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The Mind's Prison without Escape - True Paranormal Story · Shallow Nights: Scary Bedtime Stories

• 0:30
  I still remember that night I killed him.
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  It was dark, the moon hanging over the mountains in an indigo
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  sky, the tombstones lined up one after another.
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  He was weeping for his lover. She had passed away the day
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  before, a gunshot to the head. No one knew who did it.
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  No one except me. I was the murderer.
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  She'd been home alone, baking her dear husband apple pie, and
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  I'd arrived and shot her in the head.
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  It wasn't like I had no reason to.
• 1:00
  There were many occasions that led up to this event.
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  First, she would make fun of my glasses in front of everyone.
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  Then she would make fun of my virginity.
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  Once, she even had the audacity to make fun of my deceased
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  grandmother because somehow she thought that my pain and loss
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  were hilarious. Finally, I followed through with
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  my plan. I knew Arthur wouldn't be home
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  yet. He always worked late on
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  Fridays, tying up loose ends. I had a key because she trusted
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  me. I brought a gun.
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  I walked in, I shot her in the head and she fell to the ground.
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  I took the apple pie out of the oven so poor Arthur wouldn't
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  have to deal with it. And that was that.
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  I hate to admit this, but the sound that the gun made when it
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  killed her actually satisfied me.
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  I felt immensely powerful and immensely proud of myself for
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  what I'd done, but only for a split second.
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  After that, I realized that I was very wrong to kill this
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  woman. I was in the graveyard at
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  midnight with Arthur because I talked myself into killing him
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  too. I told myself that somehow he
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  would be happier if he was with her.
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  That's how my sick mind used to work.
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  I was killing him because it was in his best interest.
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  He'd be too lonely here on Earth without his wife.
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  I'd say that they were both going to heaven, but I'm afraid
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  they'd actually both be going to hell, because I was convinced
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  she was evil. I still remember my fingers
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  pulling the trigger, the shadow of a man falling to the ground,
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  the silence that followed. I remember throwing the weapon
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  on the ground, putting my head in my hands and letting the
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  tears stream down my face, wondering what the hell I'd
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  done. By the luck of the draw, I
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  suppose, if one can call it luck.
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  I've never been behind bars. They weren't well known in the
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  neighborhood. No one knew who did it.
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  I'd worn gloves and hidden the gun so they couldn't trace my
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  DNA to them. I thought getting caught would
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  be the worst punishment on earth.
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  Trust me, it's not. I almost wish I was behind bars.
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  I wish someone knew my secret. I wish someone knew what I had
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  done to these people, that I, Thomas Masterson, and a murderer
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  through and through. Their ghosts still haunt me to
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  this day. I see the blood as they fall to
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  the floor every night in my nightmares.
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  At first I was afraid of getting caught.
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  I would have nightmares about a police officer showing up and
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  cuffing me, sending me straight to prison.
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  Now I am scared of going to hell.
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  I am alone in this cabin in the woods.
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  No one knows who I am. I have a bottle of whiskey to
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  keep me company every night. No friends, no family.
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  I don't deserve them. No one should know who I am.
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  No one deserves to. I still have the gun I used to
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  commit murder right by the rocking chair.
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  I use it for deer now if I'm really angry.
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  I have a good aim, but more often than not, the blood is too
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  much for me to bear. These days I hide out in these
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  woods, hoping no one will ever find me.
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  But any murderer will tell you, anyone with a semblance of
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  empathy at least, that it is impossible to escape a guilty
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  conscience. It's impossible to escape the
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  dreams that refuse to stop haunting you, to see the life
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  leaving someone's eyes, even if that someone was your worst
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  enemy. It is impossible to escape the
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  shame of taking another person's life.
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  It is impossible not to hear the voices of what you have
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  convinced yourself are these people's ghosts taunting you
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  constantly about how evil you are.
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  When I go back to the graveyard, it's worse.
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  I can swear that I see their apparitions, but they fade away
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  the minute I reach out my finger to touch them or ask them a
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  question, or try to apologize. They haven't forgiven me.
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  They never will. How could they forgive me for
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  cutting their lives short, something only God has the right
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  to do? How could they?
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  I haven't even forgiven myself. I stare at the moon rising over
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  the mountains and urge myself to look at their graves, daring
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  their spirits to come out. I punish myself this way.
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  I feel that I deserve some kind of punishment, yet I can't even
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  begin to think about turning myself in.
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  If other people knew what I'd done, if I couldn't take walks
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  in these mountains, I don't know if I could bring myself to live
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  another day. They whispered to me that I am a
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  Sinner, that I will go to hell, that they will never stop
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  haunting me. An apology begins to leave my
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  lips, a hope in my chest that somehow they can forgive my
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  unforgivable act. Yet before I can utter one, they
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  disappear into the night. I sit and I hold my head in my
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  hands, rocking back and forth, desperately fighting the tears
• 6:00
  that burst through my eyes, moaning, not caring if anyone
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  hears me. A police car passes on the
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  street. It doesn't stop.
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  I don't know whether to feel relief or torture.
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  The pit in my stomach gets bigger.
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  I try to escape these demons by going back to my cabin, but they
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  will continue to haunt me for the rest of eternity, I'm sure
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  of it. That's what I deserve.