[Fanfic] Monster Mash 10
Title: Monster Mash 10
Characters: Francis, Phillipe, Alfred, Matthew (human), Annie
Rating: 15
Warnings: HOLY WALL OF TEXT, and Alfred is a creeper.
Summary: Originally inspired by this. (Link to pic for those who don't have Pixiv here.) Due to popular demand, what was a oneshot has now spawned a fic.
The technique took a lot of concentration, not to mention time, but with Alfred distracted and Francis’ current body bedridden, he had plenty of both. He tried to get as comfortable as possible, closed his eyes, and forgot reality. Focusing inward, he pictured a library. The one he was currently in was full of his own books, his own memories, all arranged in one long isle, stretching in front of him and behind him. These kinds of things were stored in his soul, not his brain. It meant his memory was patchy at times, not having a proper filing system a brain would provide. All the books were out of order. If Arthur saw, he’d have a fit. The shelves carried on into nothingness, but in the distance was a dark shadow, obscuring several of the bookcases. The blank in his memory had been what had encouraged him to learn the technique in the first place off an old gypsy woman. But every time he went near the blackness, he was overcome with terror, and found himself running away.
Well, this time he wasn’t here for a test of courage. Turning around, he walked away from the shadow, and towards a door at the other end of the long aisle bookshelves. There was a door, almost obscured by the bookshelf. He imagined it moved, and so it did. The door was of old wood, oak perhaps. Fitting for the person he was possessing. He turned the handle, and entered.
This time, there wasn’t a library. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realised he was in a theatre, a movie house. The screen was dark, and there were no other lights but dim LEDs along the runways between the seats. Francis felt his way along, before deciding just to sit down already. No need to prolong this any further. Everything in the theatre reacted to mental commands after all, like all things in this inner world. What was he, trying to find a remote?
Just like that, the weight of a remote registered in his hand. Well, he’d asked for that one. He fumbled with it, pointing it at the screen and pressing all the buttons until he finally hit “on”.
The projector hidden somewhere behind him whirred to life, shining a flickering image onto the screen. It was decayed, like old memories were, with holes in it and random jumps. From the glimpses of a crib and a ball, as well as various other childhood toys, it seemed Francis had gone right to the beginning of Phillipe’s life. This was much too early. Now with the light of the screen to see by, he pressed fast forward. The imaged sped up, becoming clearer and less patchy over time, but still with jumps between events. Nobody remembered what they ate for breakfast every day. The soundtrack sped up too, but he could still tell that the people in it were speaking French. So, born and raised in France, was he?
Francis stopped the fast forwarding when there was suddenly a long, focused shot of a young lady. Rewinding a little, he saw Phillipe boarding a plane. To the United States, he knew instantly, in the same way one knows things in dreams. Phillipe was going to university in the United States. It skipped forward again, through several scenes of his dorm room, speaking nervous English to his new suite mates, fellow international students from Spain and Germany. And then they came back to the image of the girl. Her hair was a light brown, though when the sun caught it through the window it looked a little blonder. She was doodling on her class notes, Francis viewing her from the side a few seats away.
Francis could have laughed from the sheer saturation of hormonal and emotional attraction in that one image. Phillipe was clearly infatuated. It was obvious. Ah, l’amour.
He was then treated to a quite romantic-comedy-esque sequence of Phillipe trying and failing to get the courage to ask her out. His friends consoled him, encouraged him, mocked him for going after young Miss Annabell Jones. That gave Francis pause. If this woman eventually ended up being Alfred’s mother, why had he kept her name? The immediate answer that he could think of was that he hated Phillipe that much. But that still didn’t seem quite right.
While he had been pondering, the film had finally got round to Phillipe asking Annabell out. Once he’d actually got his nerve together, the boy was a regular Casanova, charming the young lady easily that she said yes. It was so idyllic that Francis began to wonder if the boy would always be seeing everything through rose-tinted lenses. Through their consecutive dates, love making and shared moments of happiness, Francis watched them in their joy, knowing full well that it would end inevitably in a shower of blood. When they fought, they fought bitterly, and it took them weeks to get over their pride and face each other again. But by the time they’d finished their university degrees, they were married, and looking for a home together.
“Ph-Phillipe...” stammered Annie, as her name had been shorted to affectionately. “I’m pregnant!”
Phillipe choked on his breakfast cereal. Francis watched with amusement as he tried to regain his composure. “Mon dieu, enceinte?!”
“I don’t speak French, Phillipe.” Annie said, but smiled fondly, resting her hands on her currently flat stomach. “But you’ll teach our baby, right?”
Phillipe got up and went to her, enclosing her in a hug. The out-pouring of emotion was like a tidal wave, Francis was nearly overwhelmed. “Of course, of course... he’ll be magnificent, ma cherié, you’ll see...”
