment of my imagination, that I had killed my own mom. I was sentenced to indefinite time in a mental institution(until such time as I was deemed fit to reenter society as a "normal person". So, with nothing else to do, I went to that mental health institution. What can I say? I was confused, I was scared, I had just seen my mom murdered, and there was nothing else I could do except believe what the policemen told me, and do what I was told.
So I did.
For fifteen years, they conducted experiments on me, for fifteen years I was isolated, treated like a freak, for fifteen years I was kept in a straitjacket while everyone else was graduating from high school, getting jobs, falling in love. For those fifteen unbearable years I was punished for something I did not do, punished for something that at this point even I was convinced I'd done. My minimum sentence was fifteen years, and I was kept in an insane asylum for those fifteen years. None of the psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists, pharmacists, therapists, or wardens could find anything wrong with me no matter how they tried, so after fifteen years I was released back into "normal" society. No visitors had been allowed where I had been imprisoned, so I had not had contact with anyone else for fifteen years. It took me a while, but I finally tracked down my little sister Hannah's phone number and gave her a call. She wasn't so little anymore. At the time, I'd been twenty-three, and she was twenty. She was in residency for a position as a registered nurse, and she barely remembered me, but Hannah had grown a lot since I'd last seen her. She said that no matter what has happened, she believes I'm innocent, and always will, and that I'm welcome to stay with her. That I would always be her big brother. After I hung up, I just stood for a moment, overwhelmed with emotions of happiness, worry, and grief. To be honest with you, that one phone call with my little sister after I was released from the mental institution is one of the only good things that I will carry with me to the grave. I will remember it forever.
I moved in with Hannah and have lived there for a year, writing these, my memoirs. I suppose that's not the end of my story, though. Last night, I had a dream. It was about the Black Knight that had killed my mom. This time though, I saw him coming after me and Hannah. He stabbed her with a butcher knife just like my mom...then he slashed my throat.
Then I woke up.
I didn't tell Hannah about my dream, I just went to my job. It was awful, just as a cashier at the local greasy fast food joint, but I was a 24-year-old man with a second-grade education. It was the best I could get. I worked, and worked, and throughout the day I didn't forget one second about my dream. The moment that my boss let me go(it should be noted my boss is approximately half my age) I ran to the nearest self defense store. I bought myself a set of full body armor with the money I had stored up, my life savings, and headed home. I wasn't going to take any chances.
I have been awake for the last forty-eight hours, on the lookout for the Black Knight. I am leaning on my new shotgun, sitting awake, constantly alert. I jump at the slightest noise, aim at the slightest movement, and have been shaking with fear of the Black Knight.
"Ethan, you need to stop worrying," Hannah pleaded with me. "Please? You're scaring me."
"Hannah, the Black Knight is coming," I whispered. "I know it."
"Please, Ethan?" Hannah begged. I was exhausted and my nerves were shot.
"Hannah, would you just-" I began to snap, but the noise began again. The noise I had heard when my mother had died. I dropped to the ground on all fours, clutching my ears. Slowly, as if in a trance, I started to shake. The Black Knight had come. He was here. I could see him. He began to approach. I was not as debilitated as I once was, but certainly my mental prowess had been limited. Fighting my way with every step, I slowly stood, and grabbed the butcher knife myself. So far so good, now at least that part of my dream could not come true. Then, I finally managed to stab the Black Knight. Over, and over, and over again. I started to laugh maniacally as I did so, finally the police would have their proof that I was innocent, finally I had my revenge. Hatred, fear, all those things that I had harnessed for sixteen long years I stabbed into the Black Knight. Finally, I looked down at a bloody mass that had once been my sister. Then, slowly, realizing what I had done once more, I walked into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. A mental health institution isn't very strict on hygiene, and I was surprised to see that during my absence I had grown a very thick unruly beard. In addition, my hair had grown out as well, all thick and ugly. I was wearing black bulletproof body armor.
Slowly, I took the knife covered with my little sister's blood, and I drew it across my neck. The Black Knight's head rolled to the floor, his deadened eyes staring at nothingness.
But at least that damnable noise had stopped.
