18 Nov The Poet
CHECK OUT MORE STORIES SORTED BY:🏆 Top-Ranked Stories 📅 Recently Published 📚 Category ⌛ Length 📝 Author 📖 Title 📅 Published on November 18, 2017
"The Poet"Written by
Looking for author contact information? If available, it will be featured at the conclusion of the story. If you are still unable to determine how to reach the author, contact us for more information.
Estimated reading time — 13 minutes
Excerpt from a local newspaper:
MAN BRUTALLY MURDERED IN STREET
On Monday morning 96-year-old Truman Kumar was attacked; murdered outside of a small restaurant near his home. He had been on his way to get breakfast with his daughter Emilia Kumar. Emilia still shaken from the event, tells her story.
“It had started as just another normal Monday morning. I had met him at his house about ten minutes prior, he was already dressed and waiting on me when I got there He was very mobile and independent for a man his age,” she says while trying to compose herself. “Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked. We had walked down to the cafe and just as we were about to walk inside I saw this man sprinting towards us. He was about average height, had wild matted brown hair, or it could have been black…I couldn’t tell he was moving so fast. He wore dark green parachute pants and a black sleeveless shirt. His arms were covered in scars. He was screaming crazy garbage like “Poet knows your sins!” I tried to drag my dad inside but he was just standing there like he was frozen. I’ll never forget the look on his face: pure guilt and acceptance. As if he knew this would happen or something.
The man had his hands on my dad’s throat before I could snap him out of it. The man was scrawny but he was so unnaturally strong. He twisted my dad’s head sharply and I heard this awful cracking noise and my dad fell to the ground. That’s when the man turned to me, his face was inches from mine.” She chokes up, “He had a mask on, one of those weird Phantom of the Opera style masks, it was white leather, with a white lace trim around the edges. It was splattered with blood which terrified me even more because it was dried and my dad hadn’t bled. I’ll never forget what he said next, “The spirits do not cry out for your condemnation, now rejoice in this poetic justice.” Then he ran down the street without another word.”
Police are still on the lookout for this man. He is believed to be connected with several other murders across the country. If you see anyone that fits his description or you have any information on his whereabouts please contact your local police department.
It was a sunny autumn afternoon, although I wouldn’t be able to tell you that due to this being the third day I’ve spent locked in my dorm room studying for a project. From the time the sun began to rise to the time, it set I had sat at that computer with my notebook in hand scribbling down page after page of notes. I reached up and rubbed my eyes until it hurt and decided that now would be a good time to take one of my very rare breaks. I rose from my chair and stumbled towards the bathroom. After locking myself inside I looked in the mirror, a pair of bloodshot eyes and a bird nest of dark brown hair stared back at me. I hadn’t showered in days or had any real food besides whatever junk I had lying around the kitchen. I chuckled, Dad would kill me if he saw me like this. My father had always been obsessed with my family members looking their best. I guess he thought that since we were rich we all had to look the part so nobody forgot that we had more money than they did. I groaned at my own recollection of how snobby he was. Nonetheless being rich did have its perks say being able to study law at Harvard for example, which I currently am. The only problem was all the work, it was constant, grueling, and seemingly endless. But all of it paled in comparison to this assignment, now thanks to it I’ve wasted three days of my life studying a bunch of maniacs, pedophiles, and spoiled brats who’ve killed people like they were dogs and got away…it pissed me off. I finished up my session of studying myself in the mirror and walked into the kitchen and raided the fridge for something to drink. All that I could find was a can of Monster. I guess one of my friends left it here the last time I had them over. I hated the stuff but beggars can’t be choosers I guess. I plopped down in my swivel chair and cracked the can open. Time to get back to work.
The rest of the day passed extremely slow and the more I read about these monsters the more I despised them. They killed for pleasure and for sport, sometimes just for the hell of it. A lot of them didn’t even kill their victims quickly, they stabbed them in the stomach or shot their knees out and watched them bleed to death as they scream in agony. I even found pictures, both from the investigations and the ones that people or the killers themselves took. It was a game to them, my grip on the mouse tightened to the point my knuckles were pure white. I quickly stood up and shut the computer down and clutched my head, these cases have been driving me up the wall for the past three days and now my frustrations were manifesting themselves in the form of a pounding headache that felt like someone was going at my skull with a power drill. After downing some aspirin I retired to my bed, as I laid my head down on the pillow I nearly had a heart attack when I heard a woman scream.