But as time and Annie’s pregnancy drew on, the relationship grew strained. As a translator for an elected official, Phillipe often had to be away from the house, and he knew Annie was growing suspicious that he was having an affair. With her hormonal mood swings only sparking more fights, it seemed that paradise was quickly fading. They argued, and argued, and in one instance Annie went back to her parents for a month. However, she was back with Phillipe when her waters broke, and luckily the man himself was there to watch it.
She almost broke his hand while in labor.
“Matthew.” she gasped when she finally held her tiny baby boy in her hands for the first time. “Hello little Matthew...”
“Bonsoir, mon petite Mattieu...” Phillipe whispered too, smiling at the little red bundle. It hiccupped, and squinted with baby blue eyes at it’s parents.
Francis didn’t really care for the ups and downs of parenting for a young child. He held down fast forward until he saw something he didn’t expect, and quickly re-wound. A court hearing.
“... this court rules that Phillipe Fournier shall have custody of the child, Matthew Fournier-Jones. The jury has decided this due to the father’s possession of financial and mental stability in comparison to the mother’s. However, Annabell Fournier, as of this divorce known as Annabell Jones, shall be granted visitation rights of- Miss Jones, please control yourself.”
Annie was screaming insults at the top of her lungs at Phillipe, and had to be restrained by the barrister. The judge pounded their gavel on the desk. “Order, I will have order in my court! Miss Jones, if you cannot settle down I will have you removed from the courtroom!”
Grimacing at the ugly scene, Francis pressed fast-forward again. Annie moved away, and Phillipe raised Matthew, two years old at the time of their split, until the boy was seven. Then, a change in job required him to move south to Texas. Francis could feel Phillipe’s unhappiness at the move, as well as see it on his young son’s face. Even at this age, there was a startling resemblance between him and Alfred, as well as him and Arthur’s Matthew. He wore glasses, and his eyes were still blue, not the strange lilac that Matthew Kirkland’s were, but their faces were similarly structured, round and gentle and soft in appearance.
Unpacking was a messy affair, but Matthew was very helpful; ferrying things he could hardly carry from the moving van to the house. He was carrying quite a heavy looking box when he stopped, dropping it.
“Mattieu, qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” Phillipe called over, concerned as the boy’s eyes widened. “Mattieu?”
“M-maman!” the boy stammered, abandoning the box and running out behind the van. Shock raced through Phillipe. Annie had always come to them; he had no idea she lived even close to here. But as Matthew ran into her arms, both their alarmed and surprised expressions locked.
“Mom, who’s that?” asked a boy by her side. His piercing stare went straight through Phillipe, and so penetrating that Francis felt like the young boy was staring at him directly. But that couldn’t be. This was just Phillipe’s memories. The boy was blonde with messy hair that stuck up in places. His knees were scraped and covered with band-aids, and he seemed to only be about five or six. His clothes were a little over-sized, and he dragged a plush bunny along by the ears in one hand.
Alfred looked at Phillipe with cold intensity, judging his very being with one look.
Annie mistook his question. “This is your half-brother, Matthew. I go and see him sometimes, remember? You go and stay with granny Maria then.”
Alfred wrinkled his nose. “Oh. Who’s that man over there, then?” He pointed at Phillipe, a motion that somehow felt like a death threat.
“… Matthew’s father.” Annie answered after a pause. She kept her face carefully blank. Alfred frowned.
“Isn’t he the one that makes you cry a lot?”
“Hush darling.” Annie said lowly, but not enough not to be heard. Phillipe swallowed his pride, as well as his odd fear of Annie’s apparent second child, and approached her.
“Annie.” He started, then paused, feeling the cold blue stare of the young boy on him. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“No. I guess you didn’t.” she said slowly, standing up with Matthew balanced on her hip. The quiet boy was enjoying being back with his mother, burying is face in her shoulder. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“Unless he did it because it’s his evil plan!” Alfred piped up cheerfully. “He’s the bad guy because bad guys make mommy cry. I’m going to be like Superman and defeat you!” He put his fingers on the side of his head and squinted. “Pew pew! Laser vision!”
Annie chuckled. “Sweetie, you can’t melt him in the middle of the street, the neighbours will get upset.” Alfred looked put out at this news, and crossed his arms to sulk. Annie put Matthew down, and the boy reluctantly let her go. “Why don’t you two go and get acquainted?”
“What’s ak-wain-ted?” asked Alfred.
“It means to get to know each other.” Matthew offered shyly, gaining Alfred’s attention but oddly not flinching from his piercing stare. “Um… I’m Matthew.”
Alfred grinned, wide and bright as the sun, and the tense atmosphere seemed to vanish from around him. “Hi! I’m Alfred, I like climbing trees, do you like climbing trees? I also go and swim in the river even if mommy says there might be gators but then I can just beat them up and save the day! Hey, do you know how to swim? If you don’t I can push you in and then save you from drowning and get in all the papers-!”
