There Once Was a Boy

By Dee Remy

This dark story of youth and obsession leads readers into a world of wealth, glamour, and supernatural terror. Kurtis and Delia James have everything two teenage siblings could possibly desire: they are smart, rich, and attractive. Everything is perfect until they move to their family’s new summer home and meet their neighbors. Kurtis soon becomes friends with their new neighbor Caleb, and their lives turn into a nightmare.

Caleb, is obsessed with Delia and will not rest until he possesses her. While he professes friendship with Kurtis, he intends to use him to make Delia his own. Kurtis, who has unique and unearthly qualities, is the only person who can deter Caleb and protect Delia. With raw intensity that will unnerve even the most stoic of readers, Caleb’s driven obsession seems without limit—and soon Kurtis is struggling for both his sanity, and his life.

Caleb becomes a dark and fanatical tormenter and Delia soon realizes their relationship is not about love—it is about possession. It is also about survival for her and for Kurtis. Her struggle to release the two of them from Caleb’s maniacal control could lead to death and destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 22, 2011

Dee Remy

Dee Remy was born Darlene Becker in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. She is the youngest of three daughters raised in a strict Italian home. In the seventh grade a friend introduced her to Edgar Allen Poe and it began her love affair with literature. Dee began writing poetry at the age of thirteen. She wanted to follow in the footsteps of the authors who had become her friends. After marrying young and having a daughter she decided to begin writing seriously again. Dee never wanted her daughter to grow up without dreams of her own, so she set out to prove to her daughter that anything is possible if you put your mind to it. As much as she loves her dark and demented fiction, she loves literature. All of it. Dee explored the works of Edgar Alan Poe and F. Scott Fitzgerald to Isaac Asimov. From Charles Dickens and Virginia Wolf to Stephen King and Neil Gaiman. From Hunter S.Thompson and Jack Kerouac to the Marquis DeSade. She admires these writers not only for their words but for inspiring her to do even better. In addition to her poetry, Dee she is currently working on her second novel and has outlined her third. Dee resides in Brooklyn N.Y. with her daughter Livia and their many pets.

Book preview

There Once Was a Boy

by

Dee Remy

Published by

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Rd.

Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

Copyright 2011

ISBN 978-1-936587-53-7

E-Book

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design by: Tom Rodriquez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Prologue

In the incandescent glow of the moonlight, an elderly woman sits gazing out upon Founder’s Lake. Her thoughts are muddled with death and rebirth as she carefully turns the pages of her tattered Bible. In the murky obscurity of the lake, she sits mesmerized by the ripples of the water crashing against the pier. Almost two decades have passed, and on the same night each year... here she sits. She will pray for others to aid her; she will pray for her son’s new life. Her prayers are carried out across the dismal lake as she bellows out religious rhetoric. There isn’t anyone to hear her cries of grief and anguish except for a bunch of unkempt teenagers. They only pass to ridicule and hurl insults. As she is scorned by their mocking, she slowly rocks back and forth, quoting scripture, her hands held up, reaching upward pleading to the heavens. She stands, speaking to an unseen audience; her words are not in vain.

In the distance, hovering over a small area, a brilliant light appears over the lake, igniting the night waters in vigorous and spirited colors. It appears that the frail woman summoned this exhibition with her fierce pious preaching; the calm air begins to stir gently. The colors begin to slowly diminish, and she sighs in contentment. She lowers her arms and kneels down, kissing the wooden pier beneath her. She rises, looks out into the darkness, and slowly turns to walk toward town. With her head down, she hurries, and her black veil conceals her satisfaction.

***

On the west side of Manhattan in a luxurious high-rise, the James family prepares to summer in their new home; a quaint getaway, close enough to the city for work and far enough to escape the concrete jungle for the summer. For Michael and Catherine James, it was, indeed, a business venture... always is. Of course, the home was more for their children, Kurtis and Delia, who they felt needed to get out of the city for the summer, and Catherine and Michael needed to be close to their investments. If their son Kurtis wanted to be a writer, then he needed a little solitude. That is something their son could never obtain in the city. He was too popular for a boy his age... with everyone! They worry about him. He is their golden boy, Kurtis James, and there isn’t anything he couldn’t go up against. He was going places, and it all seemed to go his way, and his parents had every intention of keeping that way!

