To Hell and Back for You

Chapter 2: Grim Planning

Although my alarm was set for noon, I awoke on Sunday morning just after ten. Staring up at the ceiling with hands laced over my chest, I questioned how my body could do this to me, given how short and shitty rest had been that night and the night prior.

I guess it was my own fault though. After that nightmare, I started getting afraid that it was all happening again. My mind had been resisting sleep for its own protection. I kept telling myself that it was probably only a fluke. My brain was worked up after thinking about all that serial killer crap and considering looking into it myself.

If it hadn't been for the fact of not having a dream in over three years, there would be no doubt that's all it was. However, I had been taking my PTSD medication religiously, reducing all subconscious activities to vague recollections upon waking, at most. But this...it had been so vivid, so real. Even now, I could hear the river, could remember each step, and feel the terror of that darkness consuming me.

"YAHHHHHHH!"

I rolled my head to the side at the sound of my phone playing the metal song I had set the clock to play. I listened to it for a few moments before sighing and reaching over to slide the icon on the screen to dismiss. Maybe it was an omen. Something could be warning me against getting involved in McGraff's story, which was why I'd been laying in bed deliberating my plans to go to Daytonsville today.

It was true that I could wait for the television to air its account, but outside of enjoying the aesthetically pleasing presentation, I doubt there would be any point. Surely there wasn't much to add that I hadn't already learned on the internet. Instead of going directly to bed when I came home from work like usual, I had opted for some late night web research the past two evenings.

After murdering his three year old sister and their father when he was sixteen, McGraff had been forcibly placed in psychiatric care. He remained in a facility until he was eighteen, when he was released, having been deemed mentally stable.

From what I could tell, he had denied his crime to all except his mother. Everyone else judged their deaths an accident, brought about by an undiagnosed behavioral disorder. Despite his mother's testimony, he never received penalty past those two years in the hospital.

There weren't a lot of details on what exactly he did to his father and sister, only that there had been a fight that escalated to violence...or so was the official story. Once he was out, it was found that his mother had skipped town, desperate to get away from her son. She had fled the moment he was legal and therefore no longer her responsibility by law.

In his early twenties, he married and had a daughter of his own. Soon following, bodies began showing up in Daytonsville and the surrounding areas, all in a very strange and specific way. Each was laid straight on their back, arms bent with one hand over the groin and the other over the heart; their eyeballs entirely removed from their sockets and absent from the crime scene. It was the collection of preserved eyes that led to his conviction.

Slowly, I rose into a seated position with my feet on the floor and knees close enough that I could rest my head on them. Well, I had to go, didn't I? In a solemn instant of clarity, I realized that there was no reason for me to be frightened anymore. In the past, I had run from my dreams. The things they showed me were always so horrid and the emotions they brought so raw, lingering for days, months, sometimes even years.

I had found that different substances had different effects on them. Weed, for instance, seemed to make them longer with more details. Alcohol either intensified or numbed the emotional reaction. Cocaine made them come in flashes rather than a continuous experience. Heroine, my drug of choice, left the visions, but removed any physiological response. I'd have the nightmares, just no fear or panic attacks and such.