He seemed fully capable of babbling on forever, so Francis hit fast forward again. Matthew grew and grew, becoming a 10 year old in the blink of an eye. Phillipe’s job was even more demanding than his last one, and he sadly saw little of his son, not only because he was out late, but because the boy frequently stayed over at Annie and Alfred’s for dinner and then the night. In several instances, Phillipe allowed the boys to stay in his house instead, but he could never sleep well in the night. He always felt like something was watching him, something with the intent to do harm. No, more than harm. To kill.
It may have been a dream, or maybe the recollection was so panicked it distorted the image. Francis had to rewind a bit, as he played too fast over the moment and couldn’t believe his eyes. At normal speed, the movements of the memory seemed jerky and stilted. Panic, then, must have been the cause for the strangeness of the memory. A sense of terrified foreboding emanated from the screen, giving Francis goosebumps. Only the streetlamp’s light shining through the window illuminated the bedroom. For a while, the scene froze, and Francis wondered if it was the projector acting up. He would have fiddled with the remote, but the image it froze on was too terrifying for him to look away from, freezing him in place.
Alfred, in the yellow light of the streetlamp, was standing over Phillipe’s bed, smiling that unsettling smile that he gained when he spotted prey. Blue eyes bored into Phillipe’s own with a determined certainty.
“I’m gonna kill you.” He whispered like a secret.
The film skipped, changed scene. By the time the whirl of darkness and flashes of light had passed, and the panic filling the room had faded, Phillipe was at the airport, sitting in a plane bound for France, heart racing. He didn’t calm down until the plane took to the air.
Francis sat back in wonder, echoing the sentiment Phillipe kept playing over and over again in his head.
‘That boy is a monster.’
For two long years, Phillipe stayed in his parent’s house in Nice, wracked with fear and then guilt over leaving his son behind without warning. He didn’t feel he could face going back, and wondered if his son would ever forgive him. From what Francis knew of Matthew’s character, he guessed that the boy would be more than pleased just to have his father back home. He allowed himself to feel slightly smug when it turned out he was right.
Matthew was 15 now, a gangly teenager full of hormones and sporting glasses as well as longer hair. He looked a lot like his father, but still bore more resemblance to Alfred than should have been possible, as they were only half brothers. Alfred was almost as tall as Matthew despite being a year younger, and was on the school baseball team, with the potential to become captain. His terrifying aura was muted now, but Francis and Phillipe knew it was only hidden behind that wide and cheerful smile. Despite the tales Matthew told of him being the most popular guy in school, Alfred never seemed to bring home a girlfriend, or any friends at all. Just him and Matthew, every day.
Rather than split the boys up again now that Matthew had got so attached to his brother, Phillipe relented to his son’s pleas to at least live in with them. Annie tolerated him, and over time became a little more friendly with him. They proposed to start over with a clean slate, and moved into Phillipe’s bigger house.
Still, Alfred bothered him. While he was never openly hostile, sometimes Phillipe would get that terrible feeling again, of being watched, of being hunted. Occasionally, if Matthew and Phillipe had had an argument, it was almost as bad as the time when he’d fled back to France.
He endured. He endured it for his son, who had never done anything wrong by him. He endured it for the poor, innocent boy, held in the clutches of that monster, so close he could never hope to break him away now.
The pattern continued, and Francis fast-forwarded again, until the film reel slowed down on it’s own. This had to be a significant event, for this to happen on it’s own. Matthew was sitting on the sofa across from Phillipe, crying quietly to himself. Phillipe waited patiently for his son to speak whatever was upsetting him. Alfred was at baseball practice, and thus wouldn’t be home for hours. Annie was at work as well. It was just the two of them, like it used to be.
“Papa…” Matthew began, wiping at his eyes. “I can’t take this any more. I have to say something. It’s killing me.”
Phillipe frowned. “Go ahead, I’m listening. It’s alright, it’s just me.”
Matthew shook his head. “What I’ve done is u-unforgivable!” he sobbed, looking up at his father with the most guilt-ridden expression Francis had ever seen on someone so young. He had to be 18 at the most. “I should never have helped him! But he’s my only brother, he’s my only brother!”
“Shh, take a deep breath, tell me what’s happened.” Phillipe soothed him, but Francis had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.
“He… I…. Alfred’s killed two people!” Matthew suddenly blurted, and then the words came out like water from a broken dam. “He’s been killing animals for years and years, ever since you left, and I never told anyone, I just helped him bury the bodies. But the animals just got bigger and bigger, birds then cats then dogs then the one time he killed a bear and a wolf! And I just buried them and didn’t say anything! We worked together the whole time and nobody’s ever realized! We’ve been doing such awful things- I’ve been doing such awful things, but there was never a human before- and now- now!” he collapsed into sobs, burying his face in his hands. “Two people! They were just hikers, just normal people, a couple!”
Phillipe was numb, staring at his son. His son, who had been helping Alfred murder neighbourhood pets, and cover up the evidence. His son, who had buried two people, god knows where. His son, who collaborated with a monster, lied to his parents, to the world, just to keep a monster safe.