Then there is Delia, so intelligent and beautiful. Straight A’s, honor roll. And they’d heard rumors that she might even be valedictorian of her graduating class next year! Sadly, she hasn’t any direction, and never feels the need to do anything. She hasn’t a goal or a dream to strive for. Mostly, she hangs around the city with her strange friends She isn’t spoiled or a snobbish princess; in fact, she is quite the opposite. She is almost completely anti-social, and has always wrestled with the guilt of being well-off.

Delia and Kurtis, so different—but, gratefully, extremely close. Their parents hoped that by being away from the city streets and with Kurtis’ guidance, Delia might discover some ambition.

Michael and Catherine know they weren’t the greatest parents. They are busy people—hard-working, busy people! They raised their children to be independent, and they are. They did need a little push in the right direction once in a while, and this summer, there were going to be changes made! Kurtis is sixteen now and they know what their son is capable of and they had no intention of allowing his potential to go to waste. Catherine had plans for her son... big plans!

Delia is a completely different story. Their only hope is to convince her to go into law with Michael. It was doubtful and a long shot, but Delia would be brilliant. There was no question that she could argue!

***

Delia didn’t really want to leave the city. She wasn’t friendly, and the few friends she did have would be here for the summer! She had planned on sunbathing in Central Park, spending hours in the museums, and maybe calling her friend, Melanie, once in a while. Mel was good for a once-in-a-while type friendship. They understood each other. Delia liked to be alone most of the time, and Mel knew this, and never once made her feel like a freak. Mel was a little strange, as well.

Living in the city, Delia’s favorite thing to do was play tourist, and summer was the best time. The parents were denying her that! She decided that she would refuse to enjoy herself! She wasn’t nearly as thrilled as Kurtis, who couldn’t wait to disappear for a while, but at least she had him. She was counting on Kurtis not to desert her. He did have a tendency to get carried away with something and off he goes! Kurtis was extremely curious; something was always going on when Kurtis was around. Delia intended to harass him into staying put for a change! She decided she would sleep late and get a tan. That’s all she wanted; nothing more!

***

For over a week, Kurtis was packed and ready to go. He was looking forward to getting out of the city for the entire summer. Sure, he’d miss his friends, but some would be up there once in a while. I’ll make new ones, he thought to himself, smiling, as he gathered some last minute items: his stash of marijuana, a notebook, and a pen. That’s all he ever really needed, but he always got more—more than he should! Kurtis even felt guilty about it. Everything just went his way... always! Looks, girls, school, parents... anything he wanted, he got without asking! Maybe his sister was right. Maybe he should take this time to focus on his writing and relax. But he knew himself better than that. For all he knew, his luck would run out! Kurtis knew it wouldn’t last forever; he wanted to live without consequence and harbor no regrets. Make it all count! He sometimes wondered when it was all going to become reality—when the real world was going to come up and bite him in the ass. Kurtis James would be ready. And to be honest, he couldn’t wait. Life so far was way too easy for him. He needed a challenge! Maybe the summer away was exactly what he needed.

Chapter One

I awake, terrified and dripping in sweat. This is not a surprise; it happens quite often. I feel so alone, despite the fact that I’m not. Looking around, I can see my robe dangling off a chair. I reach for it and hurriedly throw it on as I stumble out of bed. Of course, the mass beside me just lays there. Sadly, I feel a little sickened by the thought of him. I always hope the feeling will pass with each new day, but it never does. Before fleeing the room, I stop to gaze at my thirty-three-year-old form. Mirrors are perpetually deceitful. They lie and steal your true self. They reveal only what your mind believes it sees. I am not looking at my true reflection—only an expression of my recessed feelings.

