Horror: My Happy Place, Pt. II

He came back. Mother was at home with James and I. She answered the knock on the front door. I looked around the doorway from the kitchen, and saw him stab her with a long metal dagger with a garnet on the pommel. He was ragged, thin, and gaunt. His hair was stringy; his clothing had numerous holes, was torn up, and was wet, dripping droplets onto the hardwood floor where only a few weeks earlier it had felt my mother’s tears. I ran to my room, opened the door to my closet, and climbed up onto the to shelf to open the ceiling panel to the attic. I huddled in there, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t think to come looking for me. I heard him crashing around the house and loud banging on a door. Then, to my horror, I heard James scream. It was cut off quickly. My tears overflowed my eyes and spilled onto the floor of the attic. Was this house so cursed that it had to have tears shed in every part of it?
I waited, numbly, until the house was quiet. I couldn’t even move if I wanted to. Slowly, I regained control of my body, and I crawled out of my hiding spot. My door was open, but my room was untouched. I walked through the hall to my brother’s room, saw him lying there, and rushed to kneel by his side. His eyes were open but not seeing, his mouth open but not breathing, his fingers curled into fists but hitting nothing. His throat had a long slash across it, dark red and crusting over with drying blood. Only a single tear fell onto his upturned face. I stood and ran to the front hall where Mother had been. She was lying in a similar position to James, her eyes closed. Except for the horrible gaping cut on her neck and the terrible look of pain on her face, she could have been sleeping. Once again, only one tear made its way down my cheek and plopped onto the floor. I had cried myself dry.
I went to my parents’ room, and found that the dresser had been completely torn apart in my father’s attempt to find whatever he was looking for. I found a crumpled-up, bloodstained paper on the floor. I bent down to examine it, and found it to be a letter to my father. It was a suicide note from someone named Carla, saying how she couldn’t bear to live with the thought that she had turned him into the monster that he was with all the drugs.
I sat there, stunned. This was the reason my father was such a horrible monster? It all suddenly made sense: the yelling, the complete obedience he expected, the paranoia, and the mood swings. I went to the garage, grabbed a hatchet, and went out the front door. There he was, waiting for me, at the end of the sidewalk. We looked at each other, and then he turned and ran. I gave chase, but I couldn’t catch up. In a last attempt, I threw the hatchet, and it landed square in his back. He dropped his knife. I ran to pick it up, and impaled the back of his neck. I heard it crack; my nightmare could finally be over.