He felt sick.
“I can’t take this, I can’t!” Matthew cried, looking to Phillipe like he was his last hope. He probably was. “It’s too much for me. Papa, you have to help me…”
Phillipe slowly got to his feet.
“I’m going to the police.”
Matthew leapt up too. “Papa, no! They’ll arrest Alfred! They’ll give him life in prison! They might even give him the death penalty!” He grabbed onto his father’s arm, desperately pleading. “Please, let’s all just go to France, let’s leave here and not come back!”
“And then what, let him get away with more murders?!” Phillipe snapped, fear and anger driving his temper. Matthew looked like he’d been slapped in the face.
The door to the lounge opened, and Annie stood in the hall. “What on earth’s going on?!”
Matthew leapt for his mother. “Mama, you have to listen to me!”
“Alfred’s murdered two people.” Phillipe said flatly. He’d known for so long that the boy was capable. And he had done nothing. “I’m going to the police.”
“Mama, please, you have to stop him! I hid the bodies, nobody will find them, I’ve been hiding bodies for years now, just animals but now there’s people and- and…” he collapsed forward onto her, and she drew him into a protective hug, glaring over her shoulder at Phillipe. As though this was his fault.
“I will not let my sons - either of them - go to jail, not in this state.” She said firmly. “We’re going north, I know a place we can stay, Alfred’s father-”
“You’d protect a murderer?!” Phillipe yelled.
“I’d protect my son!” Annie snapped back, glaring poisonous daggers at him. “You should protect yours as well!”
Phillipe squared his shoulders. “I am protecting him. By getting that lunatic put away where he belongs!” He stormed past the two of them, ignoring Matthew calling after him.
“Papa! Papa, no!”
“I will not be associated with a house of murderers!” he yelled, completely lost in the heat of the moment, the emotional whirlwind, the terror and the anger and the frustration.
“You’re a part of this family!” Matthew cried desperately. “He’s my brother! He’s your son!”
Phillipe span around to face Matthew, one hand on the door of his car. “If he is your brother, then I have no son!”
Matthew stared at him, and it took a moment for Phillipe to realize what he’d just said. The completely devastated look on Matthew’s face was almost too much for Francis, who was covering his mouth from the surprise of it all. Everything overturned, so quickly…
Phillipe got in the car, not saying another word. Matthew stood frozen to the spot on the front lawn. Driving off in a screech of tires, Phillipe made straight for the police station.
He got to the corner of the street, and passed Alfred. Blue eyes locked onto him for a second, but neither could react in time. Phillipe sped off, and resolved to keep going all the way to the police station.
The drive took ten minutes, which was ten minutes too long for any person this paranoid and desperate.
Phillipe’s arrival at the police station was almost unnoticed in the flurry of activity. Everyone was running around, piling on protective clothing and coats and loading weapons. Only one officer bothered to stop and ask him why he was here, and even then it was in short, clipped tones.
“My son has murdered two people.”
This gave pause to anyone within hearing range. The officer frowned.
“22 Maple Avenue?”
Phillipe’s eyes widened. “Yes…”
“That’s funny, because we thought we were dealing with a murder and a suicide.” The man’s look became concerned. “Are you Phillipe Fournier?”
“Y… yes…”
The officer exchanged a look with a companion. “I think you’d better sit down. Your lady has been murdered… and your son shot himself.” He looked regretful at having to deliver this news. “And… your other son-”
“Is no son of mine!” Phillipe snapped, turning on his heel to go back out of the door.
“Sir! Sir you’ve got to stay here, he’s after you!”
Phillipe stopped, looking behind him. “Quoi?”
“He’s the one who called us sir. He said he’d killed his mother, and that his brother had shot himself.” The police looked mildly terrified at the memory. “He said you’re next. Sounded pretty sure of himself too.” Francis could hear how fast Phillipe’s heart was pounding, like it was right next to his ear. “You’ve got to stay in police custody.”
Phillipe bolted.
Francis regained control of the fast forward button, watching at top speed as Phillipe raced through counties, then states, across borders and mountains, even going off road. But still Alfred followed him, continued to track him doggedly, murdering gleefully for fun in his wake. It seemed he’d picked up a chainsaw as his signature weapon, but plenty of other murders were attributed to him as well. If there was an unsolved murder, it was Alfred’s fault. After a month, Phillipe boarded a plane back to France, but couldn’t bring himself to go to his family this time. If Alfred followed him there… he could never forgive himself.
Not that he could forgive himself anyway.
Matthew…
Phillipe met Francis in a back alley in Toulouse.
Monster Mash 11
Notes:
- Wow this chapter is long. Almost as long as the last two put together! But that's what's needed to explain Phillipe and Alfred and Matthew. Hope you didn't get too bored by it!
- Someone correct me if I'm wrong but I think "qu'est-ce qui ne va pas" is "what's wrong" in French...
