Chapter 1
My name, as I am called by the living is Timothy. It was my title by birth, the very name of my great-grandfather Timothy Lawrence. He was a great leader of a small town, nestled in Beverly, East Yorkshire. My mother was a historian and a lover of Great Brittan’s legendary past. My father on the other hand, was less of an activist in my life. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care to send a letter now and again, but as the flow of birthday cards became more and more obsolete, so did my father.
When I was five we moved from England to New York, seeking new life under the red, white, and blue. America: the land of the free and a place of hope for the hopeless. Such a place took me in as one of them. For the past twenty years I spent living with my mother and always I wondered of my father. Was he dead, gone? Did he still want to be with us? My sixteenth birthday rolled around and still no call, nor card, nothing. The next four years my father lay hidden in the dark, not willing to expose himself to nether myself, or my mother, who had long given up on him.
After graduating with honors and a Masters degree in English I moved to a smaller city to begin my practice: Chester, New Jersey. With the income I had earned I raised a small cottage and started the process of moving in. For the next few months life had gone on, until last night.
The sun splintered in through my pale window. My bedroom floor was covered in sheets and pillows as many of them had been thrown there from my unconscious outburst. I just sat, looking out at the forest that surrounded my house. My mother always loved the country. She was born in the rolling plains of Scotland. My father on the other hand was born in the heart of Britain: London.
Beverly was my parent’s compromise; it was neither a huge city nor a sprawling countryside. But I would not compromise for my father, thus Chester. I would have brought my mother here as well, but her work in the schools tied her down. My shirt lay on a rickety chair paired by an old oak desk. Rising stiffly, I stumbled over and slip it on. My digital alarm clock displayed 9:00 am. I had slept in, after rolling out bed screaming bloody murder at one in the morning.
Papers covered in scribbles were spread out all over the desk in disorderly fashion. Centering them all was a small laptop computer. With much squeaking I eased myself into the wobbly recliner, booted up the PC, and began typing frantically.
9:35am October 20th, 2006
I cannot begin to describe the events that have occurred in the past night. Dreams of horror and terror beyond imaginable. A monster from my nightmare called me Gregory. Greg is the name of my father, which is short for Gregory. My mother always called me a little Greg when I was younger; due to the many actions that I performed that somehow imitated my father.
My dream said I had a son. Me? A son? I have never been with a woman in a relationship more than a friend. Though now that I think of it, I do know a Martha. She had recently co-authored a book with me called “The Rising”. The books constancy was that of fictional political matters in America, yet I highly remember creating that work with her more than any other.
She was a very quite woman; short in stature, yet not in mind. A brilliant mind she had at that. Full of thoughts and ideas that few compared with. A very…
My hands stop typing. Tremors filled my very bones. Her scream, I could still hear it ringing in my ears. Anguish over took me as I remembered the pain of her passing. Though my mind convinced me that the Martha of my dream was not the one of reality, yet something in my gut could not separate the two. Tears were brimming in my eyes as I let my emotions get the better of me. It was only a dream right? How does something so fake become so real?
For ten whole minutes I sat, staring into nothingness, pondering and questioning my very state of mind. My life had been one of complete turmoil. After the disappearance of my father, my mother had been wooed many times by several different suitors. Now it would be disrespectful and even untrue to say that these men were ugly and grotesque, yet they were that way on the inside. When my mother finally chose one of her liking she did not realize the heart of the man.
Because of that choice she made I still bear the scars of countless beatings from my stepfather. When my mother was away he would drag me, shirtless, outside and into the cold and smack me around. Over the many years that went on for my mother would constantly ask why I had black eyes or a bloody nose. I was too afraid to tell her. But it came a day when I overpowered my stepfather. I would take his beatings no longer. That time it was he who fled our home.
Still the childhood that we live through does not make us or define us. Of course that does not take away the fact that it is very painful to receive daily beatings from one’s stepfather. What I learned through all of that was to be better: better than my father who left me, and the one who left me with bruises.
A cold draft came in from under my closed door. My bear feet started to feel slightly numb and I quickly stomped them to get the blood flowing. Sluggishly I shut my computer down, stood, and walked to the perpetrator of all this cold air. As I exited my bedroom I could see my front door from my standing point on top of a flight of stairs. My front door was ajar. Panic sized my already unstable heart. I could have sworn that I had shut that door.
A clattering sounded from my kitchen. Slowly, I crept downward: the stairs reacting to my every move in a creaky chorus. I clenched my hands into tightly balled fists. It seemed like it took forever to get down the stairs as ever step sounded painfully loud. My heart was beating like an out of control drum.
A crash resounded once again, louder this time. Stealthily I crept onward, seeking to find the source of all this commotion. Sweat dripped down my lip, making me quickly wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt. Fear creped down my spine and rooted itself in my chest: tightening it.
In the kitchen chairs were overturned, dishes and cups shattered on the floor. What stopped my heart was nothing that lay on the floor, but what was suspended above it. Hanging by a roughly knotted noose dangled a body of a woman. Her black hair was dripping from exertion against her killer and it hung over her face obscuring features.
My stomach revolted at the sight of the body as a putrid taste filled my mouth. The woman’s slim form slightly swung left and right from the angle she was hung. A trickle of blood slithered from her lip and over her chin. The creaking of her weight on the rope was the only sound other than my breathing in the room. I stepped lightly, trying to avoid cutting my feet on the broken glass that littered the floor. As I reached the woman her appearance became more and more familiar.
“Mom?” There was no denying the form that hung, lifeless before me. With a trembling hand I brushed some of her dark hair away from her eyes. Her green eyes stared at me with blank expression as her mouth opened in a silent scream. This time there was no holding back the sickness in my stomach as it emptied its contents on the floor. Tears blurred my vision; this couldn’t be happening.
I feel to my knees, ignoring the pain that flared from pieces of glass that cut them.
“Oh God no, please no,” I allowed my body to shake with each sob of sorrow. I screamed, so loud; too loud. Hot moisture wet my cheeks as I wept. I glanced upward to see a yellow object on my mother’s stomach. I vainly tried to cut my cries to a sniffle as I stood quickly. It was a sticky note attached to her. It read:
Death is such a cruel thing isn’t it Timmy? The execution of the ones you love, as you stand now defenseless before them must hurt you, deeply. I told you we were coming, and yet you did not heed our warnings. And we, have now become one. One of mind, heart, and soul. Yet you don’t understand Timmy; why I do what I do. Why I kill. Do not think I kill without purpose and reason. No one is without sin Timmy and because of that all must face death. The voices above have told me so. They have called for my repentance, my allegiance, and a willing hand to kill all who opposed the way. You must hate me bitterly, but I enjoy your hate. It fills me with joy to imagine you seething, squirming with rage. Come and find me Timmy, I am near. Find the ones you love: ether in this life or in the ones you dream. There you will find me. Find Martha lover boy. She’s next,
Black.