Gary

By Kevin Densmore

In the early 1980's outside a small town in Alabama, a young boy finds himself growing up in a haunted house alongside his parents. Yet the ghost that walks the house is the least of his worries.

 

While attempting to befriend the ghost, the young boy also tries to survive a monster that tortures him, abuses his mother and haunts his every waking moment. A monster he calls father.

 

In his fourth novel Kevin Densmore, Author of One Night at the 4/26, tells a story. Drawn from his own experience. One that fully explores what it is like to survive domestic violence. A story where a victim becomes a survivor. A story that should never be told.  A story that happens way too often. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Densmore
• Release date: Jun 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227995995

Kevin Densmore

Kevin began writing short stories when he was an awkward teenager living in a small town in Alabama. Now as an awkward adult, Kevin now lives in a small town in Illinois and still writes short stories. Only this time he is releasing his madness into the world.

Book preview

Introduction: Consider this a Warning

Well here we are. My most personal and horrific book, in my opinion, is here. I know a lot of you are wondering why there is a warning for a horror novel. Well let me just take a moment and say that sometimes a warning is needed. Especially for the subject matter in this book.

Inside these pages I tell a tale about monsters and ghosts. The only issue is the monster of this story is a flesh and blood man. One that becomes apparent a few chapters in. And what makes this man so monstrous you ask? Well it is because he is a psychotic abuser who gets off on beating his child and wife. Which means I will be taking a long hard look at domestic violence.

Domestic violence is more than just the black eyes and strategically placed bruises that kids can hide with the right clothing. There is more that takes place inside those unhappy homes. There is fear, there are scars, there are assaults that some of you never thought imaginable. How do I know this? Well because I lived it. Nearly every act of violence in these pages was indeed inflicted upon myself or my stepmom. (I do have sisters that grew up in the house but they did not want to be a part of this so I left them out). Which truly makes this the most personal book I have ever written.

Now I will answer some of the questions you all will have after reading this book. Or at least questions I think you will have. Because after you read the final chapter there will be no ending authors notes so lets get alot of things out of the way now.

Why did I call this book Gary? Well there was only one real monster I have ever met in my life and that was my father. Gary Malcolm Densmore. His last act as a free man on this Earth was him assaulting his mother and stealing her car. So you can see why I paint him as a monster. He died as a result of Covid complications in a nursing home a couple of years back. I don’t remember the exact date but so many people breathed a little easier the day he passed. I did and I am not ashamed to admit it. The only thing I have to thank him for is my passion for horror and writing which some people feel is unhealthy. Yet to me there was nothing scarier than him even though I went searching for it I never found it. I always made a joke that when I started making and releasing books I was going to write a horror story about him and name it after him. It’s not a joke anymore, it actually happened and now you're a part of it.

Why make it a ghost/haunted house story? To highlight the idea that sometimes what others perceive as scary, is not really as scary as you think. There are always more terrifying monsters out there, and some of them are real.

Normally you have a list of people to thank, why not this book? Due to the personal nature of this book I did not want to bring anyone else into this nightmare. This is my burden to bear and mine alone. Yet Christa persisted that I let her edit, so I did. I think she will do a fine job. Even though we probably won’t talk much, as she edits. Yes my photographer Chris Carlson took the photo you see on the cover, but with him knowing the dark nature of the book he understood how personal this book is. As a matter of fact we talk and goof off while taking a cover photo, not for this book though. This cover we put our head down and took what I feel is the darkest photo to ever grace the cover of one of my books. It was not a positive day and he understood. Also I need to thank the Somonauk Public Library and Julie Harte Fischer for allowing us to use the library’s meeting room to shoot the photo.

Will references to this book pop up in any future releases? No, this book is a one and done and I will no longer write about the characters within. This book gets a lot of things off of my chest, and mind. I am a little happier with it done and thankful for those that read this book. But I will never ever mention these characters again.

Why the first person narrative? This book is very personal to me and I feel that a third person narrative would just not work. Plus there will be scenes that play out behind closed doors and honestly it's more horrific when one is imagining the horror taking place out of sight, and the aftermath behind it. Sure this book comes to an epic conclusion with probably one of better endings I have ever put to page, but it’s going to be hell getting there.

Why the swearing and why write about stuff that takes place outside the house? Domestically abused children sometimes mimic what they see and repeat the language they hear. They also become bullies as they release their anger and fear outward or they become bullied as they hold their anger and fear inside making them an easy target. Every part of this book is important for the main character to accomplish what he needs to accomplish by the end of the book.

