Child of the Dead [Short Story]

Child of the Dead is an interesting piece. It not only showcased my first real attempt at writing (sometime during the tenth grade, I think?) but revealed my love of horror creation. Well, it at least showed me my love of horror writing.

It’s a raw piece and while I’ve made changes here and there I’ve kept most of it intact from its original debut in my high school’s quad. I can still remember the faces of a few friends after reading it. The general confused and “is this guy alright?” looks crossed their faces.

In my opinion, I’ve gone on to write better pieces, but this will forever by my first. My virgin piece.


“God damn it, Bitch! Where in the hell is my supper?”

Mr Sullivan once again returned home from a heavy night of drinking, and he was not in a mood to handle anyone unless it was a bartender. His large beard stinking with the smell of beer, as is his breath. His hair, or what he had left of it, all messed up in a three-week-uncombed way. The small beady little things, which were supposed to be eyes, bloodshot from the smoke-infested bar he had resided in for the past several hours. The plaid t-shirt, which he always wore, was old and faded from the amount of drink that had been split down it. The fabric stretched, revealing his large beer belly (a fitting title).

“Just hold on a minute H-Honey. I’m just warming it up, okay?” Sullivan’s wife trembled at the sound of her husband’s voice and always began to shake with fear.

“What? Why isn’t it on the table already?” Now standing up and swaying to and fro from his unsteadiness, “I provide and I provide, and what do I get in return? Nothing!? Absolutely fucking nothing! Why do I even bother?” His voice grew louder with his rage.

“Please Walter be quiet, you’re going to wake Tommy. Please-“

Before she could finish her plea, Walter stood behind her; he turns her around and slaps the woman across her face. The force knocks her onto the floor and brings her soft eyes to the point of tears. A large, red handprint is already forming on the side of her face.

“Wh-,” he loses his words for a moment, “why should I?” What are you going to do about it? Cry me a river so I can drown in it? Come on, show me what you’re going to do.” His larger bear figure looming over her.

Now she really is scared and can no longer contain her tears. They begin to fall out while an object catches her eye in the doorway. She turns her head towards the kitchen door, where to her surprise their son, Tommy, is standing with his Ninja Turtle stuffed toy.

“It has been too long since you took your fucking medicine, Bitch.” Walter forces his wife to turn her head to face him with such force it almost snaps her neck in the process. “Look at me when I talk to you. What are you looking at?” He turns around to also find Tommy standing in the doorway. Tommy’s face pale and his eyes encrusted from the deep sleep he awoke from. The boy blinks stupidly as he tries to adjust to the fluorescent kitchen lights.

“Tommy, my boy, come here a moment. I want you to see how daddy gives mommy her medicine,” the man booms in a jolly manner, trying to sugarcoat his drunken words and vile manner. He whispers, “Her fucking medicine.”

The boy stares at him for several moments, before finally opening his mouth, “My friends do not like you, Daddy. They say you are a bad man and that you should be punished.” The boy continued to stare as if not knowing what words had just come out of his mouth. He has a calm composure and he’s fully aware of what is going on.

Walter backs into his foul mood once more. “What? Boy, you don’t have any friends! Who told you this? Was it your whore of a mother? This Bitch? Tell me, boy!”

“No, daddy,” the child finally realises what is happening and begins to shake with fear, “it wasn’t mommy it was my friends, the ones that I see. They’re everywhere.” Sullivan junior takes a step towards his father. His eyes are fixated on that large, stinking man.

“You! You little bastard! I hope you’re not lying to me because if you are-“

The boy quickly interrupts his father. “No, daddy.” Tommy now walks up to his father, grabs the beast’s hand and begins to squeeze it. “I love you daddy, but this has to be goodbye. They say mommy and I should be happy.”

The large man’s face begins to turn a shade paler than white as he starts to whimper like a dog just been kicked. “No! What? Wh-who are all of you?! Get the fuck out of my house!?

He screams.

“Please, please just leave me alone. I-I swear I won’t hurt them again. Please.” His screams echo throughout the small house.

Blood begins to pour out of the man’s mouth, eyes and ears. The thick red substance flows like a river of crimson sludge.

“Don’t just stand there, Bitch!” He bellows louder, still with fear in his voice.

“Call me a damn ambulance! I’m having a fucking heart attack!” He plummets to the ground, Tommy still holding his hand tightly.

Mrs Sullivan finally gets up off the floor, rubbing her face. The woman begins to smile and then laugh, “Why should I? Why should I do anything for you? You good-for-nothing son of a bitch! Now you get what you deserve. Now you can feel what it’s like to die inside over and over again. I hope you rot in the Ninth.”

She grabs Tommy’s hand and the head for the front door of the two-bedroom house. As they reach the pick-up truck, Tommy’s mother realizes she hasn’t gotten the keys and starts heading back into the house, leaving Tommy next to the vehicle.

The woman reaches for the keys next to the front door and glances towards the kitchen. Mr Sullivan is lying in a puddle of his own blood, still violently shaking, and growing ever older by the moment. She returns to the truck and the two of them leave the house.

“That was easy,” whispers a faint voice in the air.