Chapter One: The Night in the Kitchen

The old man and Becket finally talk about the house, this chapter has a biiiiiig twist. Hope you all enjoy!

The Cab driver stepped inside the house with a bit of hesitance, not knowing what to expect.

‘Well, are you coming or not old man?!’ Becket shouted, making it all the way to the now almost decayed kitchen. ‘Give me a minute, ‘gotta watch this old ticker of mine, it’s not the same ‘ya know!’ The old man shouted, slowly walking to the kitchen. The house had the smell of old roses and death, which was all too familiar to the old man. He finally made it to the kitchen, heaving from the walk. This house was no small summer cottage in Bermuda, this house was a castle.

 

      ‘So, old man, are you going to tell me what happened here, or do you have to take your pills and a little nap first?’ Becket asked with a sarcastic tone, and with a snide smirk. ‘Up…..  yours…. You little…punk’ The old man heaved. He reached for one of the wooden chairs, checked if it was stable to hold his old body, then slowly with an almost eternal sigh, sat down. ‘I guess I should start from the beginning, no use starting in the middle, or the end. This may take awhile, so if I were you, I’d get comfy.’ The old man said, looking Becket in the eye, trying his best to not give away any signs of fear. Becket sat on one of the large suitcases he dragged in, lit a cigarette, and looked at the old man with a look that would signal ‘Ok you old geezer, get on with the damn story’.

 

      ‘Well, the story starts back in the Civil War. This house was the home of many Generals during the time, you could almost say it was passed from General to general during the time. But there was one particular General who made his mark on this house, and that General was Joseph M. Rentler. General Rentler was about the most cruel, sadistic man you could ever know.’ The old man looked as though he was remembering things, as if he was there. ‘My great grand-daddy fought in Rentler’s Troop during the war, so the stories were passed on from son to son, my great grand-daddy passed it on to my gran-daddy. My grand-daddy passed it on to my daddy, and my daddy passed it on to me. ’And since my son ran away when he was sixteen, I guess I’ll have to share it with you.’ The old man said, looking down, seeming disappointed.

 

      The old man pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey from his Duffel-bag he brought in from outside, and twisted the cap open. He chugged for about eight seconds, took the bottle from his mouth, and handed it out for Becket. ‘Here, have some, something has to warm your heart.’ The old man said, with a kind smile. Becket kind of liked the old man, something about him reminded him of himself. ‘Sure, look….’ Becket sighed, looking down. ‘I’m sorry if I came off as a jerk I-‘ Becket was cut off by the old man. ‘Jerk isn’t the word I would’ve used, but everyone has their faults’ The old man said, with a half-smile. ‘Look, I’m just not used to kindness, I’ve been pushed around since I was a little boy, especially by my father.’ Becket said looking down.

 

      The old man looked at Becket, and for a split second, thought he recognized him from somewhere, but shook it off. ‘I’m sure he was just trying to make you more of a man.’ The old man said, sensing he touched a nerve. ‘Look old man, if you call smacking the living s**t out of me while putting a cigar out on my hands trying to make me more of a man, then you are one sick person.’ Becket said, trying to hold back the tears, trying to hold the years of emotions that were just built up from anger, sadness. Millions of thoughts ran through the old man’s mind, such as ‘Can this really be him, can this really be my son. No, he would of just turned…’ The old man looked at Becket and hesitantly asked, ‘Say, how old did you say you were?’ Becket looked at the old man with a sort of broken, numb look on his face. ‘I just turned twenty-eight this past month, why do you ask?’ The old man looked at Becket with a stare. ‘And who was your father?’ He asked. ‘ His name was Jack, Jack Dodgson. Why are you asking all these questions?’ Becket was starting to get frustrated, but lost all feelings when the old man said, ‘and your mother was Caroline Dodgson, isn’t that right?’

 

      ‘Who are you?! How do you know my mother?!’ Becket started to get up, but tripped on the suit case, insinuating that the old man drugged the Whiskey, in which he didn’t. ‘Calm down son, there’s no need to be alarmed.’ The old man said with a sigh. ‘After all the years of searching, I finally found you.’ The old man looked at Becket, who had absolutely no idea what was going on. ‘You’re no my dad, my dad hated people, he never would of become a cab driver!’ Becket shouted. ‘Oh yea? How about me knowing about your birth mark on your upper thigh, or that your favorite color is bright blue, or that you always wanted to go to the circus…. and never had the chance to go, because empty promises were made?’ The old man asked, with a tear running down his cheek. ‘D-Dad…. But it can’t be you, I th- I thought you died years ago.’ Becket had a mixed look on his face of shock and sadness.

 

 

Reviews

[Bluefire]

=o I wonder what happened, I mean, Becket's dad.
Why did he leave and how he turned out to be a kindly old cab driver when he used to be so mean.
It's a miracle they found each other and just happened to start talking.
Can't wait to see what happens next! Nice job! ^^

[Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot]

All that will be explained in chapter 2 ^*^ I'm so glad you liked it baby

[Little girl who wants t..]

I love your stories. Keep the good work.

[Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot]

Thanks :D This is supposed to be a horror story, but it kinda got all mushy near the end of this chapter XD I'm just so used to writing poetry lol.

[Little girl who wants to be a writer]

Don't feel bad. I like it as people who read it. I enjoying writing stories and poetry. Kinda....

[Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot]

I write alot of dark poetry, but my latest stuff has been like lighter :P But it's really fun writing dark poetry because you get alot of you feelings out ^*^

[Little girl who wants to be a writer]

I write because i have ideas in my mind. I love making characters and drawing them. So I write stories about them.