So finally I'm writing my first kinda fiction or I dunno what to call this kind of writing. I was inspired by some sort of little ghost stories where people go to the mountain to party with a bunch of losers and in the end, they died by ghost or serial killers of course and the only survivor is our main character.
You know topical horror movies.
And I came up with this story and I'll upload 2parts of The night I beat a clown
I still don't know what will come in 2nd part but yeah, let's do this. :)
The first mistake on a long list was made by going to that damn party that night.
It was the holidays. New Years' in fact. But I was broken. At that time, I was in a bad spot, really. I was still reeling in the grim aftermath of love and loss. Helpless, irresponsible, and deprived of any lucidity, I had dropped out of college and upon hands and knees, I crawled back to the very hellhole from which I had come.
Home.
As I would later recall, I know there were moments in those first few months after his passing that the long hours before dawn were the most agonizing.
I was empty. I was beyond empty. I spent countless hours taking inventory of the missing pieces of me that were now gone forever.
Just like him.
How I kept tethered to this earth and didn't go chasing after him is beyond my intellect or faith.
The few friends I had were helpless in their efforts and steadily jumped ship one after the other.
In the end, I had only a single friend brave enough to venture into the harrowing of hell to save me. Fearing for my sanity (and probably her own), my one buddy, demanded that I go to this house party.
She patted my back and nodded eagerly and said, "It's New Year's Eve after all, don't you know?"
Her words and that big grin were like fleas.
I replied by linking an empty beer can at her head. But she was determined to save me.
Jesus is looking for her pal Lazarus.
"Say ahh," she said, her own jaw mimicking the movement.
I did and she tossed in a few pills and said, "There, that'll get you started."
A few hours later.
We pulled up to this three-story house. We were drunk on Crazy Horse and had been self-medicating ourselves with slugs of tequila straight from the bottle and singing "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys at the top of our lungs.
I stumbled out of our rusted-out chariot and took one look at the house and said, "Nope." And then got back in the car.
"What?"
"That's the fucking Amityville house!" I yelled, banging my finger against the window. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Nope. No. Nope."
"We're not in Amityville, we're in Bargersville. Come on."
She began to sing. "Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I want to take ya."
Before I knew it, I was singing along with the rat bastard. "Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama."
She pointed to the house. "There's a place..."
Against the better judgement of my guardian angel, I got out of the car and locked my arm around my buddy's neck, and we entered the party like Pancho Villa and Doc Holliday. With a hat and without a moustache.
Oh!! and also without a fine dick.
"Don't worry. I promise I'll stay by your side the whole time," she said while patting my shoulder.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
We weren't there for more than five minutes, and she was gone with her boy. They tore out into the night, off to some debauchery with a can of peaches.
Don't ask. I never understood it and had the misfortune of one time accidentally walking in on them. It took me years before I could eat a peach pie and not wanna gag.
There I was, alone. Lost in a myriad of dire faces and unknown bodies jamming to Jump by Kriss Kross. I knew this house was evil. I moved and sang, "The Mac Dad will make ya... The Daddy Mac Will make ya..."
"What did you do to your knuckles?"
I looked up and a girl holding a PBR was leaning against the kitchen door jamb. I slowly glanced down at my bloody and bruised knuckles. "Checkers."
"Must have been a tough game."
"Killer," I said.
She reached out a dainty hand and said, "The name is Martha"
Keep patient for the next part.
