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Subject: KIDSNUFF $0A -- "The Ghostie" (Mb, abduct, nc, rape, sodom, teen, pedo, snuff, pedosnuff).
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KIDSNUFF $0A -- "The Ghostie" (Mb,abduct,nc,rape,sodom,teen,pedo,snuff,pedosnuff).
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ORIGINAL PUBLICATION DATE: 06:23:19am EDT, Tue., 01-Jul-1997.
FILESIZE (Approximations): 389 Lines, 23,903 Bytes, 23.3K.
ARCHIVE-NAME: KidSnuff.0A is the name under which this file should be
stored by archivists.
CONTENT: This story depicts the forcible abduction, rape and murder of
a very young teenage boy by a grown man, and is only intended for consumption
by those 18 years of age or older. If you are offended by this material or
are underage, please skip this article NOW.
STANDARD DISCLAIMERS: "The Ghostie" is *fiction*. All poeple, places,
and events in it are imaginary; any resemblence to reality is coincidental.
NO CHILDREN WERE, NOR HAVE ANY EVER BEEN, HARMED IN THE COURSE OF WRITING
THIS OR ANY OTHER OF THIS AUTHOR'S STORIES.
This story is offered in the hope that it may provide a catharsis for
those hapless individuals -- this author included -- who, whether by random
accident of malicious fate, the dark and capricious decree of a malevolent
God, or otherwise, are cursed with a sexuality which only finds pleasure in
fantasizing about the violent rape, torture, and murder of small boys. It is
this author's hope and intention that such unfortunates will derive their
pleasure from reading this article, and not from other, more destructive
means. THIS TEXT IS *NOT* INTENDED TO PROMOTE OR TO CONDONE THE COMMISSION
OF ANY CRIME!
NOTE: This is a variation of a story previously posted by "Blackwind"
under the title of "Sexy Boy". Fully 73.7% of this article is NEW and
ORIGINAL text! Only the remaining 26.3% is material from *Blackwind's*
version of the story.
COPYLEFT: This E-Text may be freely reproduced and redistributed, so
long as credit in authorship is properly given to KidSnuff Incorporated[tm].
FEEDBACK: Comments on this story are welcome, flames will be cheerfully
ignored. Either way, please send them to the current newsgroup; this article
is NOT being posted under a valid return E-Mail address.
-=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=-
Story #10:
--= The Ghostie (Version 3) =--
Copyrighted (C) 1997 KidSnuff, Inc.
Sometimes, I cry.
After all, it's pretty lonely being a ghost, and the factory is such a
boring place. In the summer the air is hot, still, and oppressive, and the
only sounds to be heard are the buzz of the mosquitoes by day and the chirp
of the crickets by night. In the winter the frigid winds whistle and howl
through the broken windows, piling drifts of snow in all the corners. A fox
chased a rabbit through the building once, and caught it by the corner; the
squeals could be heard echoing through all the empty rooms. It was the most
excitement I'd seen in months. But other than that, nobody and nothing ever
stirs here -- nothing but the occasional raccoon. One summer, two kids about
my own age did come poking about. I tried to tell them what had happened to
me, but all they heard was a distant moaning. I musta given them the creeps,
though, 'cause they didn't stay long. That was the last time anyone ever
came around here. There is only the wind in the broken windows. It's one of
the bitterest ironies that in life I loved playing here, precisely because
it is so isolated; it's one hell of a place to spend Eternity.
Of course you hafta DIE to become a ghost, but after that it's not
quite that simple. You don't become a ghost just by dying: there's more
to it than that. Ghosts after all are quite rare, while people die all the
time. Even the kids... especially the kids. Kids die a lot more than you
think they do. They get hit by cars, or drown in the pool, or get caught
in house fires, or fall off the swing and hit their heads, or play with
Daddy's gun, or sometimes even get cancer. In the country they get hit by
lightning; in the city they get hit by bullets. The littler one drink shoe
polish; the older ones do drugs. Whatever. It doesn't matter. None of this
makes you a ghost. You only become a ghost by dying under a certain set of
conditions -- like I did.
To start with, I was murdered. That's right -- murdered. I was only
thirteen at the time, and horribly scared -- far more scared than I had
ever been before in my life. But I wasn't really all that upset afterwards.