Dark circles under my eyes sink deeper and deeper into my skull, in contrast to my pale skin. There is an undeniable resemblance to a fresh corpse. I still appear to be Delia James, with long, strawberry-red hair, tousled at the moment, and a petite, slim frame, but the reflection I see tells a different story. I am an insomniac who is plagued by nightmares. My only sense of security is to escape to the basement. We have formed a sick little friendship over the past year; it’s become the only place I can get any sleep.

Sleep isn’t something that comes naturally to me; it hasn’t for many years. Of course, medicated, I can sleep anywhere, and it does help with the nightmares, but drugs weaken you. I need all the strength I can get, because in the morning, I am going back to a place... a place repressed so deep within me, I can’t even imagine the impact of this sacrifice. This is a visit I am obviously not prepared for. All the strength I may have gained these past few years has now diminished within one.

It has begun to fall apart; my safe yet fragile world has started to fracture. First, my brother, and now, the selling of the parents’ summer home... the home I swore I would never go back to, and tried so hard not to revisit for about sixteen years. I can’t explain the mixed feelings of dread and fear at the mere thought of returning... alone! Crippling terror wouldn’t be too exaggerated. I thought about going with my brother Kurtis, many times before. He would write there. He loved that house. I always thought about going with the hint of hope that the nightmares would end. But fear... fear would never allow it!

How do people know they are sane? Can a person be gripped by lunacy, only to be released from madness a short time later, never to relive the episode again? As I grow older, I have come to realize that the story I am about to relate is true... Well, as true as my sanity; only you can make that judgment. Yes, I have spent many a sleepless night searching my mind for the alternative. The alternative, however, is more frightening than the event itself. I cannot present any evidence that the story I am about to tell is not a figment of my imagination. There is no reason to believe otherwise. The only conclusion I can come to is that the persecution I’ve put upon myself is the creation of my own insanity.

Huddling in a corner of my basement in the middle of the night doesn’t give me much credibility in this matter. Thirty-three years old and here I am, hiding in my basement. Delia James, seventeen again, and behaving like a teenager scribbling in a secret journal, terrified someone will discover the sexual indiscretions I have recently experienced. Found out? By who? The man upstairs passed out in my bed, who grunts and sweats while he sleeps? Not one of them ever realized I was gone.

I creep out of the bedroom covertly, slinking my way down the stairs, ducking past windows, as if I was staking out the house next door. In truth, I find myself spending more time alone down here in this dank, dark basement than anywhere else.

The man I chose to spend some sordid evenings with will be gone in a few short hours, and I could not be happier. Honestly, I would rather they not stay until morning. I prefer to sleep alone whenever possible, partly because of the night terrors and terrifying dreams, all of which I cannot completely remember... Thank God for that! More frequently, I just want to be alone. Aside from sex, I have no real relationship with any man, nor do I want one. I tried; I just can’t do it. I was never one for the soul mate concept. Yes! I have chosen a life most women would be appalled by. On numerous occasions, I have noticed the word spinster or slut snickered behind my back. I don’t fault people for their unkind comments. They live their lives in dread, waiting for the day they might be left alone, some afraid of starting over, others afraid of being rejected or cast aside for another. The rest secretly envy me.

I myself relish the solitude. I would never say I am misunderstood or that I wish people could get to know me. I don’t really want to know them, so why would I care if they want to get to know me? I never had a lot of girlfriends to confide in or share things with, nor do I need or want them. As unnatural as it is to some, I have shared my life with one companion: my brother Kurtis. He was a brilliant non-fiction author; we traveled the world together. He wrote, and I purchased property. He was the only true friend I ever had, and for almost twenty years, he was the only family I had. Together, we shared a bond that not even death would violate. My brother passed away one year ago tomorrow.

My brother, The Kurtis James, is the embodiment of the word man: six-foot-five-inches tall, with hair so black that when the sun hit, it had a blue shimmer. He would wear it a little long. His dark green eyes forever bring to mind a deep ocean on a dark winter’s day. Seamless skin, a natural, opulent russet, was a contrast to the eyes that exhibited feline qualities—not to mention, a body any man could only wish for, without any exercise whatsoever. That alone would warrant envy! The majority, of course, could never achieve it.

