He's A Good Little Boy

He's A Good Little Boy

A Story by Creepy Is My Forte
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What a deranged mommy will do to keep the false and perfect image of her only son intact.

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            The worst mistake Mr. Jones could have made was addressing Elizabeth Watson about a problem concerning her son. “Hello?” Elizabeth answered her home phone in her normal sunshiny voice.

            “Yes, this is Mrs. Watson correct? Devon’s mother?” Mr. Jones asked to be sure.

            “It surely is. How can I help you?” Elizabeth queried.

            “Well, you see, this is Mr. Jones, Devon’s Social Studies teacher, and I’ve been having some problems with Devon in my class,” Mr. Jones explained.

            “Problems? What kind of problems?” Elizabeth questioned in almost a growl.

            “Well, he has been talking an awful lot, and he has become a continuous distraction for the other students,” informed Mr. Jones.

            “With all due respect Mr. Jones, Devon is a seventh grade boy. He is going to talk, and he can’t be the only student talking in class. Have you addressed their parents?” Elizabeth probed rudely.

            “Well, no, because the other students haven’t been defying me. I have asked Devon to stop on several occasions. I was just calling to inform you that this has been consistent since the beginning of the year. I’ve sent a few notes home, but you haven’t called me to see what was going on so I thought I would just inform you of what was happening,” Mr. Jones said.

            “Alright then, I will address the problem with Devon. Thank you for the phone call,” Elizabeth thanked with false sincerity as she collected herself.

            “That would be appreciated, have a nice evening,” Mr. Jones stated and ended the conversation. Elizabeth clenched the cordless phone until her knuckles turned white as she tried to control her nearly uncontrollable temper. No one knew the angry side of her, other than the ones that would never speak of it, and her family certainly wouldn’t. She slowly placed the phone back on its dock to avoid from slamming it down. She took slow deep breathes and thought of her beautiful Seattle home, spotless white walls, gleaming hard wood floors, furniture that had a fresh smelling clean scent. She stepped into the bathroom where she stared at her mirrored features, shoulder length brown hair pulled up in a bun, spotless white dress, and brilliant green eyes. Elizabeth pursed her lips and returned to the dinner table where she was rudely interrupted by Mr. Jones’ call.

            “Who was that honey?” asked her husband Geoffrey Watson.

            “Yeah who was it?” repeated her only child Devon.

            “Oh, it was no one. Just someone with a little problem, a problem that I will have no trouble taking care of,” Elizabeth assured her family. Her lips spread lightly into a tight smile as she pretended to be interested on eating the food on her plate, but, too no one’s knowledge, she was working out her plan for her next problem to solve.

***

            The next day, Mr. Jones sighed as he scribbled another F in red sharpie on yet another Social Studies test. He promised himself that he would stay at school for a little while so he could grade the test he gave out a few weeks ago, but now he was regretting it. Hardly any of the students in his class were retaining the content he was teaching. It wasn’t Mr. Jones. He was a terrific teacher. His previous classes were much more successful than the current year. All of the Social Studies classes he taught that year weren’t the best he’d ever had in terms of test scores, but his eighth period was especially bad. Maybe it was the fact that it was the last period of the day, maybe it was just that particular class, but he was almost certain it was Devon. He talked constantly and almost always distracted the class. He was hoping that the problem would have been resolved when he called Devon’s mother the day before, but that day had been just as worse as any day before. Mr. Jones adored all of his students, but Devon was beginning to grind on his nerves, despite the fact that he had the highest scores in the class. Mr. Jones rubbed his eyes as he finished up the last test and straightened the stack of papers.

            He opened his briefcase case and laid the stack of papers into it. He closed it and made sure the clasps were secure. he stepped up from his desk and took one last look around his room to make sure it was neat. He turned and walked out the door making sure that it was locked. Despite the fact that Mr. Jones tried to be quick about grading the papers, he did have to grade eight classes’ worth, and it had become dark outside. He fast walked to his silver Volvo and was surprised to see someone standing beside of it. That someone was Elizabeth Watson. “Mrs. Watson? Hello there, how can I help you?” he asked not being worried in the least about being alone in a dark parking lot with the woman her was sure would never hurt a fly.

