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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1240772-Father-to-Son
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #1240772
Times running out for TNT to write his entry for the contest ... What could go wrong?
Father to Son
By Stephen A Abell


Number Of Words: 4810



He had been foolish to leave it so long, and now the deadline was just days away. His fingers typed, and his eyes read the words as they popped up on the monitor.

Wedding Ceremonies
By T.N.T.


It was not really his fault though; his muse had left him high and dry. Devoid of ideas for the contest, he resorted fretting, scrunching his hands tight around his dry lanky hair, shaking his head and muttering, “No, no, no,” under his breath. On one of his forays in search of a caffeine release, he wondered past the living room door and heard the low tones of a priest reciting the wedding vows. Something twitched inside his frustrated mind.

As he tried to dose off to sleep that evening, his subconscious rocketed him back into alert wakefulness. The prompt for the contest was to write a story that included an ink pen. A bloody ink pen for God-sakes. How outrageous could he get with that? He’d toyed about with the idea of quills, and words written in blood; the usual stuff and nonsense spouted by horror writers like himself. None of the synopsis felt right to him. All of them had been recycled.

But, what happened at a wedding that involved a pen? The signing of the marriage certificates; that’s what happened. Every church wedding he attended stopped for about twenty minutes while the bride and the groom disappeared into a back room to sign the paperwork. What happened in that backroom? Why did it take so long to scribble your name on a piece of paper?

He leapt from his bed and rushed into his study. It was actually the box room, but they did not have any children so he decided to put it to better use. Since he could remember, he wanted to be a writer. As a child, he would reverse his role with the babysitter and tell them a bedtime story. Alice, his last sitter had brought over a couple of A4 notepads and pencils so he could write down his tales. At eighteen, his parents bought him a word processor; he quickly added the old hardcopies onto the hard-drive and floppies, making alterations as he went, as well as writing new material. Then work had cut into his free time and keyboard thumping took a dive. It was not until he met Rachael, and she had come across his old work that his love was rekindled. He upgraded from the word processor to a full computer with broadband internet access. Within a few weeks, he found a website for writers. Here he posted his latest tales of terror, mystery, and awe. People would rate and criticise them, hopefully leaving helpful reviews.

Now he sat in front of the monitor, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he let the story run out of his soul.

Okay, he thought, so it’s the wedding day of Mr David Wright and Miss Anita Stone. On the screen, his fingers weaved the tapestry of their fictional lives.

They had met in secondary school – he had a thing about teenage sweethearts - and had been together through college. Now, three years after graduating, they finally had enough money to tie-the-knot. With both sets of parents being devout Christians, David and Anita knew they wanted a full white church wedding for their kids. Gone are the days of the father of the bride stumping up a dowry for his child’s marriage. All the parents had to pool together, paying for different items, to make the sixteen thousand pounds the wedding and reception cost.

Breaking off and double clicking on the Firefox icon, he went online to research the Catholic ceremony. That was one of the good things with the internet; he smiled as he thought of the other good thing, porn. He was a man after all. Quickly putting that out of mind he surfed through Google, Ask Jeeves, Lycos, and a few lesser search engines, until he found the answers he was looking for. These he cut and pasted onto notepad and printed out a hard copy, he found it easier to work this way, for later reference. Then it was back to the story.

The photographer and videographer, brothers in business, turned up at ten in the morning to catch the commotion of the bride’s big day. Stills and action footage were taken of make-up application and hair styling; later a soundtrack would be added. The music of course would be the happy couple’s choice. Something nice and light was the usual pick, soft pop, and rock, sometimes classical pieces. The brothers had pushed for this section of the day. Stating that when things cooled down to a nervous sedate pace, then this would show everyone just how frantic the beginning of the ritual always was. When asked not to shoot anyone in underwear they had swore on their lives and business, that they never did that kind of thing. That was a lie though. In the back room of their business premises were hours of footage of beautiful women, their mothers, sisters, and friends in sexy lingerie, usually running around like chickens with their heads cut off. As yet, nobody had noticed, in the rush, the noise of the video recording, or the broken recording light, or the surreptitiously placed holes in the video carry bag – He smiled to himself as he thought, people love sleaze and solicitation.

His wife popped her head around the bedroom door and wished him a good morning. Looking quickly at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen he muttered, “Damn,” and then a hesitant, “good morning.” With more than a slight feeling annoyance he broke off from his flow to peck Alice on the lips the standard three times, she regarded it as a good luck portent.