My brother was an extraordinary individual. Yes, he was engrossing and enticing physically—there was never a question about that—but there was something else, something monumental about him. It is not that any explanation would seem plausible, because people would say he was just lucky, born under an angel’s wing. I and my family, when there was a family, never suspected he was anything but exceptional. All the men wanted to be his friends, and all the women wanted to be in his bed. Occasionally, there were a few men that wanted the latter as well. There’s only one other person I’ve ever known who came close to having that gift, but we’ll get to him later. When speaking of Kurtis, I refer to it as The Romance of the Unattainable.

Kurtis had lived his life the same way I choose to live mine. Obviously, for a man, it is more acceptable. The unattainable man; ah, the sweetest prize, isn’t it? Now, I am not speaking of a married man or a man involved. I mean a man who, for whatever reason, will never give his heart to a woman—a man who has his own journey to embark on. For most, that is where it begins—the man, the romance, and the fantasies—and usually, that’s where it ends. Just holding the hope that that man, who will have no woman in his heart, will have you is the passion. Sadly, the unattainable novelty will eventually wear off, and what is the reward? A man, and just that—a man! For most, that can be enough; for others, it begins the incessant, infinite search yet again.

I will be the first to admit that my brother was not a typical man, but he was still only a man, flesh and blood, as we all are. However, his effect went deeper than flesh and blood. Some would say it was preternatural more than physical—that he absorbed, as well as emanated, energy.

When you were in a room with Kurtis James, whether it was with one or a hundred other people, Kurtis seemed to be the only one there. Wherever Kurtis was, was the place to be! It rarely bothered me how special he was. He brought so much pleasure to those around. I felt the same way the world did about Kurtis: It revolved around him. Most people, oblivious to their resignation, gladly handed him complete power. Whether he wanted it or not is irrelevant; he was always in control... always.

Last year, my brother killed himself in this very basement. He took a bottle of pain killers, fell asleep, and never woke up. I still wonder whether or not I could have prevented his death. It seems very doubtful. As I said, he was always in control. You may say suicide is a loss of control and cowardly. Foolish as it may sound, I am prepared to argue.

Kurtis had very few weaknesses. My brother radiated an air of sovereignty that, in retrospect, made him seem invincible. There was nothing of which he was incapable. I do understand his reason for his death, but in truth, he is not responsible. I was not shocked the day I found him... devastated, but not shocked.

I have read his note every day since his death and I still find a certain sense of security in his words.

It reads...

Delia,

I cannot pretend to protect you any longer, being physical. Can’t you feel him? He’s revealed his presence to me. He remembers how close he came to having you. It’s starting again. I’ve seen him. I’ve stopped myself from telling you for some time now, if only to spare you.

How long has it been since you said his name? I cannot allow you to have another day shadowed by him. Death is the only answer! I wanted to be normal. I tried to be normal. I never wanted this life handed to me, yet I embraced and guarded it. I respected it, but I always feared it—because of him, because of you. I never believed it was over. Neither did you!

This is the only choice that I have. I will never leave you, but only in death can I truly protect you.

Kurtis James

I have been responsible for so many deaths, but Kurtis’ cuts the deepest. Kurtis gave his life for me. Not just in death, but in life as well. I do feel my brother, especially here, where it all ended. Of all the guilt I feel, nothing can compare to the pain I endure every day without him. He always felt responsible for me, ever since the parents died. My brother was right about saying the name, but he was also wrong. I could say it, but I feel as though it would begin all over again. It is a place I haven’t visited for a long time, and it is not easy to go back. Kurtis and I rarely spoke about that summer, but I do think Kurtis would agree that it was that summer, many years ago, that shaped our lives.