Was the house real? Yes, as is the town of Toney Alabama. As is the school Madison Cross Roads Elementary. Also the Convenience store Toney’s Place was real as well. It was within walking distance to my house. The house was an old renovated grocer and gas station as well. The small island where small gas pumps once stood was real and I remember some of the events I described surrounding the small concrete island as some of the happiest moments I had while living in this house. Not all of the street names are real. I couldn’t remember them. Also I do not know if the house is still there or if the store is around, they always will be though, deep in the back of my mind.

Well I don’t know if I covered all your questions but I think I bored you long enough. Just know this is going to be a hard book to read. I understand some of you will read this and cringe. Some will put it down and go hug your child. Hell some of you will cry and think I need a hug. But it’s ok. Gary’s reign of terror is over. This book is not a tribute. More of an exposure of who he really was. A small vindictive act. Part fiction, part nonfiction. Yet a story I needed to tell. It clears my soul and gets me ready for my next adventure. I wrote this story for myself. I do hope you like it and I do hope you understand.

Also to anyone living inside the horrible world of domestic violence, just know that it’s ok to run. I wish we had run sooner. Yet fear and pain is a hell of a prison. If you want to escape please call 1-800-799-7233. They ask no questions and sincerely want to save you.

I get it. I know that feeling of helplessness and despair. But just because your abuser is your father, mother, wife, or husband it does not mean you can not seek help or leave them behind.

Yeah the scars that are left behind are horrific. Both mental and physical. But if you try you can always use them to tell a story in the hopes that you can save others.

Thank you for being here and as always,

Toodles,

Kevin Densmore.

Prologue: Moving Day

As my wife and I began to unpack our belongings I felt a brief moment of uneasiness creep over my soul. Almost like the chills one gets when a goose walks over your grave or whatever kids call it these days. If they call it anything. I knew why the feeling was there and what it was about. As I looked at my wife and her large belly where my twin sons were now growing, I knew exactly what the feeling was.

Surviving domestic abuse is not something you do once, it is something you do the rest of your life. Everyday I look at my wife and I just cannot fathom why someone would use such a heavy violent hand on someone they love. Yet I witnessed it happening as a child.

My father was in no way a good man. Even though he claimed to be a born again Christian. A fearful man of God, he would lie. I honestly do believe he put on a show for his stepfather, so the man would buy him a house. Which actually happened two weeks after my father was baptized. And well that house became my hell for damn near five years.

Moving my now growing family into this large four bedroom house that I was able to provide without conning a relative did little to quell the fear and horrific memories that just rushed to the forefront of my brain the moment I began to unpack the first box. It was the kitchen utensils and as I opened it and looked inside, I could just feel the terror and horror I felt as a child all those years ago. It was brief and it was noticeable.

Babe what’s wrong? My wife asked as I took a breath so deep that I made a whistling noise between my teeth.

Just thinking about Gary. I answered.

I never hide anything from my wife. I was upfront and honest with her about everything. Including the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father. She knew everything I remembered about those five years I spent in the house of horror that I moved into with my father and stepmom when I was eight. So when I said my father’s name out loud she stood up and walked over to me. Putting her arms around me from behind and resting her head on my shoulders.

It’s okay baby She whispered. You are safe and he can never hurt you again.

I removed my hands from the box and lowered them to cover hers. She was right of course, my father passed away two years ago during the pandemic. Lonely and pathetic inside a nursing home. No one was there when he passed and no one collected his ashes. He was still in a box on a shelf somewhere inside a Tennessee mortuary. A collection of dust that no one cared about. I patted her hands and then turned and faced her, wrapping my arms around her.

I know babe, I replied.

Apparently my movement must have disturbed the twins because they began to grow active and begin to kick and bounce inside their mothers abdomen.

Oh dear, She said with a laugh. I think they know your upset

Feeling my boys move inside my wife’s belly never seems to get old and as I felt the little buggers move around I dropped to my knees, my wife holding on just loose enough to let me pass through her arms, and gently pressed the side of my face against her belly.

Shh shh daddys here, I cooed as I listened to the strange almost alien sounds coming from within my wife. Life was truly a miracle and I always vowed to make sure my sons never suffered what I suffered. A promise that I once again made to them as I sat there listening to them.

When I was done bonding with my sons, so to speak, I stood back up and gave my wife a deep passionate kiss.

Thank you dear, I remarked.

She smiled and rested her head on my chest and with a loving sigh replied with, Anytime babe.

We stood like that for a bit before letting each other go. After a long loving look into each other's eyes we turned and went back to work, both of us smiling.

As she went back into the front room to unpack photos and knick knacks, I went back to the daunting task of unpacking the kitchen. It was a task I wanted because honestly I did most of the cooking and it was the one place I tried to control. I know that it was a bit of a stretch to want to be in control of the kitchen but it was the one thing I was good at. From my time training to be a chef in culinary school to opening my own series of restaurants that led to me becoming semi-retired and affording such a nice house. The kitchen was my place of comfort. My safety net.