Characters: Francis, Phillipe, Alfred, Matthew (human), Annie
Rating: 15
Warnings: HOLY WALL OF TEXT, and Alfred is a creeper.
Summary: Originally inspired by this. (Link to pic for those who don't have Pixiv here.) Due to popular demand, what was a oneshot has now spawned a fic.
The technique took a lot of concentration, not to mention time, but with Alfred distracted and Francis’ current body bedridden, he had plenty of both. He tried to get as comfortable as possible, closed his eyes, and forgot reality. Focusing inward, he pictured a library. The one he was currently in was full of his own books, his own memories, all arranged in one long isle, stretching in front of him and behind him. These kinds of things were stored in his soul, not his brain. It meant his memory was patchy at times, not having a proper filing system a brain would provide. All the books were out of order. If Arthur saw, he’d have a fit. The shelves carried on into nothingness, but in the distance was a dark shadow, obscuring several of the bookcases. The blank in his memory had been what had encouraged him to learn the technique in the first place off an old gypsy woman. But every time he went near the blackness, he was overcome with terror, and found himself running away.
Well, this time he wasn’t here for a test of courage. Turning around, he walked away from the shadow, and towards a door at the other end of the long aisle bookshelves. There was a door, almost obscured by the bookshelf. He imagined it moved, and so it did. The door was of old wood, oak perhaps. Fitting for the person he was possessing. He turned the handle, and entered.
This time, there wasn’t a library. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realised he was in a theatre, a movie house. The screen was dark, and there were no other lights but dim LEDs along the runways between the seats. Francis felt his way along, before deciding just to sit down already. No need to prolong this any further. Everything in the theatre reacted to mental commands after all, like all things in this inner world. What was he, trying to find a remote?
Just like that, the weight of a remote registered in his hand. Well, he’d asked for that one. He fumbled with it, pointing it at the screen and pressing all the buttons until he finally hit “on”.
The projector hidden somewhere behind him whirred to life, shining a flickering image onto the screen. It was decayed, like old memories were, with holes in it and random jumps. From the glimpses of a crib and a ball, as well as various other childhood toys, it seemed Francis had gone right to the beginning of Phillipe’s life. This was much too early. Now with the light of the screen to see by, he pressed fast forward. The imaged sped up, becoming clearer and less patchy over time, but still with jumps between events. Nobody remembered what they ate for breakfast every day. The soundtrack sped up too, but he could still tell that the people in it were speaking French. So, born and raised in France, was he?
Francis stopped the fast forwarding when there was suddenly a long, focused shot of a young lady. Rewinding a little, he saw Phillipe boarding a plane. To the United States, he knew instantly, in the same way one knows things in dreams. Phillipe was going to university in the United States. It skipped forward again, through several scenes of his dorm room, speaking nervous English to his new suite mates, fellow international students from Spain and Germany. And then they came back to the image of the girl. Her hair was a light brown, though when the sun caught it through the window it looked a little blonder. She was doodling on her class notes, Francis viewing her from the side a few seats away.
Francis could have laughed from the sheer saturation of hormonal and emotional attraction in that one image. Phillipe was clearly infatuated. It was obvious. Ah, l’amour.
He was then treated to a quite romantic-comedy-esque sequence of Phillipe trying and failing to get the courage to ask her out. His friends consoled him, encouraged him, mocked him for going after young Miss Annabell Jones. That gave Francis pause. If this woman eventually ended up being Alfred’s mother, why had he kept her name? The immediate answer that he could think of was that he hated Phillipe that much. But that still didn’t seem quite right.
While he had been pondering, the film had finally got round to Phillipe asking Annabell out. Once he’d actually got his nerve together, the boy was a regular Casanova, charming the young lady easily that she said yes. It was so idyllic that Francis began to wonder if the boy would always be seeing everything through rose-tinted lenses. Through their consecutive dates, love making and shared moments of happiness, Francis watched them in their joy, knowing full well that it would end inevitably in a shower of blood. When they fought, they fought bitterly, and it took them weeks to get over their pride and face each other again. But by the time they’d finished their university degrees, they were married, and looking for a home together.
“Ph-Phillipe...” stammered Annie, as her name had been shorted to affectionately. “I’m pregnant!”
Phillipe choked on his breakfast cereal. Francis watched with amusement as he tried to regain his composure. “Mon dieu, enceinte?!”
“I don’t speak French, Phillipe.” Annie said, but smiled fondly, resting her hands on her currently flat stomach. “But you’ll teach our baby, right?”
Phillipe got up and went to her, enclosing her in a hug. The out-pouring of emotion was like a tidal wave, Francis was nearly overwhelmed. “Of course, of course... he’ll be magnificent, ma cherié, you’ll see...”