Before I open the door I’ve kept locked and barricaded for so long, I want to begin with a thought: Every person has many faces, but only one is kept hidden for you alone. Those that look upon that face will live inside of you until your very last breath.

It was our summer vacation, which consisted of the parents working all day and rarely coming home at all. So, Kurtis and I were on our own as usual. The only difference was that we spent this vacation at the parents’ new summer home in Edendale, New York, a very exclusive community built around Lake Founder. It is a manmade lake, but a lake nonetheless. It is about three hours outside New York City.

It was the last summer we would ever spend together as a family.

I remember waking up that first morning, with the sun glaring through the shades. All I can remember was dreading the days ahead. I wanted to go home; I swear, if it weren’t for Kurtis kicking my ass out of bed, I probably would’ve slept all day. I wish I had.

From the age of thirteen, I had been driving, and so had Kurtis. We used the family car. The parents had their own cars. I was currently seventeen and Kurtis was sixteen. The mother would always say, It’s important for everyone to know how to drive, if only for emergencies. This actually meant, we are too busy with our own lives to chauffer you around. We had learned a long time ago to fend for ourselves. I wouldn’t call it neglect. In a very peculiar way, I always felt that fate was preparing us for what lay ahead.

Most mornings, without fail, she would yell upstairs, Now remember to be careful while driving, and for Christ’s sake, don’t kill anybody. The keys are on the mirror. I can verify that the parents were always busy. Even when they didn’t seem to be working... they were working! They were busy, the parents. I would never say they didn’t love us, but they had their dinner parties and their country clubs.

Our dad prided himself on being the ideal father figure—and I stress the word figure, for he was a mere depiction of a father. Reality tells a different tale. He would very lovingly introduce us as his greatest treasure and accomplishment, Delia and Kurtis James. The father was a lawyer, and aside from those very rare occasions when we were together, he didn’t acknowledge our existence. We were just his kids—a picture he could put on his desk. He lived the American Dream: extremely successful, a beautiful wife, two perfect children, and a variety of lovers.

The mother herself was an editor for a magazine, and she herself was guilty of the same. Neither cared what the other did, as long as there was an endless flow of money. Of course, the perfect family depiction needed to remain untainted. To do otherwise would be a dramatic assault on their irrefutable reputation as pillars of their community.

Ironically, the community is made up of functioning alcoholics and drug addicts, without any morals or values, but they’re very wealthy! It’s acceptable to revel in decadence among your own kind; in fact, it’s encouraged. It sickened me, yet at the same time, I found it quite comical. All the same, Kurtis and I, believe it or not, were happy.

Kurtis was sixteen, but looked beyond his years. He used that to his advantage whenever possible. We were intelligent, well-educated, and independent. Kurtis was an aspiring author and always writing something: usually just observations, but it delighted the parents. I had decided to live without direction, off of their money, which didn’t delight them in the least—and that’s exactly why I did it. We had freedoms most children ached for, but we didn’t abuse them. When you’re accustomed to a way of life, it doesn’t offer the same pleasure as it would to others not as fortunate.

That was the first day that Kurtis saw him.

We were sitting in the backyard, drinking coffee and looking at the house next door, which appeared about to collapse. I still remember just about every detail of that house to this very day. It feels as if it were yesterday and not sixteen years ago.

"Aren’t you a little surprised the parents would buy a house right next door to that decrepit thing? They flipped out when the neighbors tried to put some unauthorized Christmas decorations on their door. Why would the parents buy this house, right next door to that?" I asked, pointing at the neighboring house while looking at our new home away from home in contrast. Ours was a small but elegant colonial, no doubt quite old, given the area, and worth a lot of money. My brother, already tan from being outside an hour, responded with choking and coughing as he offered me a joint. I refused; pot brightened my morning, but if I smoked, I would be useless for the rest of the day.

All their friends live here in the summer. They’ll come here and see that house. I pointed to the house next door. It was a depressing shell of a house. Intrigued, I dwelled on the sight. It lost all its splendor years ago but there was beauty, absolutely there was beauty!

