Exceptional Crazy intensifies Do You Believe In Monsters? : The Monster Don't Sing Or Dance by Douglas Goff

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. (Dean Paul: The Madman. Biographical Series About My Childhood. This story deals with domestic violence.) The brutish man was paranoid that the family was always plotting something to spite him. He would attempt to creep up the stairs to our rooms when we were supposed to be sleeping, anxious to punish for any real or imagined offense that he could find.  Dean Paul’s knee would make a popping sound as he climbed those stairs, alerting us to his presence. The six of us kids would lie there frozen in fear, as quiet as church mice, listening for the popping of that knee and all that it brought with it. He thought himself a world class spy that would have made James Bond proud.  Sometimes Dean Paul would act very abruptly and irrationally. He had a rule that we could not leave our bikes in the driveway, so as you can imagine, we would rather cut our finger off than leave a bike in the driveway. Unfortunately, my best friend Duane did not know about the bike rule, nor did he know about the monster that resided in our house. One day, Duane left his brand new BMX bike in the driveway. Dean Paul ran that thing over with his old Dodge van, then backed over it again for good measure. He snorted at a crying Duane, “I’m guessing you don’t leave your bike in my driveway again!” Needless to say, Duane didn’t want to come over to our house anymore. Tuesday was liver and spinach night. We kids hated it. If you didn't finish every bite you sat at the table until 9 o'clock bedtime. For years, my Tuesday ritual was spending three and a half hours sitting at the dinner table. One time I tried to force it down and threw it back up onto my plate. Dean Paul expected me to eat it. I still can't touch liver or spinach to this day without getting sick to my stomach. On another occasion, when I was 8, my mother let us watch a variety musical show called The Captain and Tennille Show. It involved the couple engaging in singing and dancing.  Dean Paul believed that the Captain was a minion of the devil and Tennille was a whore because she wore dresses above the knee. To prove his point, he shoved my mother hard. She flew across the room, landing on top of my younger brother, nearly fracturing his leg and causing a severe ankle sprain. Ten minutes later, after the monster had returned to its cage, Dean Paul came back walking down the stairs. He was covered from head to toe in a white sheet as he slowly descended. My eight year-old mind trembled in unmitigated terror, knowing this was it. This is how we die. He’s about to kill us all.  He walked into the living room with a white sheet over his head and said, “Boo, I’m a ghost.”  I think he was trying to make up with humor. He snort-snarled out a laugh, but we didn’t join in. Seven sets of eyes stared at him in fear. He pulled the sheet off his head and asked, “Why don’t you guys like me? Please tell me? I won’t get angry, I promise.” My brother Ken, who just turned seven-years-old and had always been the bravest of us, answered, “Well . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .” “Just tell me,” Dean Paul prodded, a genuine look of confusion on his face as he peered at my mother who was still lying on the floor and my brother who was holding his injured leg.  Ken paused, then went for it. “It’s because you're crazy!” Yep. We’re all dead.  Dean Paul’s confusion was quickly replaced by a mask of rage. He screamed scriptures at us about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse with holy spittle flying from his mouth, then stormed out of the house. He called our pastor who told him to stay away from home for a bit.  I was certain seeing that maniac come down the stairs under a sheet would be the scariest moment of my life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Author Notes My siblings and I still talk about this incident often. We all believed we were dying that night when he slowly ascended the stairs in that sheet.

© Copyright 2024. Douglas Goff All rights reserved. Douglas Goff has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.