But as time and Annie’s pregnancy drew on, the relationship grew strained. As a translator for an elected official, Phillipe often had to be away from the house, and he knew Annie was growing suspicious that he was having an affair. With her hormonal mood swings only sparking more fights, it seemed that paradise was quickly fading. They argued, and argued, and in one instance Annie went back to her parents for a month. However, she was back with Phillipe when her waters broke, and luckily the man himself was there to watch it.
She almost broke his hand while in labor.
“Matthew.” she gasped when she finally held her tiny baby boy in her hands for the first time. “Hello little Matthew...”
“Bonsoir, mon petite Mattieu...” Phillipe whispered too, smiling at the little red bundle. It hiccupped, and squinted with baby blue eyes at it’s parents.
Francis didn’t really care for the ups and downs of parenting for a young child. He held down fast forward until he saw something he didn’t expect, and quickly re-wound. A court hearing.
“... this court rules that Phillipe Fournier shall have custody of the child, Matthew Fournier-Jones. The jury has decided this due to the father’s possession of financial and mental stability in comparison to the mother’s. However, Annabell Fournier, as of this divorce known as Annabell Jones, shall be granted visitation rights of- Miss Jones, please control yourself.”
Annie was screaming insults at the top of her lungs at Phillipe, and had to be restrained by the barrister. The judge pounded their gavel on the desk. “Order, I will have order in my court! Miss Jones, if you cannot settle down I will have you removed from the courtroom!”
Grimacing at the ugly scene, Francis pressed fast-forward again. Annie moved away, and Phillipe raised Matthew, two years old at the time of their split, until the boy was seven. Then, a change in job required him to move south to Texas. Francis could feel Phillipe’s unhappiness at the move, as well as see it on his young son’s face. Even at this age, there was a startling resemblance between him and Alfred, as well as him and Arthur’s Matthew. He wore glasses, and his eyes were still blue, not the strange lilac that Matthew Kirkland’s were, but their faces were similarly structured, round and gentle and soft in appearance.
Unpacking was a messy affair, but Matthew was very helpful; ferrying things he could hardly carry from the moving van to the house. He was carrying quite a heavy looking box when he stopped, dropping it.
“Mattieu, qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” Phillipe called over, concerned as the boy’s eyes widened. “Mattieu?”
“M-maman!” the boy stammered, abandoning the box and running out behind the van. Shock raced through Phillipe. Annie had always come to them; he had no idea she lived even close to here. But as Matthew ran into her arms, both their alarmed and surprised expressions locked.
“Mom, who’s that?” asked a boy by her side. His piercing stare went straight through Phillipe, and so penetrating that Francis felt like the young boy was staring at him directly. But that couldn’t be. This was just Phillipe’s memories. The boy was blonde with messy hair that stuck up in places. His knees were scraped and covered with band-aids, and he seemed to only be about five or six. His clothes were a little over-sized, and he dragged a plush bunny along by the ears in one hand.
Alfred looked at Phillipe with cold intensity, judging his very being with one look.
Annie mistook his question. “This is your half-brother, Matthew. I go and see him sometimes, remember? You go and stay with granny Maria then.”
Alfred wrinkled his nose. “Oh. Who’s that man over there, then?” He pointed at Phillipe, a motion that somehow felt like a death threat.
“… Matthew’s father.” Annie answered after a pause. She kept her face carefully blank. Alfred frowned.
“Isn’t he the one that makes you cry a lot?”
“Hush darling.” Annie said lowly, but not enough not to be heard. Phillipe swallowed his pride, as well as his odd fear of Annie’s apparent second child, and approached her.
“Annie.” He started, then paused, feeling the cold blue stare of the young boy on him. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“No. I guess you didn’t.” she said slowly, standing up with Matthew balanced on her hip. The quiet boy was enjoying being back with his mother, burying is face in her shoulder. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“Unless he did it because it’s his evil plan!” Alfred piped up cheerfully. “He’s the bad guy because bad guys make mommy cry. I’m going to be like Superman and defeat you!” He put his fingers on the side of his head and squinted. “Pew pew! Laser vision!”
Annie chuckled. “Sweetie, you can’t melt him in the middle of the street, the neighbours will get upset.” Alfred looked put out at this news, and crossed his arms to sulk. Annie put Matthew down, and the boy reluctantly let her go. “Why don’t you two go and get acquainted?”
“What’s ak-wain-ted?” asked Alfred.
“It means to get to know each other.” Matthew offered shyly, gaining Alfred’s attention but oddly not flinching from his piercing stare. “Um… I’m Matthew.”
Alfred grinned, wide and bright as the sun, and the tense atmosphere seemed to vanish from around him. “Hi! I’m Alfred, I like climbing trees, do you like climbing trees? I also go and swim in the river even if mommy says there might be gators but then I can just beat them up and save the day! Hey, do you know how to swim? If you don’t I can push you in and then save you from drowning and get in all the papers-!”