I felt a swell of respect toward the parents for second. I couldn’t believe they didn’t care that their house stood next to something that looked like it came straight out of an old horror movie. Yet as creepy and menacing as the house appeared, it did have a certain antique beauty. I said, I’m a little impressed. I mean, their friends will be coming here. They’ll see that house, if they don’t know of it already. Possibly, with any luck, they’ll ridicule and spread rumors of a financial downfall. Maybe they aren’t all that snobbish after all. I felt a bit of absolution and a certain pang of gratification. "Yes, definitely I’ve recovered some faith in the integrity of the parents." I’d never said those words before, and I would never say them again.

At that, Kurtis burst out laughing. Don’t be too impressed. Dad tried to buy that house, just so he could restore it and sell it. Supposedly, it’s historic. He bought this one instead, to be close to it—you know, so no one would snatch it up from under his nose. Paid a lot of money, too. The people didn’t want to sell. Never, ever overestimate the integrity of the parents, he said as he shook his finger in my face.

How do you know this stuff? I asked.

He responded, I actually talk to the parents, unlike you!

I should have known, money! It’s always about money with the parents. Before I could start my rant about the parents, Kurtis turned to me and said, I swear, some guy is staring at us through that window. I can’t quite make him out. But someone’s definitely watching us. He walked over to the crumbling wall that separated the properties to get a closer look. Yeah, right up there... Look, can you see him?

I looked up to see nothing except the ominous house. It was an old Victorian-style house with tower rooms on each side. Kurtis was referring to the back tower. Columns graced the entryway, which led to a wraparound porch. With its dirty windows and broken shutters, it looked abandoned. Its paint was peeling, shingles deteriorated, and from here, it looked like part of the roof might be missing. An in-ground pool twisted from the back of the house to the side, filled with a murky greenish-brown sludge. A quaint gazebo was barely visible through the overgrown weeds and shrubs; it was weather-beaten, and the wooden shingles that covered the roof had rotted through. The property resembled a swamp. This house hadn’t been loved in years. I was sure that years ago, it had been quite beautiful; now it just existed among its unkempt gardens with indignity. I started to feel sad for it. An overwhelming sense of despair started to rise within me. I almost felt like weeping.

That house probably hasn’t been lived in for years. You, my dear brother, are paranoid, and should stop that wake-and-bake shit.

Kurtis ignored me. Nah, there’s someone there... or was someone there.

I sighed. I didn’t see anyone, and you’re fucking stoned! He didn’t hear a word I said as I attempted to take the joint away from him; he refused of course. Other than that, he was thoroughly transfixed on that house. Before I could object—not that he would even entertain any opposition, once his mind was set—without a word said, he walked right out of the yard, walked around the front of the house, battling overgrown undergrowth along the way, and went straight up to the front door of the desolate house. I stayed further behind; as I implied earlier, I am not as affable. If I knew Kurtis, he was going to find out who he thought he saw in that window and if there was someone in that house, which I doubted. I really had no interest in meeting them. Believe it or not, unlike my brother, am not liked by most. But of course I followed; even I would follow him anywhere.

Looking back, it was probably him drawing Kurtis closer.

The moment Kurtis was about to knock, a woman of about sixty, maybe seventy years old opened the door. She had white hair, so white it looked almost like cotton. She appeared very frail; a strong wind could knock her down. When she spoke, her voice was soft, her demeanor meek. Although from where I stood, she was inaudible, it was apparent that she was very excited, and she was pleading for something—for exactly what, was unclear. I couldn’t figure out what they were talking about. I wish I could’ve heard her words; Kurtis was captivated, which wasn’t surprising, considering he took an interest in everything and everyone. Real people were where Kurtis kept his attention; that’s why his entire life’s work was non-fiction.

I could tell by her gestures that the frail and wispy woman was inviting him in. In he went, leaving me outside without a second thought. I stood there watching and waiting. I didn’t understand what happened. Why did he go inside? He knew I was standing here. I walked up unto the porch, which creaked with every step. I peered through