Horror
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Horror free porn video
How do you define horror, dear reader? I mean true horror, the kind that rips a mind and soul apart. Is your horror supernatural, with extraordinary creatures lurking in the shadows and mystifying forces overwhelming us, but beyond our ability to comprehend? Or is horror more banal in its origin, stemming from human weaknesses and failings, from generations of damaged people handing down their ways. Maybe your flavor of horror comes suddenly, with dramatic and deadly confrontations or from devastating secrets revealed. Or perhaps your nightmare unfolds over time creating a momentum of its own, finally reaching a threshold past which there is no escape. And certainly no discussion of horror should be bereft of the concept of evil and its effect on a man.
I’ve kept well informed of the occupants of the house since I moved out those many years ago, and it has been intriguing if nothing else. So if you have the time and inclination, dear reader, I’ve a story to tell. It is not pleasant and does not end well, so do not hold out that hope. No, this tale is about a tragedy in the truest sense of the word. So sit back and relax, if you can, dear reader, and I will tell you of the Maxwell’s doom.
The house was large and rambling, set well back from the road as were all the houses in this neighborhood. Tucked into one side of the city, the development essentially consisted of small estates with homes separated by dozens if not tens of dozens of yards.
It was here that the Maxwell’s moved, into a house that had been long abandoned after the last murder-suicide. Several years ago an attorney’s wife went mad and killed her three young children. Covered in her children’s blood she waited until her husband came through the garage door into the kitchen and then butchered him too. The autopsy concluded that she must have waited some hours before hanging herself. No one could fathom why she made obscure markings on the walls throughout the house during those long hours surrounded by her dead family, drenched in their blood.
The Maxwell’s were not superstitious. No, they were pragmatic. They got an excellent deal on the house that nobody wanted. Were there rumors of the house being haunted? Oh, I’m quite certain of it. Everybody knew somebody who had a friend or a cousin that knew someone who had experienced something when sneaking through the house during the day or night. But no one who had directly experienced anything ever came forth, and nobody could say for sure exactly how the house was haunted. If it was. Certainly the Maxwell’s never said anything about ghosts or bumps in the night during the short year they lived there.
The Maxwell family was well off and could easily afford this neighborhood. Dante was a surgeon and Catherine a stay at home mother. Seven year old Matt and ten year old Sarah attended local public schools rather than private ones, as the Maxwell’s did not feel privileged, could not strive beyond an invisible ceiling. Not with their past.
Maybe events would not have evolved as they did if another couple had lived in the house, though I suspect not. Or maybe it would have happened no matter where the Maxwell’s lived, though again, I suspect not. By outward appearances they were a happy family. But they did have flaws, and maybe it was upon these flaws the house preyed. If it did.
Dante was a big, strong man who did delicate work with his hands. While his body was strong, perhaps he had a susceptible mind. He grew up in a western state with seven siblings, a passive mother and a distant, yet abusive father. He joined the military at first chance and took out his aggression there. Dante was an infantry medic in first Iraq war and found he excelled at both killing and healing. He considered a military life, but had enough insight to question how long he would remain human in such a setting. And if you saw his eyes in the heat of anger, you too might believe it likely he would one day succumb to bloodlust and not take heed of who he slaughtered in battle.
Dante was an intelligent man and after college went on to medical school where he considered forensic pathology, but found a greater solace cutting open the living. Thanks to his genes and the lessons learned at his father’s knee the world was not a safe place for Dante. He saw evidence of threats everywhere and was ever planning how to survive and to protect his beloved Catherine.
Catherine’s mother was addicted to prescription medicine and alcohol. She goaded Catherine to hide and retrieve her drugs and drink and made her promise not to tell her father, who paid her money to keep quiet about his own brand of abuse. The unfortunate Catherine was also sexually abused by her older brother, who held certain threats over her timid head. When her parents found out she had been fondled by a neighbor she was questioned then punished and told never to speak of it again. And in this way Catherine was groomed to be submissive and secretive. No one would ever really know her, or the depths of her true pain.
Dante and Catherine met in college. He adored her and put her on a pedestal, was maybe even obsessed with her. He made love to her often. Multiple times a day in fact, whether she was in the mood or not. He would tell you it was to keep her happy, to keep her satisfied so she wouldn’t ‘go looking for some strange.’
But reality held a different truth. At a level closer to awareness the frequent sex was about control, and Dante was certainly in control of the family. When Catherine or the kids questioned him he reminded them with fist or foot whose will was to be obeyed. On a deeper level, a level glimpsed only fleetingly and inadequately, the sex was about security. Or insecurity. His fucking Catherine, and I use that word deliberately dear reader, was to reassure his frail ego and tenuous grip on reality that she was real and loved him and was his.
Catherine would tell you that he was not always a compassionate lover. No, Dante was often not gentle and took his pleasure whenever and however he pleased. She would tell you he was mostly rough, indifferent to her desires and would angrily pound against her until he got his release, only then becoming tender. She devised ways to avoid him, surprising and delighting herself with her ingenuity. But his onslaught was never deterred for more than a day or two.
Was Dante abusive? Was Catherine’s role in life to be a victim? I can’t answer that, but I can tell you that once, when an injury kept Dante from pursuing her for several weeks Catherine began to think he didn’t love her. She found herself wanting things back the way they had been, which they were by the time they moved into their new home. So I say, dear reader, that whatever drove the Maxwell’s needs their issues dovetailed nicely, and that their marriage was as stable as such a marriage can be.