“You goin’ into work today?” She asked politely, already knowing his answer.

It was short, sharp, and succinct, “No.”

“Do you want me to phone in sick for you then? I’ll say that you’re blockage has finally given way to massive cranial release?” She smiled at her own joke knowing that it had fallen on deaf ears.

“Err… Yeah… Please… Whatever…” The door was slowly closing in her face as he pushed it to with his foot, she could hear his fingers busy slapping plastic. “Thanks… Love… Love you…”


David came around two hours before the kick-off, for him everything related to football. This wedding was to be his biggest match, so far. His best man pulled him from the confines of a warm duvet and the safeness of unconsciousness. His head and vision spun the bedroom and his stomach soon followed. It had been one hell of a stag-night, there had been copious amounts of booze consumed; were there strippers? He thought so, but was not quite sure. As he staggered through his front room towards the kitchen and the awaiting coffee, he could smell the heavenly aroma, to bring him out of his alcoholic stupor; he saw the television screen and the three topless women dancing around his semi-naked form. Most of his chest was covered with whipped cream, which the girls were licking clean. Well, he thought, that answers my question.

Bazza, had poured a large mug of steaming, black, fresh brewed coffee and was in the process of adding the five sugars, he swore by, to give him energy. “My hero,” he announced is a voice much too loud. Bypassing the proffered mug, David made it to the sink just in time to vomit. “Couple of these down ya’ an’ then I’ll get you into the shower.” Bazza said. “Need to make you a man again for your big day.” David retched down the plug-hole once more – write what you know, that’s what people kept telling him. Keep it real and believable: Draw the reader in. He and Alice were married at a registrar office, not a church, and it put together on a budget. It was, by far, the best day of his life. His stag do the night before however, had left him pretty much like David. Too much drink and too few tits. He wished his mates had bumped for three blondes, instead of the one MILF they could afford. In the photos that appeared later, he admitted that through beer goggles she did not look to bad, but in the light of day his mates could have done better.

Anita’s mother cooed over her daughter in white, and with reason; for surely she looked as beautiful as any angel in heaven. Two of her cousins carried her train down the stairs, out the front door, and into the waiting Rolls Royce. It was white with decorations of pink lace ribbons.

Bazza, threw David’s bow tie in the bin, saying they were created by daemons from the darkest depths of hell, then whipped out a ready made bow that fastened at the rear with Velcro. As David fought with his Topcoat, Baz grabbed the Top Hats and eased him towards the front door and his Audi TT.

With less than five minutes to spare David and Baz arrived at the church before the bride’s entourage. Inside the church, all the pews were full. It amazed David because he recognized less than half the congregation. With a smirk, he looked at Baz and said, “Wedding Crashes” tipping him a wink, and muffling a slight laugh.

The organ blared into life with strains of “Here Comes the Bride” and suddenly all the silly humour left him. As he stared up the aisle to the entrance way his breathing became laboured, and his heart started skipping beats. When the angelic vision stepped through the doors into Gods house, he actually stopped breathing. If Baz had not clapped him on the back, when he had, David would have crumpled and fallen to the stone floor, in a dead faint.

It was the longest sixty eight seconds of his life, and they were so exquisite. His entire body was a flame with tingling nerve-endings; he literally wanted to howl out his joy and happiness. She walked as though on clouds. The sway and swish of the fabric made him marvel. If heaven was his favourite time, then this was it.

She took her place at his side and grabbed his hand for support. He had to smile as he felt the tremble there, of her own anticipation.

The service ran smoothly, the congregation did their part admirably, singing when required and praising the lord at the right moments. For both of them, it was perfect.

His stomach rumbled, so he checked the time. It was one thirty in the afternoon. “Bloody hell,” he muttered in a bewildered and satisfied voice. He had lost track of time, not just through his writing but because the day had never brightened. Outside it was a typical March day: Wet, dingy and cold. He liked the story so far, it was nice fill for the next installment, the defilement of the church, bride, and groom. Moving the cursor, he clicked on file and save.

Time for a snack before the main course, he thought, and left the room in the search for food.