“HELP ME ALEX!” I fell out of bed and jumped to my feet.
“Who’s there!?” I shout looking around the room, when I get no answer I sit down on my bed and rub my head, “All this stress has gone to my head…” I thought that would be the last of it.
I was wrong, dead wrong. The screams persisted, getting worse each day until they were all I heard. My phone was constantly lit up with notifications and calls that I just let ring as I laid on my bed clutching my ears screaming while the screams echoed in my head. I quit school because I couldn’t focus, all I heard was screaming. Now I’m going back home to tell my family what I’ve done and why….and if I’m lucky they won’t bite my head off or ship me to the looney bin I’m sitting in the airport waiting for the car my dad sent to come pick me up. The screams gave me constant mind-numbing headaches. I can’t even understand what they’re saying because they are all talking at once, but they’ve seemed to let up now…only coming in short bursts that made me grit my teeth to keep from screaming in pain. Finally after what seemed like an eternity a man in a suit walked up next to an exit and held up a sign that said, Monroe. Must be for me. I grab my suitcase and walk over to him.
“Mr. Monroe?” He asks. I nod and he tucks the sign under his arm and leads me outside to where a short limo was parked. I felt heat surge to my cheeks.
“Dad…you didn’t have to do this,” I mutter to myself. But considering the literal hell I’ve been going through and the unforeseen long-term side effects of going through entire bottles of aspirin per day hanging over my head like an anvil, I could really use any sort of comfort. He goes to open the door for me, I stop him, “I got it…just drive…” I step inside and take a seat. My house is about three miles from the airport but the traffic ensures it’ll take me an hour or more to get there. So I drill my earbuds into my ears and crank up the volume on my phone and let the sound drown out everything else. But then a voice slipped through, a faint whisper that caused my eyes to snap open. Oh God, here we go again. I crank up the volume the highest it will go in a desperate attempt to block out some of it, or make myself go deaf, either one sounds great right about now. The screams start, the music does nothing, I didn’t think it would…they’re in my head. I clench my fists and grit my teeth against the agonizing roar. I feel tears well up, I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Kill me. Kill me. Please God put me out of my misery! I beat the seat with my fists and bury my face in one until the screams fade away. My ears are ringing and my eyes are burning afterward. This is hell… I think to myself as I choke back the vomit threatening to rise up in the back of my throat. Man, this day can’t possibly get worse…
After about an hour, just as I predicted, I arrived in the shadow of my home. It was an overly ornate mansion that towered over the trees and every other building in the surrounding area. I take a deep breath and step up to the heavy wooden door in which an intricate design is carved into. I reach up and knock using the golden lion head knocker. Soon the door opened and I was pounced on by a young girl.
“Alex!” My young sister shouted as she wrapped her arms tight around me and pressed her head against my chest giggling. I felt a smile spread across my face as I reached down and ruffled her soft blonde hair. I walked through the door with her clinging to me like a bur. “I thought you were in school,” she said in a questioning tone as she looked up at me.
“I was…I just….just….” Dear God the whisper…oh no… I close my eyes. “Mel, why don’t you go play in a different room for a bit?” I asked trying my best not to sound completely desperate.
“Nooo! I wanna play with you!” I began to panic, I had to get her away from me.
“MEL GO TO ANOTHER ROOM NOW!” She screamed and began to cry, and at that, my mom ran into the living room.
“Alex what did you do to your sister!?” I dropped to my knees and gripped the fibers of the carpet beneath me. Oh god here it comes!
“Alex….avenge us.” My blood ran cold, I could finally understand what they were saying but what do they mean avenge them? “They killed us Alex, and yet they get to live their lives.” I’m shaking now, the voice is so sweet, so innocent, it was as if a child was in my brain telling me these things. Who killed you? “One of them is near…very near…very close…” What could they mean?! I look up at my mother and screamed bloody murder.
“What the hell has gotten into you, Alex?!” She was drenched in blood, and a combat knife dripping with it was clutched in her hand. I get it now…. A red hue begins to bleed down and dye my vision a deep crimson. I feel anger bubble up from my stomach, white-hot fury and pure hatred. My eyes fall on my mother who was tending to my crying sister. I strike like a cobra, jumping at her and wrapping my hands around her throat before she has a chance to scream. She stares into my soul with her terrified, pleading, dark brown eyes. I counter this by staring directly into hers as I squeeze until I watch the life bleed from them… I hear voices cry out words of gratefulness as they fade from my mind. I drop her lifeless corpse on the couch and discover Mel cowering against the wall sobbing.