He seemed fully capable of babbling on forever, so Francis hit fast forward again. Matthew grew and grew, becoming a 10 year old in the blink of an eye. Phillipe’s job was even more demanding than his last one, and he sadly saw little of his son, not only because he was out late, but because the boy frequently stayed over at Annie and Alfred’s for dinner and then the night. In several instances, Phillipe allowed the boys to stay in his house instead, but he could never sleep well in the night. He always felt like something was watching him, something with the intent to do harm. No, more than harm. To kill.
It may have been a dream, or maybe the recollection was so panicked it distorted the image. Francis had to rewind a bit, as he played too fast over the moment and couldn’t believe his eyes. At normal speed, the movements of the memory seemed jerky and stilted. Panic, then, must have been the cause for the strangeness of the memory. A sense of terrified foreboding emanated from the screen, giving Francis goosebumps. Only the streetlamp’s light shining through the window illuminated the bedroom. For a while, the scene froze, and Francis wondered if it was the projector acting up. He would have fiddled with the remote, but the image it froze on was too terrifying for him to look away from, freezing him in place.
Alfred, in the yellow light of the streetlamp, was standing over Phillipe’s bed, smiling that unsettling smile that he gained when he spotted prey. Blue eyes bored into Phillipe’s own with a determined certainty.
“I’m gonna kill you.” He whispered like a secret.
The film skipped, changed scene. By the time the whirl of darkness and flashes of light had passed, and the panic filling the room had faded, Phillipe was at the airport, sitting in a plane bound for France, heart racing. He didn’t calm down until the plane took to the air.
Francis sat back in wonder, echoing the sentiment Phillipe kept playing over and over again in his head.
‘That boy is a monster.’
For two long years, Phillipe stayed in his parent’s house in Nice, wracked with fear and then guilt over leaving his son behind without warning. He didn’t feel he could face going back, and wondered if his son would ever forgive him. From what Francis knew of Matthew’s character, he guessed that the boy would be more than pleased just to have his father back home. He allowed himself to feel slightly smug when it turned out he was right.
Matthew was 15 now, a gangly teenager full of hormones and sporting glasses as well as longer hair. He looked a lot like his father, but still bore more resemblance to Alfred than should have been possible, as they were only half brothers. Alfred was almost as tall as Matthew despite being a year younger, and was on the school baseball team, with the potential to become captain. His terrifying aura was muted now, but Francis and Phillipe knew it was only hidden behind that wide and cheerful smile. Despite the tales Matthew told of him being the most popular guy in school, Alfred never seemed to bring home a girlfriend, or any friends at all. Just him and Matthew, every day.
Rather than split the boys up again now that Matthew had got so attached to his brother, Phillipe relented to his son’s pleas to at least live in with them. Annie tolerated him, and over time became a little more friendly with him. They proposed to start over with a clean slate, and moved into Phillipe’s bigger house.
Still, Alfred bothered him. While he was never openly hostile, sometimes Phillipe would get that terrible feeling again, of being watched, of being hunted. Occasionally, if Matthew and Phillipe had had an argument, it was almost as bad as the time when he’d fled back to France.
He endured. He endured it for his son, who had never done anything wrong by him. He endured it for the poor, innocent boy, held in the clutches of that monster, so close he could never hope to break him away now.
The pattern continued, and Francis fast-forwarded again, until the film reel slowed down on it’s own. This had to be a significant event, for this to happen on it’s own. Matthew was sitting on the sofa across from Phillipe, crying quietly to himself. Phillipe waited patiently for his son to speak whatever was upsetting him. Alfred was at baseball practice, and thus wouldn’t be home for hours. Annie was at work as well. It was just the two of them, like it used to be.
“Papa…” Matthew began, wiping at his eyes. “I can’t take this any more. I have to say something. It’s killing me.”
Phillipe frowned. “Go ahead, I’m listening. It’s alright, it’s just me.”
Matthew shook his head. “What I’ve done is u-unforgivable!” he sobbed, looking up at his father with the most guilt-ridden expression Francis had ever seen on someone so young. He had to be 18 at the most. “I should never have helped him! But he’s my only brother, he’s my only brother!”
“Shh, take a deep breath, tell me what’s happened.” Phillipe soothed him, but Francis had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.
“He… I…. Alfred’s killed two people!” Matthew suddenly blurted, and then the words came out like water from a broken dam. “He’s been killing animals for years and years, ever since you left, and I never told anyone, I just helped him bury the bodies. But the animals just got bigger and bigger, birds then cats then dogs then the one time he killed a bear and a wolf! And I just buried them and didn’t say anything! We worked together the whole time and nobody’s ever realized! We’ve been doing such awful things- I’ve been doing such awful things, but there was never a human before- and now- now!” he collapsed into sobs, burying his face in his hands. “Two people! They were just hikers, just normal people, a couple!”
Phillipe was numb, staring at his son. His son, who had been helping Alfred murder neighbourhood pets, and cover up the evidence. His son, who had buried two people, god knows where. His son, who collaborated with a monster, lied to his parents, to the world, just to keep a monster safe.