His hunger yelled out for a cheese and ham toastie, and he did not have the energy to fight the demand. He pulled the sandwich toaster out from the pantry and turned it on to warm up. He slightly buttered four slices of bread, and then grated some cheese over the top of two of them. Next, he ripped up a few slices of pre-packaged ham and dropped them on top. After placing the empty bread slices on top, he put them on the toaster and closed the lid. He loved to hear the cheese sizzle, but more; he loved to smell the cheese melt.

The lights went out.

He sprinted up the stairs two at a time. The computer monitor was blank. Rushing back downstairs to the electric meter and control board, he muttered numerous obscenities. All the trip switches were in their ON positions. “Fuckin’ blackout he muttered.” In the kitchen, the cheese stopped sizzling.

He pried the half cooked toastie off the non-non-stick coating, ripping the bread and spilling the contents in the process. In his mind, the story was starting to flow again. As he piled the remnants of his lunch on a plate, he tried to remember where the A4 writing pads were. He was sure they had some. In his study were reams of white paper for printing, so not there. Alice used them more than he; mainly for writing lists, and marking off rows on her knitting, so where…

He found one in the first place he looked, the knitting bag down by the side of her chair. He rushed into the hallway and scooped out a pen from the holder by the phone. Plonking himself down in the chair by the window, for light, he flipped to a clean page and started scribbling in his spidery scrawl.


Father Macintyre finished the Lords prayer and held up his arms in supplication. When the congregation quieted, he spoke. “And know, if you could all bear with us for a while longer, we are going into the sacristy to sign the marriage agreements, to make this legal in the eyes of the law, as we have in the eyes of God.” Lowering his hands he placed them on the backs of the now Mr and Mrs Wright and urged them to a door at the right of the church. The photographer and videographer were kindly asked to wait. They obliged, what else could they do in Gods house. But both said, loud enough for a few to hear, that they had never been asked to wait before. No reply was forthcoming from the Father as he closed the door to the masses.

Once in the room he opened the churches marriage book and asked the couple to sign in the relevant spaces. As they did this, he brought down two silver canisters, decorated with cherubs and angels, from a shelf behind his large oak desk.

“Now, these are the contracts that you need to sign, you can read them if you want, or you can trust me when I say, it’s just the usual legal jargon that tells the courts you were married here today by me. Only lawyers like to use a hundred words where one or two could suffice.”

The both gladly signed the forms without as much as a glance.

“Right then Anita, pull your skirt up slowly, and show me your sexy legs.” The priest commanded in a flat sombre tone.

Neither one of the couple complained about his rudeness. In fact, Anita Wright bent forward in her chair, grabbed the hem of her skirt in both hands, and slowly raised it up to reveal her shapely stocking clad leg. Behind his desk, Father Macintyre unzipped his trousers and fumbled around inside to release his penis.

“David, go and sit in the corner there and watch this whore of yours for what she is.” David obeyed his new master. “You dumb fucks really should’ve read that contract. Just because I wear a dog collar, you think I’m Gods bitch. My real Father showed me the way, when I doubted my faith. In my time of tribulation, did God talk to me? NO. But, the fallen angel whispered in my ear and gave my faith back to me. See I still believe in God, just not in the same way as you sheep do. For my new allegiance, Lucifer has given me the power to create souls in HIS image.“ He rose from the seat behind the desk and walked to Anita’s side, his engorged manhood bounced in the air, then slapped her shoulder.

“Look at my cock you cunt of God.” Her head turned until she stared avidly at the oozing red tip. He grabbed hold of his organ by its root and started to slap it against her face, leaving a sticky trail behind. By Lucifer he loved this power – under his dressing gown he felt his own reaction start to stir and rise. He hoped that some of his readers would feel the same too. That way he knew he had them hooked. He just hoped that it stuck to the 18+ guidelines of the contest, and had not pushed him over to the GC rating. It was, after all, only there to show the priests contempt for his previous religion and the sheep that followed it.

“Take me in your mouth, bitch.” Anita obligingly opened her mouth wide and sucked in Father Macintyre’s penis. “People think it’s about the blood. That if you sell your soul to the devil you’re signature has to be in your own blood. Hogwash. Like all legal issues, it’s all about the contract. You could’ve signed it in bull sperm, just as long as it’s your name and it’s witnessed. What better witness, can there be, than one of God’s own sons? That old ink Parker pen you used has brought many souls over to Lucifer’s side. And know that I am ready, I will plant the seed in this lovely sheep of God.

“Stop the blow job bitch and bend over that desk, oh and please drop your knickers first."