After a week or so in the new house in that upscale neighborhood Dante began to complain of headaches and of unpleasant odors. He said it felt like there was a band around his head, that his thinking seemed sluggish. He sometimes thought he saw darting shadows at the corners of his vision. Extensive medical testing could find nothing wrong physically so Dante began taking prescription and over the counter medicine often and in large amounts.
Dante finally got around to mounting and placing his swords on walls and on any available flat surface: crossed swords on the wall over the couch, samurai swords on the mantle, katana swords on the coffee table. Scottish broadswords and Celtic swords adorned the hallway walls. His gun collection was locked in a gun safe, except for the loaded M-9 semiautomatic from his Army days, which he kept in his bedside drawer.
Two months after the Maxwell’s moved in Catherine began having panic attacks. She couldn’t have told you why, just that an untold terror filled her in certain parts of the house, at certain times of the day.
The kids seemed largely unaffected, but as the d
ays stretched into weeks then months they became quieter, seemed on edge and withdrew from their parents more than was usual for children their age.
Dante grew increasingly irritable. He demanded sex constantly and there was no escape for Catherine. She too became more anxious and irritable and began taking anti-anxiety medicine, alcohol chasing the pills.
Friends and acquaintances would see Dante and Catherine out shopping, smiling and talking to each other. It was so sweet that the Maxwell’s did everything together their friends would say, and the Maxwell’s would smile warmly at each other and at them. Catherine wore that public mask well, though at home it was not that pleasant an existence.
Dante was becoming increasingly paranoid. He accused her of having an affair. He was irrationally jealous of her friends, not that she talked to many of them by then. He wouldn’t let her be without him in public. Dante would tell you it was to protect Catherine because she was naïve to the ways of the world. She would tell you different, if she could tell you of such things.
Near the end Catherine had to be at Dante’s side at all times, even when he was watching his profane and violent movies. She had to go to bed when he did even though she was not tired.
Catherine would wake up in the middle of the night to find Dante missing from the bed, but never went to look for him after the first time. The first time, she got out of bed to see if he was okay and found him in the den, crouched below the window overlooking the back yard. A board squeaked under her foot and Dante whirled and Catherine screamed. The gun that misfired was pointed at her chest.
She was terrified of Dante. He became enraged and shoved her when she made a meek suggestion he see a doctor, or psychiatrist. She thought about leaving him. But of course she couldn’t. She wasn’t raised that way, so she would endure.
Near the end Dante drank heavily to help him get to sleep. He was quite brutal in his sexual demands, yet on she suffered, convinced that to not have his attention was to be unloved. In her heart of hearts she believed all of the bad things happening were her fault, because everything was her fault, just as she had been told all of her life.
The night he snapped she received a phone call from the husband of one of her friends about a play date for Matt. It was an innocuous call of course, but had great import for Dante, who was convinced it was her lover. He was relentless in his accusations and she was sobbing hysterically when he finally left her alone to do as she pleased. Catherine retreated to the bedroom to hide and to drink herself to sleep.
The kids were very quiet in their rooms that night. They were even more invisible than usual when Dante was in one of his ‘moods.’ They had the physical scars a short learning curve had cost them. The emotional scars were still being etched.
After their fight on the night he snapped Dante sat at the kitchen table quietly brooding and nursing a bottle of scotch. Sometime deep into that night he made a decision. He carefully selected three swords.
I’m quite certain that by now you know what happened, dear reader. Yes, Dante carefully selected the instruments of death that would send his family on the path to the next plane, not that he believed in a God.
Dante had decided Catherine was going to leave him. He was convinced of that and had long ago decided that if he couldn’t have her nobody would. And growing up motherless was certainly no way to exist, so he would shield his dearest ones from that exquisite pain.
One sword for each. He started with the youngest, sleeping peacefully in his bed in the middle of that terrible night. And then Dante lovingly murdered his daughter. Finally, he approached his beloved Catherine, his Catherine who was about to betray him. With tears in his eyes, a love so monstrous his heart was bursting, and with all his strength, he released the sword he held in his upraised hands. The samurai sword glinted in the bright moonlight as it arced down and did its terrible work.
The police found Dante well away from the house, lying comatose on his immaculate lawn. He claimed he did not recall killing his family and was truly horrified to be told of what had happened. Defense experts, neurologists, psychologists and psychiatrists, could find no medical or mental disorder to hang a case on.
Dante was convicted of course. But a week or so away from the house he no longer suffered from headaches. A fog, if you will, had lifted and with true comprehension of what he had done his fragile mind shattered beyond recovery. Dante now quietly spends his days in his room at a state mental hospital, the place where he will, quite likely, die.
And so, dear reader, that is the Maxwell’s story. But what lies behind their tragedy? What compels a man to murder his beloved family? Are psychiatric vulnerabilities and external pressures at the root of such devastation? Could it really be that simple? Or is something malignant operating just under the surface, just beyond the edge of our perception, deadly when it penetrates the seams of our world.
Could it be true that there was something unnatural about that house? Would the next person living there go mad? Would yet another family move in and perish? We’ll never know. The house was razed after Dante set it ablaze that heartbreaking night.
But, dear reader, what do you make of the fact that, with the exception of the original owner – an intensely private man whose numerous guests arrived unseen by neighbors – all three previous owners met with madness and murder.
And what do you make of all those bones authorities found behind the walls throughout the house, the bones of many more than one.
And who am I, you might ask? Exactly who is your humble story teller? Pray, dear reader, you never find out.
*****
I hope you enjoyed my little tale of horror. Please take a moment to vote, or to leave a comment with your vote. Thank you for your time, dear reader.
Dani
- 12.03.2021
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