He felt sick.
“I can’t take this, I can’t!” Matthew cried, looking to Phillipe like he was his last hope. He probably was. “It’s too much for me. Papa, you have to help me…”
Phillipe slowly got to his feet.
“I’m going to the police.”
Matthew leapt up too. “Papa, no! They’ll arrest Alfred! They’ll give him life in prison! They might even give him the death penalty!” He grabbed onto his father’s arm, desperately pleading. “Please, let’s all just go to France, let’s leave here and not come back!”
“And then what, let him get away with more murders?!” Phillipe snapped, fear and anger driving his temper. Matthew looked like he’d been slapped in the face.
The door to the lounge opened, and Annie stood in the hall. “What on earth’s going on?!”
Matthew leapt for his mother. “Mama, you have to listen to me!”
“Alfred’s murdered two people.” Phillipe said flatly. He’d known for so long that the boy was capable. And he had done nothing. “I’m going to the police.”
“Mama, please, you have to stop him! I hid the bodies, nobody will find them, I’ve been hiding bodies for years now, just animals but now there’s people and- and…” he collapsed forward onto her, and she drew him into a protective hug, glaring over her shoulder at Phillipe. As though this was his fault.
“I will not let my sons - either of them - go to jail, not in this state.” She said firmly. “We’re going north, I know a place we can stay, Alfred’s father-”
“You’d protect a murderer?!” Phillipe yelled.
“I’d protect my son!” Annie snapped back, glaring poisonous daggers at him. “You should protect yours as well!”
Phillipe squared his shoulders. “I am protecting him. By getting that lunatic put away where he belongs!” He stormed past the two of them, ignoring Matthew calling after him.
“Papa! Papa, no!”
“I will not be associated with a house of murderers!” he yelled, completely lost in the heat of the moment, the emotional whirlwind, the terror and the anger and the frustration.
“You’re a part of this family!” Matthew cried desperately. “He’s my brother! He’s your son!”
Phillipe span around to face Matthew, one hand on the door of his car. “If he is your brother, then I have no son!”
Matthew stared at him, and it took a moment for Phillipe to realize what he’d just said. The completely devastated look on Matthew’s face was almost too much for Francis, who was covering his mouth from the surprise of it all. Everything overturned, so quickly…
Phillipe got in the car, not saying another word. Matthew stood frozen to the spot on the front lawn. Driving off in a screech of tires, Phillipe made straight for the police station.
He got to the corner of the street, and passed Alfred. Blue eyes locked onto him for a second, but neither could react in time. Phillipe sped off, and resolved to keep going all the way to the police station.
The drive took ten minutes, which was ten minutes too long for any person this paranoid and desperate.
Phillipe’s arrival at the police station was almost unnoticed in the flurry of activity. Everyone was running around, piling on protective clothing and coats and loading weapons. Only one officer bothered to stop and ask him why he was here, and even then it was in short, clipped tones.
“My son has murdered two people.”
This gave pause to anyone within hearing range. The officer frowned.
“22 Maple Avenue?”
Phillipe’s eyes widened. “Yes…”
“That’s funny, because we thought we were dealing with a murder and a suicide.” The man’s look became concerned. “Are you Phillipe Fournier?”
“Y… yes…”
The officer exchanged a look with a companion. “I think you’d better sit down. Your lady has been murdered… and your son shot himself.” He looked regretful at having to deliver this news. “And… your other son-”
“Is no son of mine!” Phillipe snapped, turning on his heel to go back out of the door.
“Sir! Sir you’ve got to stay here, he’s after you!”
Phillipe stopped, looking behind him. “Quoi?”
“He’s the one who called us sir. He said he’d killed his mother, and that his brother had shot himself.” The police looked mildly terrified at the memory. “He said you’re next. Sounded pretty sure of himself too.” Francis could hear how fast Phillipe’s heart was pounding, like it was right next to his ear. “You’ve got to stay in police custody.”
Phillipe bolted.
Francis regained control of the fast forward button, watching at top speed as Phillipe raced through counties, then states, across borders and mountains, even going off road. But still Alfred followed him, continued to track him doggedly, murdering gleefully for fun in his wake. It seemed he’d picked up a chainsaw as his signature weapon, but plenty of other murders were attributed to him as well. If there was an unsolved murder, it was Alfred’s fault. After a month, Phillipe boarded a plane back to France, but couldn’t bring himself to go to his family this time. If Alfred followed him there… he could never forgive himself.
Not that he could forgive himself anyway.
Matthew…
Phillipe met Francis in a back alley in Toulouse.
Monster Mash 11
Notes:
- Wow this chapter is long. Almost as long as the last two put together! But that's what's needed to explain Phillipe and Alfred and Matthew. Hope you didn't get too bored by it!
- Someone correct me if I'm wrong but I think "qu'est-ce qui ne va pas" is "what's wrong" in French...