As she did so to reveal her garter belt and suspenders, framing a beautiful pear shaped bottom, the priest continued with his admission. “You will believe the child to be yours, conceived on your wedding night, when in fact it will be Lucifer’s. His seed flows through me; I am his conduit. The time for the truth is close at hand. I am not the only one carrying out the fallen ones will, there are more, many more around the globe. Already millions of Lucifer’s children have been born. Every night he visits them in their dreams and spends eternities teaching and training them for the moment of truth: The time when He will call God out of hiding."

Suddenly he fell to his knees and buried his face deep into the crevice of Anita’s backside, his tongue eagerly seeking out her tight brown arsehole. Through reverberating cheeks of flesh his muffled voice resounded, “First though, I have my fun.” He stood up and without any tenderness, he rammed his penis into the tight orifice. Anita remained silent: Not one bleat left her lips.

After a few spasmodic twitches and grunts he ejaculated, he stayed deep inside her, making sure that if his semen did spill out it would be later. “Let the sheep ponder that.” He muttered as he withdrew and pushed between the lovely pink lips of her vagina. “So, you like this do you?” He asked her, not expecting a reply, noticing that inside she was moist. He took hold of her hips and started to pump away like a daemon possessed. After two minutes exertion, he ejaculated once more, and again remained inside her until every drop had dripped from him. He pushed the limp organ back into his underwear and zipped up his fly.

“Mrs Wright please pull up your knickers and sit down. Mr Wight please come and join your wife on the seat next to her.” Both obeyed. Then like magic, they picked up from where they had left off. “So that’s everything, you’re now legally man and wife, in the eyes of the courts.”

“Shall we go and rejoin all your friends in the church?”

David and Anita nodded, said their thanks, and left the small – DAMN the bloody pens leakin’ like crazy. Oh, shit it’s spreadin’ over my work. No you bloody don’t. He quickly lifted up the sheet of paper before the stain could spread. He was too late. It had soaked through the top sheet and was working its way through the rest, devouring his words as he watched in horrified silence.

The ink stain was growing larger every second. “What the hells goin’ on here?” The wonder and amazement in his voice had taken over from the anger and frustration. He had thrown the pen into the bin, as he shot a glance towards it, he was shocked to see that it was not leaking. There were no signs that is had ever leaked. On the table the ink stain had covered the handwritten pages and was in the process of spreading over the table. He could hear drips as the blackness dropped to the floor, next to his feet. Shit, he thought, Rachael’ll tear me a new arsehole is this buggers her floor up. He jumped up and ran to the kitchen, and the absorbent paper towels. When he returned, the stain had become a puddle and was fast becoming a lake. Falling to his knees, he pulled numerous sheets free from the roll. No sooner had placed his hands on the liquid then they fell through.

His heart stopped as he fought to keep his balance, this was insanity. This could not be happening. In real life, real people did not fall into ever-growing ink stains. He wrenched his hands back, trying to pull them free of the blackness that surrounded his wrists. Just as they started to move, he felt a hard grip take a hold of each hand and yank them further in. Sweat broke out on his brow as he fought with his new unknown adversary. No matter how hard he struggled, the grip and tension never loosened. Now the Ink was lapping at the hem of his dressing gown. He starred in amazed horror as the blackness soaked the material and started to rise, like liquid on litmus paper. It was to his waist when he felt the puddle on the floor tickle his toes. In a sudden jerk that left his heart in his mouth, he fell through the floor into the blackness.

“Time that we had a chat, son.” The voice echoed from every direction, out of the nothingness. “You see you’ve been a very BAD BOY.” The strength of the roar and the anger behind it vibrated his bones.

Something moved in the blackness. He was not sure that if his eyes had registered anything, it was more of a feeling. Was someone breathing on his neck? Did he have a neck anymore? He could not see the hand he raised to his face. Was there a red balloon floating in the distance? Yes, he could just make it out. He followed its string, there was a hand holding the balloon. Even at this distance he could make out the claws, redness dripped from them in languid slow motion. He knew it was the clown. With recognition came vision. The clown was staring straight at him. Its face was alabaster. Its hair was a shocking red. Blood caked its lips and razor sharp teeth glinted in its deadly smile. God he hated clowns.

“NO.” The shriek split his skull. “Never mention, and don’t ever think that bastards name here. Not in my home.” Suddenly a white hot pain seared through his skull. “I’ll rip all those thoughts out your fuckin’ head son. Now let’s chat.”