            “I came to see you Mr. Jones. I just wanted to talk to you about Devon and how he has been ‘disrupting’ your class,” Elizabeth explained making air quotes around the word “disrupting’ with a falsely warm smile.

            “Um, well he has been a disruption. It is late, but I suppose we can make it quick. He was just as bad today as he was before. You did address the problem with your son didn’t you?” Mr. Jones queried as he walked forward to Elizabeth until she was at arm’s length.

            “No, in fact I didn’t,” Elizabeth admitted.

            “What? Why not?” Mr. Jones questioned.

            “Because he did nothing wrong. Devon never does anything wrong, I can promise you that,” Elizabeth assured Mr. Jones.

            “Excuse me? I don’t mean to sound rude Mrs. Watson, but you are speaking nonsense. He is a continuous disruption in class, and I suggest that you address the problem,” Mr. Jones recommended.

            “But he did nothing wrong Mr. Jones. There is no problem to address,” Elizabeth prompted.

            “I don’t have time for this Mrs. Watson. I need to get back to my family. Have a good night,” Mr. Jones said in an irritated voice and walked past Elizabeth toward his vehicle, unintelligently turning his back to the woman.

            “I can see I have a problem to take care of,” Elizabeth concluded. Suddenly, something that felt like a cloth was pressed tightly over Mr. Jones’ mouth. He reflexively inhaled and instantly became succumbed to the effects of chloroform.

***

            When Mr. Jones groggily opened his eyes, he was in a completely different scene than that of the school parking lot. He was sitting down in a wooded chair in a small room with a black walls and a single swinging overhead lamp. The walls were lined with several kinds of tools, nails, hammers, drills, shovels. He tried to yell for help, but found out that it was covered with duct tape. He tried to lift his arms to his mouth, but he realized that they were bound by rope, and he tried to move his legs, but discovered that they were in the same situation as his arms. Mr. Jones started to become very scared. He tried to break the binds, but to no avail. He looked around in all directions and only saw more menacing tools, and a large metal door. He flinched when the door opened to reveal Elizabeth Watson. “Hello Mr. Jones,” Elizabeth greeted as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

            “Why am I here?” Mr. Jones tried to ask, but the sound that came out was an incoherent screech.

            “Don’t try to speak. You’ll just tire yourself out. You will need your strength if you’re going to make it. The weak ones usually can’t take the pain,” Elizabeth explained. Mr. Jones made more screeching noises, and Elizabeth sighed. “Fine don’t listen to me,” she said, “Well, I suppose we should get started.” She walked over to Mr. Jones and ripped off the duct tape.

            “Agh!” Mr. Jones screamed in pain, “Why am I here?”

            “You lied about my child,” Elizabeth reminded him.

            “What?” Mr. Jones shouted.

            “You said he was a disruption, and by calling him a disruption, you admitted he isn’t perfect. I can promise you, Mr. Jones, my child is perfect. Therefore, you lied,” Elizabeth assured him.

            “How did I get here?” Mr. Jones questioned as his grip on reality started to return.

            “I dragged you here after I knocked you out,” Elizabeth recalled. Though she didn’t look it, Elizabeth was very strong. She easily dragged Mr. Jones back to her own car then into her quiet room.

            “You dragged me?” Mr. Jones cried.

            “Yes,” Elizabeth answered simply. Mr. Jones looked from Elizabeth to the door on his right.

            “Help!” he pleaded, “Help! Someone help me!”

            “Don’t bother. This room is soundproofed. It’s my quiet room. It’s where I take care of problem like you,” Elizabeth told Mr. Jones.

            “Like me? How am I a problem?” He asked terrified.

            “Do you suffer from short-term memory loss?” Elizabeth questioned bitterly, “I already told you. You called Devon a disruption. You lied.”

            “What does that have to do with why you brought me here?” Mr. Jones wondered with tears of fear starting to form.

            “I don’t appreciate it when people tell lies about my son. You are here to admit that you lied,” Elizabeth clarified, “Please don’t talk anymore. I need to get started if I’ll get you back by morning.” Elizabeth ignored the confused cries of Mr. Jones as she thought about which tool to start with. Decided on a hammer and nail first. She plucked a hammer from its hooked on the wall and fished out two nail from a green bin. She put one nail in her pocket and walked over to Mr. Jones.

