I Was Trying To Write The Darkest Story I Could.

The boy trembled in the corner, clutching his teddy.  The whites of his knuckles showed as he clenched one hand around it's paw, the other hand pressed to his mouth as he tried not to make a sound.
 
He'd been awoken by a scream. An awful, terrible scream that expressed  terror, rage and despair. The type of scream that is also a farewell.  The unholy shriek had torn him out of his warm, happy dream, where stuffed animals talked and boys were their best friends. He didn't understand at first. Then, BANG!. Another scream.  It was coming from his parents room. The boy grabbed his constant companion and ran into the corner, trying to make himself small as possible. Something bad was happening. But he still didn't understand.
 
He ached to call out for his mother, yell for his father, but he didn't dare. The greatest fear, perhaps, is the fear of the unknown. That fear that keeps us from making that jump, that leap of faith. That fear that keeps us quivering in our beds when we hear thumps and bangs outside, that fear that makes us walk faster and faster as the lights go off.
 
The cold hard plaster of his painted-green wall was frigid and unyielding against his back.  He needed some support. What was that sound? The boy pressed his ear against the wall, straining to listen with all his might. Murmurs. A whimper. Then tapping, almost like footsteps. Crying, and then, frenzied begging. It sounded like his sister. BANG. There wasn't even a scream this time. It just went silent.
 
Tap, tap, tap. It was coming closer.  The boy could hear a faint, constant scratching noise, like someone was dragging his fingernails along the wall. The room was silent. Then, laughter? It wasn't happy laughter. A pervasive, low pitched chuckle invaded the silence. This laughter spoke of all that was wrong with the world, of the darkest pleasures that humanity seeks, always at the expense of others. A shadow fell upon his door, illuminated by the light hanging in the hallway, the one he kept on even when he slept, to keep him safe at night
 
A man entered. A very average man. His head was covered with a messy brown mop, unkempt and wild. Clean shaven, his mouth was curved in a cruel smirk as a mirthless chuckle continued to escape his lips. A beak of a nose. And then, his eyes. Windows of the soul.  Entrances to a black abyss.  These eyes had never seen anything good. Filled with a twisted, warped kind of pleasure, these eyes alighted upon the boy. And they saw nothing. Nothing but an object from which the man could gain his distorted satisfaction. The man raised the gun.
 
The boy raised his teddy as a barrier, his eyes silently pleading.  But the man saw nothing. BANG. The back of the toy burst.
 
Then nothing. 

 

This is all fiction fyi hahahahaha.