The Boogeyman

The Drive

1:24AM

Matthew McCain was completely wasted.
Another day at the bar and he had fulfilled his daily mission. Get rat-faced enough to forget about the two little shits and the big bad bitch. He sat in the drivers seat of his light blue mini, chest rising and falling in slow, drunken contempt. He plugged his keys in and a moment later was droning down the highway towards his "home".
Yeah, "home".  It was closer to a prison where he had two little rodents running around screaming and fussin' and an ugly old hag who only knows how to nag. He laughed stupidly out loud at his own rhyming ability, the noise reverberating solemnly around the little car.
He passed a large tree on the left side of the road and released a lazy yawn.
He was so tired.
He had been laid off two months before at the accountancy firm and had spent pretty much each day in the bar since. It was easier there. I mean, who's focusing on their shitty life while drunk as a sailor? His head was throbbing, and his throat was dry but he was still able to focus mainly on the road.
He let his mind wander for a moment.
It moved through his whole life. His job. His wife. His children.
All of these produced the tangy taste of rage within his throat. Rage grew into resentment and resentment gave way to hate. They had made his life like this. They pushed him to drink! It was their fault! The lying cur and her two little cultists who hung on her every word. "Mommy this" and "mommy that" because dear old mommy could make it all so much better. Whiny little losers. It was all their fucking fault!

His moment of hate had caused his focus on the road to fail, and when he did snap into focus he only had a moment to react. Something big and red was taking up a good chunk of his windscreen. Matthew panicked and desperately threw the wheel to the right,  trying to avoid whatever the hell the red thing was. He failed.
He went over the thing with a sickening wet crunching sound.
Immediately sobriety echoed through his head. Matthew's mini ground to a halt.
"...Oh God, Oh God, Oh God..."
Matthew repeated under his breath in his panic. How much time in the jack would he get if he hit someone? A couple years? Longer?
The car skidded to a slow halt and died on the road.
Matthew threw open the car door and stumbled out into the dark night. The characteristic drunk man stumble was almost comical in the drastic situation. At 6 ft 2, and being mildly overweight, Matthew was not a man who was often pitied.
Although, standing there, weeping and stumbling towards whatever he hit, the smell of filthy liquor clinging tightly to his fat, sweaty body, that's exactly how he looked. Pitiful.
He got close enough to see what he hit.
Michael.
His son.
Lying face down in the road encompassed by blood and darkness, was his son. It was the older of the two, Micheal. His arms were bent at impossible angles and the contents of his chest were spewed across the road. Every few seconds, the small, bloody child would twitch or whimper and the simple move would send wracks of grief through Matthew's aching chest. The poor child twisted and attempted to wail a single word through broken teeth.
"Daaaddddeeeeeee"
Matthew fell to his knee's. He gripped his stomach and hurled his cheap pub burger and a great deal of beer all over the road. Tears began to run down his cheeks.
"Mike? Mike? I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! Mike! Mike! I'm so sorr-" his desperately screeched apology was cut off by a gross sob. He sat there on his ass for a good deal of time, wailing and muttering into his arms like a child who's wrist had been slapped.
The bear of a man had been reduced to a child and was no longer the large, destructive figure his family feared. He looked back up at his sons writhing body and noticed something new.
In the little child's hand was a small silver string. On the end of the string was a large, bright cherry-coloured balloon.
The great juxtaposition between the dying child's bleeding body and the cheery fairground balloon lulled terrified Matthew into silence.
Come to think of it, how the hell had he gotten out here anyway?
Where even was here?
Matthew had been so distracted by his thoughts that he hadn't even been paying attention to where he was.
Call an ambulance? And say what?
"Hello ma'am, I accidentally murdered my son. Yes I am drunk. Oh yes, send an ambulance. One for him, one for me. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am."

His thoughts were disrupted an arid chuckle dissipated into the air. Matthew was stunned. His son, who should be squirming in agony, was laughing. Laughing at him.
Even now, when Matthew had killed the little shit he was still laughing at him. All guilt, shame and remorse disappeared behind a vail of pure anger. He tried to stand, but fell back to the floor in his drunken stupor.
All the while, that dry laugh shook the air and caused a great deal of unease to settle in Matthew's stomach.
"M...M...Mike?"
The laugh abruptly stopped.
This silence was much worse. The body still lay there, twitching. Suddenly, he burst into convulsions. He was shaking wildly, blood and drool flying wildly from the younger child's body.
Matthew dived forward, gripped his sons broken arms and screamed at him to be still.
The young boy seemed to listen.
And then the child moved. Not a little twitch like before, or a like his convulsion. The movement was deliberate, frightening and impossible. The arms twisted and snapped at disturbing angles in order to grasp at the grown mans wrists. There was a fleshy grinding noise as the broken arms moved.
Cold hands wrapped their small fingers around the fat wrists of Matthew McCain. The felt like dead fish.
Matthew screamed.
The child's head twisted and snapped in order to turn around and face him. It had its sons face but it was terribly wounded. The left eye was missing, and a tear track of blood had leaked and slid down the young boys face. The nose was broken and distorted and there was a large bloody gash across the child's right cheek. An impossible grin pulled itself across its face. It seemed far too big to be real. The ear to ear smile revealed a set of sharp and broken teeth, each one massive and stained.
Matthew squirmed and tried desperately to pull himself away from the thing that was masquerading as his son. It's grip was tight and unyielding, even to the big mans strong tugs.
Matthew panicked, and lashed out with his feet, kicking and stomping wildly against the small figure.
He never managed to connect, even as the small head jerked towards him and he felt warm pain shudder through his body.
Matthew continued squirming for a few more moments, desperately trying to fend off his attacker. He failed, and as large teeth punctured his neck for the second time, he felt his own blood spray across the silent road.
The world began to lose focus.

Surprisingly, Matthew didn't feel that much pain as he lay there. He just felt tired. Very, very tired. He stopped struggling only for a moment as he closed his eyes and the world faded to a murky black.