“Why did you hurt momma?” she says through her wails. I walk over to her staying completely silent as I kneel down in front of her.
“Because she killed people sweetheart, and now she’s burning in hell,” I offer a warm smile as I gently stroke her cheek, and then I grab her chin and make her look at me, “but don’t worry, I won’t hurt you….no souls cry out for your condemnation.” This makes her scream and bawls even more as I stand and walk down the hall. I feel the anger coursing through my veins, I feel it wriggling about and slithering through me like some sort of parasite. It makes me feel so warm inside yet as cold a corpse at the same time. I look down at my clothes, I had chosen casual formal when I woke up this morning for some reason…the clothes were tight and the shirt already had a tear in it from when I strangled my mother. These won’t do at all, I think to myself as I shake my head in disapproval. The voices in my head will just have to wait. I walked into my bedroom and found the maid inside, she was putting my bag on the foot of my bed.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Monroe?” I shook my head and she excused herself, I grabbed her shoulder before she could leave.
“Take care of a Melissa for me.” She shot me a confused look before I shoved her out the doorway and locked myself inside. After rummaging through my suitcase I decided on a baggy black sleeveless shirt, olive green parachute pants that I had forgotten I had even packed, and a pair of sneakers.
I had just finished lacing up my shoes when I heard the maid scream, I had to move fast before the police arrived. I kicked the door open smashing the handle to bits. I turned and began to book it towards the front door.
“Alex wait…another monster is close…” I thought for a moment and then it hit me, Uncle Kerr….the bastard…I should have known. His office was at the back of the house, he was a stockbroker so he hardly ever left the place. I took a step forward then stopped, I need a weapon of some kind he’s probably pulling that pistol out of his desk drawer right now. I scan the hall and see a wire hanger laying on the floor by my broken doorknob. I snatch it up and pull it until it snaps and I’m left with a single long metal wire. As I walk towards his office I could hear the voices egging me on, at this point I’ve established they are the spirits of murder victims or I’m just completely crazy. Either way, this must be done, the voices must stop… I get to his office and I open the door slowly, wary of his gun. He’s just gotten up from his desk, something his large stomach made difficult.
“Alex, what’s wrong? I heard one of the gillies scream, what’s going on ya barra?” His voice was dripping with the Scottish accent both he and my dad possessed. Just like my mom, he too was covered in blood except he had a bloody revolver in a leather holster that went across his chest. I stayed silent as his eyes traveled to the coat hanger in my hand. He seemed puzzled, “What do ya intend to do with that?” I say nothing as I step closer. “Wait a minute…Alex…what’s going on here?” he said slowly backing away from me. I surge forward bringing the wire behind his head using it to yank him forward over the desk. He starts to scream and slap my hands as I wrap the wire around his neck. He gets one last desperate plea for mercy out before I begin to pull on the opposite ends of the wire making the hole his neck occupied smaller and smaller. He kicked and choked as the wire dug into his flesh, blood began to pour from his neck although I could hardly see it due to the red hue that enveloped my vision. I pulled and pulled until I heard a loud tearing noise followed by a snap and blood sprayed the room. His head dropped to the floor, I carefully leaned his headless corpse back in his chair and left the room. As I walked down the hall I froze, hit by a sudden realization. I’m a serial killer….that murdered other serial killers….now that’s some funny poetic justice right there, you know what else is funny? I murdered my own mother and my uncle! And now my little sister is probably going to need years of therapy to get over this. NOW THAT’S FUNNY! I begin to fall backward, cascading into the darkness, I’m laughing like a madman as tears pour down my face. I want to sob with my voice to but I just keep laughing, poetic justice, laughing and falling, laughing and falling, poetic justice, laughing and falling, laughing and falling, laughing and falling, laughing and falling. Finally, I hit the bottom. Alex hit the bottom…he hit the bottom and he died…….and Poet rose.
Poet walked down the hall into the living room where his father was arguing with the maid.
“I’ll handle this while ya call the boaby.” His father barks while opens up the cabinet to a tall grandfather clock and pulls a lever action shotgun out.
“Who’s that?” the maid asks sheepishly. His father turns to her.
”The police ya bumbling buffoon the police!” He booms. He groans as he begins walking towards the hall.