I stood there looking at the box of utensils and yet I could not chase away the memories that persisted. They were haunting me. Or taunting me if I can be honest. Whatever the case they were there. Who knew moving from our once humble two bedroom apartment into our own house would be a trigger for such bad memories. Yet here they were.

As I hung up spatulas and put away ladles and silverware, the memories persisted. Not hanging out in the back of my mind like they always had, instead pushing their way to the forefront of my mind. Trying to overtake my every thought and if I am being honest they were.

I tried using my now expansive kitchen as a distraction. Thinking of various dishes I could create for my family. I begin to try to think about the first meal I would prepare for my wife. Hoping that it would be a normal dish of normal flavors and not something weird to satisfy her growing and sometimes odd cravings. I am still haunted by the pickle,cheese, cinnamon, chicken casserole she had me make. Yet if that's what she wanted, that's what she would get.

When I was done putting away the utensils, I began to open cupboards and started the task of deciding where would be the appropriate place to put my dishes. I looked from cupboard to cupboard planning out what would be easier for me and my wife. She did sometimes cook, and she was always getting a snack so I had to take her into consideration. Yet as I tried to distract myself the memories of my childhood persisted.

I turned around and leaned back against my counter top. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes yet all I could remember was the life I thought I had left behind. The horror of what I thought would never reach me again. A past I never wanted to revisit. A life I would never inflict onto my wife or children.

And the really bad stuff all started the day we moved into that house.

Chapter 1: The Crossroad House

My father was excited when his stepfather purchased the old convenience store and converted it into a house in the small town of Toney, Alabama. The house was once a gas station and large grocery store in the fifties nicknamed the Crossroads's Shop because it sat on the corner of a four way stop that many greasers and car fanatics of an era long gone used to drag race. The starting line was the shop and the finish was the entrance to farmland which was exactly a quarter of a mile away down Greg street. Which ran parallel to the shop. Greg street intersected to form a four way stop into Butter and Egg Road. Which was weird until you understood that the farmer who owns the land made a lot of money off of butter and eggs as well as other dairy products.

As years went by the greasers grew up and went off into the world to live their lives. Soon the once popular grocer fell onto bad times. In the late seventies a larger and more convenient shop named Toney’s Market opened less than a half of a mile down the road, causing the owner of the Crossroad’s Shop to shutter its doors and sell the property to whoever wanted it.

The person who purchased it was my grandfather George. He was not my real grandfather. My real grandfather passed away by way of suicide. My grandmother remarried and George was the only man I knew as my grandpa. I never called him step grandpa. Just grandpa and he indeed treated me like a grandson.

George converted the shop into a viable three bedroom home and by 1984 the place was ready for someone to live in it. George had originally intended to flip the place for a profit which was something he did with much success but my father wanted the house.

It is worth noting that George was not a fan of my dad. He viewed my father as a heathen who refused to get right with the lord. He also knew about the cruelty my dad inflicted onto his sisters and brothers, (my aunts and uncles, who unfortunately had their own horror stories to tell about my father.) George also suspected that I was also being abused. The bruises that would pop up, and would never go unnoticed increased his suspicion and while George was right about the abuse, he also knew I loved playing outside so he believed the lies my dad would tell about me falling down while roughhousing.

When my real mother picked up and vanished in the middle of the night leaving me behind. George’s suspicions along with my grandmother’s increased. My father just said, I was falling down alot, and that I was too much for one parent to handle. Once again, George was right in his suspicions, but the moment my stepmother came into our lives when I was five, the bruises began to vanish and they felt that maybe he was telling the truth. What they didn’t know was that the bruises while less frequent on me were appearing more and more on her.

My father, who was actually a skilled carpenter by trade, begged and begged for the house. He even volunteered to work on it. Helping convert most of the house into a spacious and comforting home for someone. Yet George felt that he did not deserve it. Even if deep down inside he felt that me and my stepmother, Anita, did.

So he made my dad a deal. All my dad needed to do was accept Christ into his life and be baptized in front of the family. And my dad did. Or so we all thought. For weeks my dad attended bible study groups with my grandfather. Learning the ways of the lord. It appeared that he was changing. Somehow my dad was able to convince George that he was a changed man and at seven years old I watched as my father was baptized. That night as we celebrated my father’s new found faith George presented my dad with the keys to the house. My stepmother cried as she stood next to my dad embracing him. I stood in front of them looking back with a wide smile on my face as well. My father had not laid a hand on me or the woman he married in a courthouse four months prior to this day. I really thought he was changing and that life was about to be better. I really did.

God was I wrong.

Not a single incident occurred as we packed up our horribly small trailer out in New Market Alabama. Hell we were working as a functional family unit. My stepmother was happy, I was happy, my father appeared happy. I didn’t know that he was putting on an act,