My Father's Study

Uh, hey! So I've been wanting to tell you this for a while now, well. All of you, to be exact. Let's start out with who I am, my name is Jeremy. I am exactly around my mid-twenties as I type this and I've been wanting to get this out to the public for a while, but before I do I think you should know a bit about myself and my past.

I was an only child, I lived in a decently large house with my mother and father who both held quite decent pay but didn't currently like their uh... 'real' jobs. This made them develop hobbies of their own so, while I was normally playing with my toys or reading a simple children's book I'd enjoy the silence of the house while having simple fun. I'd sometimes go to check up on my parents, my mom who reached out for trying to be an artist was constantly painting, drawing or sculpting. She told me she more wants to focus on children's books, like the ones I read, she currently was working as a waitress which she loathed greatly. I developed this reading addiction from my father who's name I won't reveal was a massive bookworm, he strived to become an author kind of like the next writing sensation to the world or whatever.

However, when both of them tried to display or get recognized for their work, my mom would try her hardest to get her artwork noticed but she never seemed to and would get thrown into the pile of other failed artists. My dad was even worse, he got his books completely rejected constantly, as you'd imagine this would cause a lot of frustration and tension around the house. This was odd from it's normal nature, but when it happened. It happened big, I swear sometimes in the middle of the night I'd hear frustration outbursts, sometimes even intense arguing. This scared me, as for a ten year old boy I knew quite a bit for my age and I really didn't want to see a divorcement happen in my family, fortunately the arguing would die down a couple minutes or so after starting.

Anyways, as the rejections kept on happening my parent's patience for me began to thin. I'd sometimes go to ask my dad what he was working on and I'd normally get the cold shoulder or even sometimes a frustrated tone trying it's best to tell me to go away. The same thing would happen with my mother, sometimes it'd be threats as well, shortening my play time or even grounding me from the television or my books. This scared me, so I eventually gave up on trying to inspect what they were up to. Months passed and my interest started to spark up again when I started to hear why my fathers novels were getting rejected. It wasn't because of the plot, or bad written story, or anything like that. It was because of it's content, this baffled me, what were my father's stories like? I haven't ever read or even touched one of them. They're always too high on the shelf to read so I didn't bother to come close to touching one.

I decided to one day sneak into his study and find a stool to stand up. Shortly after my parent's went to bed I snuck downstairs at around midnight and flicked up the lights to his study hall. It was quite big, it had a very old style that made it feel like it was decades old. But I liked the feeling, I always felt safe in here. I took my Father's old chair he'd sit in at his desk and reach up to get one, I must've been too loud however because I was caught red-handed the moment I started to open and read chapter one of one of his books. My Father scolded me in a hushed tone and placed the book back. He even banned me from his study and a week of TV, what wasn't odd to me was of how harsh he was being over a lousy, rejected book. It was of how hard he tried to hide it, like if I read it I would know all of his deepest, darkest secrets.

I let it slide for a couple days, acting as if I was never caught. I'd still be burning with a fiery passion to know what was beyond those pages so, I decided to turn to my mother and ask for her answers. My parents always told each other about everything that has happened, they were extremely close. Once I shyly knocked on her door she looked and me and asked.

"What do you want, sweetie..?"

"M-Mommy..?" I stuttered. She tilt her head kindly towards me as I had my head down slightly, looking at my feet. I got the nervous feeling away and looked up at her.

"What's in Daddy's books?" I'd ask, scratching the Goosebumps on my arm.

"I'm not sure, why don't you go on and play, hm?" She'd say, quickly changing the subject.

I hadn't realized it till now but, she seemed to have avoided my question as if she too was in on this giant secret. Her and my dad seemed like two girly-girl best friends who gossiped all the time by how many secrets they knew that I didn't. I frowned, closed the door quietly and went back into my room, I needed to find out about this, what was in my dad's books? So, it was decided. I'd go down there tomorrow and find out what'd be awaiting me in those pages. But I wouldn't do it at night no, I'd just get caught again. When my mom and dad are at work, I'll do it.

So, I decided to head down to the study an hour or so after my parent's left, they tend to be quite forgetful and sometimes have to rush back home to pick up something they left behind. So, I did exactly what I did last time. I took the book and rushed to my room, I'd begin to read it before I heard the door slam open. My dad began running up the stairs, I shoved the book under my bed. Waiting for him to leave, I was going to read it by the end of the night, no exceptions. From what I recall, it had to be around ten to eleven PM by the time I was reading it, much too late for my normal curfew but it was a Saturday, so I got to stay up a bit before bedtime. I took the book out and saw the hard black cover, reading it.

"Annie Harkens."

A name? That's odd I thought to myself. I also was kind of creeped out by the name, it was of my father's mother. Regardless I began to read it, I'm extremely thankful I couldn't comprehend half of what I was reading, because what I saw, what my eyes skimmed over would be enough sins to feed a demon itself. There was so much blood, organs, torture, tools that were being used in an incorrect purpose. Filled into this monster of a piece of literature. The book seemed to be around 50 to 70 pages long, I skimmed through most of them, barely understanding it at times. But from what I remember the book was told in the first-person-perspective of the torturer. It described the dismemberment and torture of the victim of the novel who I could only assume was Annie Harkens. On the last page, which was blank. Was a dab of dried blood. I shut the book and quickly trotted to the study, while I was putting the book away I fell off of the stool, making a loud crash. I got up and hid in a closet of the study, waiting for my dad to rush in and look around. He did and I watched, he seemed tired, messy and unhinged. He scanned around the room like a animal with rabies, he looked at an excluded bookshelf near the corner of the left side of the room, he pushed it into the corner to reveal a small passage way into a very dark corridor, after a few mutters and grunts, he closed it and walked away from the room. I felt like I let an eternity pass before I got out of the closet and rushed back to bed. I'd go inspect that passageway tomorrow, there was something dark and deep behind all of this, and I was going to find out what it was.

The next day, I made sure the door to the house was locked, securely. After my parents left I bolted upstairs, with some weight and pressure I pushed the door open just enough to peek inside the dense, dark corridor and collected myself a dimly lit flashlight. I proceeded down this corridor, it's floor felt wet beneath my toes like moist dirt, I ran a hand on the wall to feel nothing but wet dirt, some occasional rotten wood or stone. It was cold, very cold. As I walked down the corridor for what seemed like hours, I began to pick up a rotten smell coming from ahead of me, tempted to run away crying to my mother in fear I pressed on, finding a small seperate passageways what seemed to me supported by weak wood frames and dug out with a shovel. As I walked closer I flashed my light on what seemed to be a door lable. I stopped dead in my tracks as I quietly whispered the name on the label.

"Annie Harkens." My own grandmothers name.

I pressed on, hearing my stomach churn as I saw the scene that layed before me. It was my grandmother, she would've been completely naked if dirt didn't cover her entire old body. She looked like she belonged in a twisted canabalistic cellar. She was completely gutted, her hair ripped out roughly in patches, bones were revealed in multiple places on her arms and legs, she was dead. But I still felt as if she was staring at me, looking at me to help her, I then realized something, this was the exact of my fathers novel, everything he did from the gutting to the small bruises and cuts on her face was all.... him.... My own father was a twisted murderer, not only that. But he started with his own mother as his first victim. I began to cry and vomit, but the scene or the smell isn't what terrorized me the most.

It was the sound of footsteps that drew closer as I smelled a smell of farmilliar scent and felt the warm breath breathe down my neck.

It was my fathers.

Author's Note: Hey there everyone! This is my first creepypasta writing so please be gentle with criticism, if you have to be harsh however constructively feel free to! Thanks a lot! :) ~Sox