“Hi, dad…” Poet says stepping out blocking his path. Dad is covered in blood, just like the others, but it doesn’t bother him anymore.
“Alexander Isaiah Monroe, what have ya done to your mother and why are ya covered in blood?!” His father demands. Poet says nothing at first, but then finally speaks.
“Alex….doesn’t exist anymore….there is only Poet now…and he knows what you are….he knows your sins…and now you’re going to die by his hand and he will REJOICE IN THIS POETIC JUSTICE!” He turns the gun on Poet quickly and swings it like a bat-shattering Poet’s nose and knocking him to the floor.
“Ya know what I am ey? Well maybe if you knew the whole damn story…”
“You can’t rationalize murder!” Poet hissed at him as he clambered into a feral stance on all fours before getting a swift kick in the face knocking him back on the floor.
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA!” His father screams, “Me and yer uncle…were immigrants! We. Had. Nothing! We came here to escape my dad! That old drunk bastard used to beat the sod out of us both! So we packed our things and one night while he was at the pub drunk as a lord we stowed away on the first boat heading out of Scotland,” Poet tries to stand and he clubs Poet on the crown of his head knocking him down again, “SIT DOWN! Listen you stupid shite! If we’re gonna kill each other then ya need to learn the truth first!” Poet snarled but obeyed and sat quietly. We had no idea where we were heading or what we would do when we got there, but we left anyway. That’s how we made it here to America.” He put his hand on his forehead, “Things….got desperate really fast, we couldn’t find a job, we had brought no money, what little food we did bring we had used up on the trip over. But when all hope was lost we were given an offer by a polite Italian man in a black suit.” A grin drew the corners of his mouth to his ears. Poet took a moment to connect the dots but when he did it hit him like a freight train.
“You….and Uncle Kerr killed people for the Mafia!?” Dad clapped his hands.
“OH nice bloody job Alex, you solved the mystery.” His grin went away very fast, “The pay was amazing and we were perfect for it, as far as anyone knew we had disappeared off the face of the planet so we basically didn’t exist and after a little accident,” He grinned again and lifted his hands to show the tips of his fingers which were covered in scar tissue, (He burnt his fingerprints off…good God Dad is a psycho), “we were untraceable too.”
“That doesn’t explain how mom was involved!” Poet shouted getting impatient. His father frowned.
“Yer mother met me a few weeks after our…hmm I think it was our third job. Well, we tried to keep it a secret from her for the longest time, but she eventually found out about it. Women’s intuition I guess, surprisingly she didn’t give me the boot right then and there. She actually started working with us she was an…..interesting woman back then.” Poet snarled angrily,
“You lied to him! You lied to Alex!” His father furrowed his eyebrows in an expression that clearly showed he was barely managing to contain his frustrations.
“I knew we shouldn’t have sent ya to fucking law school.” He squeezed the trigger and the gun barked bathing the room in a sudden blinding flash. A spray of buckshot was sent through the air grazing the side of Poet’s face tearing away flesh and skin as it went. Poet screamed in agony as he fell to the floor. His father growled,
“How are you still alive!!” He stepped on Poet’s chest pushing him down as he shoved the gun barrel into the V-shaped concave of his throat. Poet reached up and gripped the barrel of his gun tightly and began to squeeze. In a matter of seconds, the barrel was crushed closed. His father stared in shock, “H…H…How…?” In an instant Poet was on his feet and he delivered a powerful right hook that sent his dad spinning before collapsing face down on the ground. Poet sat on his back and grabbed his father’s head who began to scream, “WAIT! I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO!” He screamed as he tried in vain to break out of Poet’s iron grip. “NO! NO SON NO DON’T!” Poet didn’t listen, he just twisted his father’s head hard and was rewarded with a sharp crack followed by silence. He looked down to see his dad’s face staring up at him, frozen in panic. Poet looked at the maid who grabbed a crying Melissa and backed into the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, Poet will not hurt you….no souls cry out for your condemnation…” Poet hung his head and stood up before he smashed through the sliding glass back door as the police burst through the door.
Poet knows what you are, Poet knows your sins, all that is done in darkness will come into the light, and when it does…he will be waiting.
CREDIT : InkPen
🔔 More stories from author:
Rate this story:
Creepypasta.com is proud to accept horror fiction and true scary story submissions year-round, from both amateur and published authors. To submit your original work for consideration, please visit our story submissions page today.