            “What are you doing?” Mr. Jones yelled, but Elizabeth ignored him. She held the nail under the head with her left thumb and index finger, and placed the point of the nail on the back of Mr. Jones’ hand. She brought the hammer up and slammed it down, driving the nail through Mr. Jones’ hand. The pain that engulfed Mr. Jones was unbearable. He felt as though his hand had been engulfed in flame. Elizabeth drove the second nail into Mr. Jones’ other hand, not skipping a beat, and the pain was renewed.

            “Say my child is perfect,” Elizabeth demanded in a level voice. Mr. Jones only answered with screams of pain.

            “Say my child is perfect,” Elizabeth repeated as she grabbed another nail and hammered it through Mr. Jones’ foot.

            “Say it!” Elizabeth shouted becoming impatient.

            “Your child is perfect,” Mr. Jones’ managed through the waves of pain.

            “Admit you lied!” Elizabeth added driving a nail through Mr. Jones’ other foot.

            “I lied,” Mr. Jones whimpered as the pain started to subside, but just barely.

            “Now, say that he’s a good little boy, and we will be finished here,” Elizabeth added after she collected herself.

            “He’s . . . a good . . . little . . . boy,” Mr. Jones admitted between shallow, painful breaths.

            “Thank you Mr. Jones. I appreciate you telling the truth for once,” Elizabeth smiled. She was glad the problem was solved quickly. Most of her problems were solved quickly. Elizabeth untied Mr. Jones and pulled the nails out of his hands and feet, knowing he would be too crippled by pain to try to escape. Mr. Jones screamed at that, but was relieved that they were out. Elizabeth swiftly bound Mr. Jones’ wounds.

            “W-why?” Mr. Jones’ whimpered through the pain as he closed his eyes.

            “I hate liars,” Elizabeth said and Mr. Jones felt a familiar cloth over his mouth and nose.

***

            Elizabeth sighed contently as she sipped her coffee. She was enjoying a peaceful on her brown living room couch on a fine Monday morning. Being a stay at home mother had its perks. She was joyous that she had successfully solved another liar. Elizabeth had quickly dropped Mr. Jones in front of the hospital after she had knocked him out. She called that morning and found out that Mr. Jones would make a recovery, but not a complete one, mentally anyway. She wasn’t worried though. None of her fixed problems ever showed their faces around her again. The law had become suspicious, but none of the signs pointed to Elizabeth. She took another sip of her coffee and thought of her perfect child. He had just left the bus for school. Elizabeth hated people that told lies about her child. Her child was perfect. He’s a good little boy, Elizabeth told herself. Her happiness was interrupted when she heard her home phone ringing. “Hello?” she answered in the extra sunshiny voice that always came after fixing a problem.

            “Yes is this Mrs. Watson?” asked a female voice that Elizabeth vaguely recognized.

            “Yes, who is this?” she questioned.

            “This is Ms. Mills. I’m Devon’s Math teacher. I have a problem concerning your son and his obsessive talking in class.

            “Do you now?” Elizabeth sighed un-contently at the site of another problem she would have to fix, and she wasn’t going to wait.

***

            Ms. Mills tried to scream and shake her arms, but with no success. She was tied to a chair with duct tape on her mouth in a dim room where the walls were lined with tools. Elizabeth opened the door to her quiet room and made sure the door was shut tight so no one would hear her fixing yet another problem. After all, she had a perfect child and a loving husband sleeping just upstairs, and they needed their eight hours.

© 2011 Creepy Is My Forte


Author's Note

Creepy Is My Forte
This story is creepy.

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Elizabeth Watson is most definitely the creepiest character I've come across in quite a while. This was a wonderful read, descriptive and detailed, so keep up the good work! :)

Posted 8 Years Ago



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Added on May 17, 2011
Last Updated on September 10, 2011
Tags: mom, mommy, mother, torture, death, false, lies, perfect, boy, good, little, isn't, he, he's, special, hidden, room

Author

Creepy Is My Forte
Creepy Is My Forte

Lexington, KY, U.S. Virgin Islands



About
I mostly write short stories of the creepy variety. Stephen King is kid of my idol when it comes to my shorts. When i attempt (and normally fail) to start and write a novel, George R. R. Martin is my .. more..

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