Hey all, and welcome to this story

Hey everyone, I was led here by someone who had this site in his signature on 40konline, so here I am!
I'm Syphon and write horror stories. That's about all that's relevant for now. Now, without further ado, I want to introduce to you the story I hope to incorporate into a larger horror saga later: Assembly Lines. Hope you like it!

Some people claim that the Oldsworth factory ghost wasn't always evil.
Which is true. I haven't always been evil. It just grew that way, I guess.
But let me start from where I should start, the beginning.

As a living person, my name was Jonah Ancourt. A simple factory worker, but not a simple soul. I knew I could do so much more, but I never had the proper schooling for it. My father hit me because he didn't have a job. Possibly because he got hit as a child as well, I figured when I reached puberty. But because he hit me, I was afraid to go to school, fearing to be judged as a crazy person, or to be taken away. Taken away from my grandmother. My mother had left my father ages ago, and gave me to my grandparents, her parents. But my father didn't want to leave me. I still don't know why, even when I confronted him with it on his deathbed, so many years later.

I loved my grandmother so much, but also feared her. She came from the Cajun community in Louisiana, and she was a traiteuse. Somebody that could heal by simply touching the patient. And every time she did that, she talked to God about the pain she took away. It is that what scared me. I was raised as a Godfearing boy, believing He would smite me at any wrong turn I would ever take. And her strong link to God made me think she was talking to God about my behaviour. In spite of that, I loved the woman so much. She was the only person that cared for me. My mother apparantly did not, since she gave me away. And my father certainly did not, seeing he always beat me.

What little I knew of the world was taught to me by my grandmother. I always thought that she was wise enough to fill an entire library. Of course, that wasn't the case, but she was my hero when I was young. As opposed to my father. My father was a tyrant. An oppressor. I guess he loved me in his own twisted way, and didn't want me to leave. That's why he came with me to live with my grandmother, when grandfather died. But he hurt me. He hit me alot, kicked me too. He even hit me with his belt, or his walking stick if he had it handy. With almost anything he had handy, frankly. Even to my grandmother, he was an obnoxious bastard. Always sneering at her unshakable faith, and jesting at God. My grandmother didn't say or do anything about it, because she believed in "turning the other cheek".

Life went on like that. Grandmother teaching me about the world, my father hurting me and I myself took all of it. Every beating he gave me I withstood, because I myself believed in God as well. I believed that He'd grant me more love later on in life, so I never opened my mouth. Never I begged for mercy, nor did I cry. I never even let out any sound. I was proud of myself, and I was sure that both God and grandmother were so as well.

But all of that changed. The relative peace was suddenly disturbed by something strange. My father came home one day, all hysterical and manic. He screamed at both me and my grandmother, waving his arms around. "Where is your God now!?" he kept screaming. He grabbed my grandmother by the collar and shook her. I didn't see her flinch, but I knew that must hurt her. My grandmother managed to calm him with her soothing voice and touch, and slowly, he began to tell what was going on. "I was on a routine check in the factory, when one of the pipes gave way. The entire thing came crashing down. 7 of my workers were crushed underneath it. All of them ended up dead.." my father told us. By then, my grandmother let go of him, and vice versa, and while telling his story, he got wound up again. Again, he screamed "Where is your God now?!". This time, he began rattling grandmother even harder and fiercer, even slamming her into the wall. I screamed and grabbed my father's walking stick. How did he dare to hurt my hero? I completely was overtaken by rage, and I hit him on the head hard. I heard the stick and his skull cracking, and at the same time he fell, so did my grandmother.

I panicked and ran out the house, leaving my grandmother and father behind. I didn't know how they were when I left them, and I didn't care at that very moment. All I cared for was running. For some reason, I ended up at the church, where I laid in front of the door for a few hours, freezing to the bone until the priest found me as he was ready to go home. He took me in his home, and talked to me for hours on end, trying to get something useful out of me. Of course, I didn't stop crying.
When he stopped trying to comfort me, he went to my home to find out what the reason was of me crying. I could faintly make out sirens wailing after half an hour or so, and that was just before I was put to bed by the priest's housekeeper.

Shortly after, my life continued as normal. Apart from the fact that my grandmother was dead, and my father bedridden. The blow on the head had not killed my father, as I thought at first, but partially paralyzed. The cracking I heard was not his skull, but simply the cane. As for grandmother, she was a frail woman already, and the abuse my father gave her she simply couldn't take. As a strong believer, I knew that she was in heaven now, and she was watching down on me. Though, the fact that my grandmother died, and my father was still alive did shake my faith. I was taught that God was just, and honest. Fair, as well. What was fair about allowing my hero to be killed and the executor of the crime to be submitted to a hospital? Sure, it was a hospital that was part of a prison, but I think he was off very well with all those nurses and care.

The priest took me in for a while, but I think that was the most stupid thing to do, looking back now. I'll explain. The death of my grandmother rattled my faith in God, and living with a person that breathed that same faith was too much for me. I grew weary of faith, and its whole influence on daily life. Everything that had to do with faith pissed me off. Even something even remotely shaped like a cross could count on a hateful glare. At that certain time, not so very long ago, I started to destroy the faith's symbols. I found crosses, bibles and everything else I could get my hands on. It even made the newspapers. "Unknown vandal destroying church's belongings". I delighted in it. The injustice of the faith made me uncaring. No, more than uncaring. It made me revel in the blows I could deliver to it.
And that's when I started to falter.

	Author	Topic: Hey all, and welcome to this story (Read 361 times)
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