“Where the fuck a…” The words became an incoherent mumble as his mouth was forcibly closed.

“Ah, you misunderstood. When I said chat, I really meant YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP AND I TALK.” The man standing in front of him was naked and beautiful; his skin glowed a soft pink and radiated like polished marble. There were no defects on him. Not one hair, not one scar, no pores, and no genitalia. “We are perfect. We were too perfect. The Bastard wanted something more basic to entertain him. You think you invented reality TV, what do you think you are to God, brother? Every time one of you dies, you’ve been voted off. Bad luck for you though, no Davina to chat too, just me or Peter

“You fucked up son. That last story you were writin’, I couldn’t let it get out. Even if one of you fuckups thinks, nice idea – what if? That could end all my dreams to yell checkmate in Daddy’s face. You see it wasn’t a story you were writing it was reality. I had one of his fallen storytellers and guilt-trippers screw your mother on her wedding day and plant my seed. Isn’t it great what faith can accomplish? I visit my family every night and I whisper in their ears. I tell them tales of the past and stories of the future. You though have been writing them down. Let me ask you; do I look like a fucking muse to you?

“Ah well, I can lose the odd one or two to friendly fire. I mean after all, when I win this game we’re playing, you’ll all be down here anyway. At the moment, I’ve placed billions in purgatory for breaking the sins, most are so confused they believe they’ve done no wrong, after a thousand years they’re mine, if they don’t repent. Now with my breed walking the Earth it’s only a matter of time ‘til chaos breaks out, then people will be breaking the commandments, left, right and centre. Finally I have a warm feeling that soon I’ll be the cause of mans genocide. What a lovely day that’ll be. I’m tired of this game; we’ve played it too long. When I win, I think I’ll choose to play cards, maybe poker, or gin rummy.

“Gotta go now. It was good chattin’ with you son. I’ll see you around, ’cause you’re here forever now.” With that, the darkness swallowed him whole.

The clown stood smiling and staring. The clown released the balloon, pursed his lips, and blew. Jauntily it floated through the air, stopping millimetres from his face. As both his hands clasped the balloon, he found his voice, “I don’t want your stinking balloon.” Squeezing hard, it exploded with a loud bang. The flash blinded him for a few seconds. When his sight returned he saw everything.

The blackness had vanished to reveal the nightmares that had been hiding within. Leech like creatures slithered around his feet and across most of the floor, leaving sticky trails of a red liquid behind them. One of them had reached his foot, he could feel its mess trickle between his toes as it climbed onto his flesh. The clown stood in the far distance the smile on his face was as large as the Cheshire cat’s. Flames were everywhere, but there was no heat. As he turned around, he saw his vision of Father Macintyre, this time the woman was his Mother, and she was completely naked, as the daemonic priest frantically masturbated. Each time he ejaculated the leech-like creatures flew from the tip of his penis.

Satan’s sperm, he thought and was surprised to find he was still relatively calm in this madness. That’s what I’m made from.

The leeches attached themselves onto his Mother’s skin and began to burrow inside. He could hear the sound of flesh tearing and strong jaws chewing. She turned her head to him; tears fell from her eyes as she smiled joyously and gave out a groan of pleasure.

Everything that he ever put on paper, or ever thought, was here. People were being tortured; hot and cold pokers were forced through every orifice; limbs were being severed then crudely re-sown to be ripped off again later; blood ran down the cliffs sides like surreal waterfalls. Under them nightmarish creatures played and cavorted; drinking in the metallic goodness.

He thought of the movies he had watched while alive and sure enough when he glanced around a second time, there were the monsters. Freddy was in the middle of a group of teenagers, slice and dicing. Jason and Michael were busy hacking way at everything that moved. John was playing his sick and tortuous games. And, silver balls were whizzing through the air, everywhere he looked.

The leech had crawled up to his chest, he plucked it free and wandered over to his Mother, and gently he pushed it into her ear. “Hope you enjoy this as much.” He bent and kissed her forehead.

His thoughts turned to the story contest he had worried him self sick over, and the stories that he had read on that site; more and more horrors took their place in hell.

This place felt like home, it was his type of heaven. He really was his Father's son. Tilting his head back he laughed upwards into the darkness, “I’ll have the welcoming committee ready for all of ya’ when you get down here. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re all taken care of.”
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