IMAGINARY

Genre: Horror  

 

 

 

IMAGINARY

By Randy Romero

 

 

Chelsea Greene was preparing dinner when her son walked into the kitchen. Of course, Greene was actually her maiden name. She started using it again once the divorce was finalized. Thomas had kept his father’s name, Wentz. But Chelsea didn’t mind as long as Thomas was happy. And Chelsea was just happy to be Chelsea Greene again.

The name Wentz brought her nothing but bad memories and filled her with regret. Nothing could dissolve the years of verbal and physical abuse. But when her ex-husband smacked her in front of Thomas, she vowed it would never happen again. Her life started over the second the divorce papers were signed. Nobody would ever raise a hand to Chelsea Greene again.

Thomas greeted her as he walked in, then sauntered over to the fridge to look for a snack.

“Don’t even think about it,” Chelsea said. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I’m not going to let you spoil your appetite.”

Thomas sighed and closed the fridge.

“Mom, is it okay if Frank sleeps over again tonight?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she smiled benevolently. “As long as it’s okay with Frank’s mom.”

“He says it is.”

“Well that’s splendid. I hope he doesn’t mind spaghetti for dinner.”

“Frank will eat anything, mom.”

“I’m sure he will. Now run along. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Frank was Thomas’s imaginary friend. Chelsea imagined that the divorce was tough on him, and she wasn’t at all surprised by the development of Frank. Lots of kids have imaginary friends, especially at Thomas’s age, and especially children with separated parents. It was just a phase. Thomas would grow out of it eventually. In the meantime, Chelsea didn’t see the harm. She assumed it was Thomas’s way of coping with the divorce.

Chelsea called Thomas when dinner was ready. She made linguine with marinara sauce because it was one of her son’s favorites. Thomas loved her homemade sauce with the sautéed onions and garlic. Shockingly, Frank didn’t join them at the table. They ate together and talked about their day. Thomas talked about school, about his classes and his friends. Chelsea bored him with talk about her job.

“Can we go to the movies this weekend and see the new Avengers movie?” Thomas asked.

“Which Avengers movie is this one? There’s so many of them.”

“This is Infinity War.”

“We’ll see,” Chelsea said.

Thomas sighed. “That means no.”

When his plate was clean and he couldn’t possibly eat another bite, Thomas asked his mom if he could take a plate upstairs for Frank. Chelsea humored him by fixing another plate of spaghetti for Thomas to bring upstairs.

Thomas went to his room and Chelsea washed the dishes with the television on in the background. She could just make out what the reporter was saying.

In other news, the manhunt continues for escaped serial killer Francis Horner. Horner has been able to evade capture at every turn and police still have no leads as to the whereabouts of this deranged individual. Horner is considered to be armed and extremely dangerous. Any sighting of Horner is to be reported directly to the police. If you see him, do not attempt to approach or apprehend him.

“Francis Horner?” Chelsea repeated. “Francis…Frank.”

Chelsea thought for a moment about Thomas’s strange request. This wasn’t the first time Thomas had asked to take food upstairs for his imaginary friend. And he often came back with a clean plate.

She rushed up the stairs to her son’s bedroom and flung the door open.

There he was. Perched on the windowsill. That’s how he’d been getting in and out. Who knows how long he’d been using her home for food and shelter?

Chelsea had read about him in the papers. Francis Horner killed over a dozen people before the police captured him. In some cases, he stabbed his victims. In other cases, he strangled or suffocated them. There was no pattern, no motive, no specific type that he targeted. There was no reason or explanation for his actions. He killed for the sheer thrill of it.

“Mom, this is Frank. Frank this is my mom. I’ve told him so much about you.”

“Thomas, get away from him!” she cried.

“But mom, Frank’s my friend. He could be your friend too if you let him.”

The boy had been corrupted, brainwashed by this psychopath. Who knows what he had told the boy in confidence? Who knows what dark thoughts he embedded in his fragile mind?

“Thomas, this man is not your friend. He’s very dangerous. Now step away from him before he hurts you.”

“Frank would never hurt me, right Frank?”

“That’s right, Thomas,” Frank said, his voice deep and raspy. “My apologies for the intrusion, Mrs. Wentz. Oh I’m sorry, it’s Ms. Greene now. I forgot. Thomas has told me so much about you. He’s a good kid. I like him. So let’s be calm about this situation. I’d hate for anything to happen to him.”

That was all Chelsea needed to hear for her maternal instincts to kick in. She rushed over and an intense struggle ensued. He tried to strike her, but she grabbed hold of his wrists, digging her fingernails in deep. She got one foot up to try and kick him, but Frank used his knee to block it. He wriggled free from her tight grip and wrapped his massive hands around her throat.

“Stop it!” Thomas screamed. “You’re hurting her, Frank!”

Frank swatted him away with one of his giant paws, and Chelsea clawed at his face, freeing herself from his grasp. She shoved him and he stumbled back, bumping into the windowsill. One more push was all it took.

Francis “Frank” Horner went tumbling out the second-story window and snapped his neck on impact.

Thomas checked on his mother, then walked over to the window. He stared down at the man he genuinely thought was his friend. He had a look on his face his mother couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t shock or terror. It wasn’t anger or sorrow.

It was the absence of emotion.

“I’m sorry Frank hurt you,” Thomas said. “He promised me he wouldn’t. He told me about the other people that he hurt. He told me that they all deserved to die. He told me their names. Told me everything about them. He told me lots of stories…I really enjoyed them.”

“He’s gone now, sweetie. He can’t hurt anyone. Not anymore.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, so calm and cool it chilled Chelsea to the bone. “He’s not really dead. Frank lives on…in me.”