Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Nightmares of Death ❯ Nightmares of Death ( Chapter 1 )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nightmares of Death

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jamey Klawinski sat outside on the steps of his small apartment in San Francisco. His semi-short chestnut color hair blowing in the salty wind that blew in off the bay. It was a nice night, chilly as was usually in San Francisco. He leaned back, putting his weight on his elbows that now rested on the flat surface of the step above.

He stared up at the sky, slightly cloudy, though you could see some of the blue, turning an inky black as the sun set. The oranges and pinks cast on the clouds by the hardly visible sun near the horizon were nearly burnt out now. There were stars up there, he knew, but the lights of the city kept them from being visible. But he could remember watching those stars from his country home when he was growing up.

At twenty-four his child hood seemed so far away. A distant dream still present but hard to remember. Both his parents were dead now, his country home sold. His mother and father had both died in a burglary when he was seventeen. He'd come home from a party one night to find them dead on the floor. He'd been devastated and after finishing out his senior year, living with his aunt, he'd moved to San Francisco. He'd need to get away, to escape what had happened. He didn't talk to his family any more either. He had a few friends in the city though, and they kept him from being completely lonely.

He shivered a little, now that the sun was all the way down. He figured he would probably go inside, possibly get something to eat. But defiantly get ready for work the next day.

 

Kristofer Johnstonbaugh stepped into his San Francisco apartment and inhaled deeply. He'd been gone for several months but was quite happy to be back. While he was gone he'd been keeping a slight eye on everything and was pleased that nothing was to badly messed up.

He needed a fix though. Not of drugs, no he didn't take any of those. He didn't even drink. Alcohol was what had caused his father to go crazy and kill his mother. And ultimately what had lead him, Kristofer, to kill the man. That time it had been self defense. Rodney, in his drunken, self loathing stupor and killed his wife, and then tried to kill his son. Only his son hadn't been caught off guard.

He'd walked into the house after getting back late to find a trail of blood. He immediately grabbed the closest object he could fine that would do damage. A knife from the kitchen had happened to be it.

Then he'd walked into the living room to find his father kneeling by his mother, covered in blood. As the man proceeded to lunged at him with a nearly identical knife to the one Kristofer had been holding, his son had smelt the booze on him.

Kristofer had grabbed his father's wrist then, plunging the knife into the soft part of the belly, just below the sternum. And as the blade of the knife tore at flesh and intestine, the blood oozing out to cover his hand in a warm sticky coating, he'd felt an odd sensation. He'd enjoyed it, the feeling of tearing flesh and oozing blood, the warmth of it as it covered his hand. And the look of pain and shock on Rodney's face had some how satisfied him.

All this had been about seven years ago now, and he'd moved to San Francisco only a few months after, once everything had been cleared up, that it had really been self defense and all that.

Yes, that time it had been too. But the twenty-seven other men hadn't been. He didn't kill anyone near the age of his father. He preferred younger, more attractive men. More like boys. He'd wander the streets of this city, having learned them well in his time there. He would keep walking until he found some little homeless boy, a runaway, usually.

After convincing them to come with him which normally wasn't much, when you're a starving stray you tend to follow anyone home who you think might feed you, he'd take them to a little house he'd bought not long after moving to the city. Then he would give them food. A good meal, since it would be their last.

After they'd eaten their fill he'd have his fun, his fix. Sometimes he'd sleep with them before he cut them open, giving them a final pleasure before the final pain. Then sometimes he wouldn't, he'd just go right into slicing open the soft flesh. They'd be lightly drugged, of coarse. He didn't want them getting up and running away that would be very bad.

He needed to find one of them now, had to get to that house before he went crazy. He turned for the door again, opening it. He was sure to lock it behind him before heading down the steps to the street. It wasn't far to his normal hunting grounds. The cool air helped him get his head back, to push the need to the rear of his head. He had to be calm in order to convince his pray, to get them to trust him.

He walked up the hills of the ever climbing streets of San Francisco, resisting the urge to just grab the first young man he saw. He had to be careful. Getting caught would be a terrible thing, especially if it was because he couldn't control himself.

After passing countless people, he found a boy who he didn't think could be more than sixteen. Short, with wild brown hair and large blue-green eyes. Kristofer could tell he hadn't showered in days, possible even weeks, and that he hadn't eaten well for some time. This, he decided, would be his next victim.

As he passed he made eye contact with the boy, a silent signal that if he followed there would be something for him. The boy got the message in Kristofer's eyes and silent followed him at a slight distance.

He led them both down a dark alley before he stopped and let the boy catch up. When he could feel the boy at his back he turned, giving the boy a slightly smile, “What's your name?” he asked in his light tenor, a soft, smooth sound that made you want to trust it.

“Brendan,” the boy replied weekly, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Brendan,” Kristofer replied, his smile widening slightly. “How would you like a place to stay tonight? A meal too?”

Brendan seemed to think about it, to weight going with a strange, something his mother had doubtlessly taught him not to do, or getting a soft bed and a meal for a price he though he knew. After a few seconds, he finally nodded.

Kristofer nearly grinned. “Follow me, Brendan,” he said softly heading off back down the alley. He would soon have his fix and then he could leave again, only to retune once more in another three or four months for another fix. For another boy.

 

The knife slid soundlessly, smoothly over the creamy flesh of the boy. Blood welled at its tip, running down the smooth curve of the half conscious body. The boy's blue-green eyes registered pain, horror, and something underneath, something he recognized as the acceptance of the inevitable. The knife slid down farther, farther until it reached the indentation that was the belly button. Kristofer leaned forward, licking some of the blood that was oozing from the wound he was inflicting with the knife. He lifted his head, looking at the boy's face again, before pushing the knife in deep so that it cut through all the layers of skin, so that if cut down to the inside.

He plunged his hand into the warm gooeyness that was the blood and intestines of the boy's body cavity. He wrapped his warming fingers around part of the large intestine and pulled it out of the cavern. As he did this, he watched the light slowly fading from the boy's eyes, the chest stop rising. That was what he enjoyed the most, yes he like the feel of the knife on the skin, the feel of the blood on his hands, but watching as the life left them, that was where his true joy laid.

Kristofer licked his fingers slowly, still looking into the half closed, now glazed over blue-green eyes of the boy, Brendan. And he smiled a true smile. The kind that shows up on someone's face when they've just done something they truly enjoy.

 

Jamey sat bolt up right in his bed breathing hard, nearly panting. It was the same sort of dream he'd been having since he was 17, since his parents had been killed. He looked around him. He didn't remember getting in bed…or changing his clothes for that matter. And his hair felt damp…had he taken a shower?

And that dream, cutting open a boy no older than sixteen. He inhaled deeply then let it out. The dreams only occurred once every three or four months. And it was always a different boy, but always a boy. He'd thought about talking to someone about it, but he didn't want anyone to think he actually wanted to cut up boys. It was just that they were so vivid. He could feel the weight of the knife in his hands. He could taste the blood as he lapped it from the boy's body and from his own hands after having plunged them into the hole created by the knife.

And those eyes…he could never forget the eyes. This time they were blue-green and soulless. The eyes, those were what haunted him from his nightmares of death, always the eyes. He shuddered as he lay back down, but the empty eyes of the boy would not leave him be. Even as he drifted back into a fitful sleep, he knew he would never escape any of those eyes.