Not at first. Later on it was a very different story. But at first, I didn't
mind being dead at all. It was even kind of a relief, 'cause I was the kind
of kid who was always getting picked on. It didn't help that I was painfully
shy and lonely, it didn't help that I was an only child. It didn't help that
my Dad had died when I was two. And it SURE didn't help that my Mom was the
coldest, most unfeeling, and most unloving kind of person you can imagine.
Not abusive, I'll grant her that; she never beat me, and she always gave me
food and clothes and made sure I had an education and a warm bed and a roof
over my head at night. But she never gave me any birthday or Christmas
presents, never once said "I love you", never even hugged or kissed me. She
may have fulfilled the obligations of parenthood, but her heart wasn't in
it. She'd wanted a daughter, you see, not a son, and never once did she miss
the chance to say so. Her favorite sentence was, "I wish you were a girl".
And I very nearly was! I may have been thirteen, but I sure wasn't much
of a boy. I stood only four foot nine and weighed maybe eighty-six pounds,
if that -- the size of your basic eleven-year-old. I had long, straight,
limp dark brown hair with bangs, soft brown eyes, fair skin -- you know,
the works. Heck, I hadn't even entered puberty yet! My Mom took advantage
of all this by making me as "little-girlish" as she could possibly get away
with making me, and I really and passionately hated her for it.
It was high summer the day I got killed. The day had started like any
other -- hot and sticky. In the summer Mom always packed all of my pants
away, and every single pair of shorts I owned belonged on a girl instead of
me. They were all tight, and VERY short. When I left the house right after
breakfast, I wore a short-sleeved solid red polo shirt, navy blue "short-
shorts" with a thin brown leather belt, no socks, and an old dirty beat-up
pair of tan canvas sneakers. I didn't bother to tell Mom where I was going,
or even THAT I was going. Not that it mattered, because for as long as I
had ever known her, she had never once bothered to ask me that sorta stuff.
She pretty much didn't care what I did or where I went, just as long as I
didn't get into any trouble and was home again by suppertime. I certainly
wasn't going to stay home -- Mom would have loved absolutely nothing better
than to watch me traipse about the house in those skimpy shorts all day,
and I wasn't ABOUT to give her that pleasure. So I left.
The really weird thing is, I met my killer before he got me. Picture
it: There I was, walking down the highway -- and I do mean walking, NOT
hitchhiking! -- the temperature around 85 or 90, heat waves rising off the
pavement, the occasional car or truck whizzing by -- and he comes along,
pulls up beside me in this old rattle-trap car, and offers me a ride! Of
course at my age I knew better than that, but even if I hadn't I wouldn't
have gone anyway. I mean, he was pretty scuzzy-looking. Not old exactly,
but nearly bald, wearing rumpled pants, a stained and wrinkled business
shirt, and a wrinkled tie. His car reeked of beer. And he had such weird,
hungry eyes! I didn't like the look of him, and I turned him down flat. He
didn't press me, but he DID me ask where I was going. And in one single,
terrible act that would haunt me for the rest of Eternity, I actually made
the mistake of telling him: I was headed for "an old factory". He only
grunted when I said it, and drove off. Honestly, I didn't see any harm in
it; it wasn't as if I'd given him an exact address! The two things I failed
to realize at the time were, first, that there was only ONE such factory
for miles around. I might have seen the danger in this had I remembered
that the place was visible from the road, but I didn't. I simply continued
on my way. And the second thing I overlooked was that since both of us were
going the same way, he would get there before I did. In fact at 45mph, he
musta gotten there in less than five minutes; it took ME almost an HOUR
to WALK that distance. So that when I finally arrived, he was already
there... waiting for me.
The factory was big and empty, but still in very good condition, being
made all of concrete. It was abandoned in the '60's, and like I said, I
loved to play there, 'cause it's so isolated; nobody ever bothered me there.
It was always a big relief to finally arrive there, because it was such a
monstrous walk. Also, in the summer it's nice and cool -- a good 5 or 10
degrees cooler than outside -- and pretty dark inside. As soon as I arrived,
I started roaming and poking around, 'cause that's what I always did when
I was there. There's quite a few old crates and bottles and oil drums and
metal canisters and stuff there, but they're all either tightly sealed or
else empty, and not of much use. So I wandered down to the boiler room in
the basement to see if there was anything new or different to interest me.
And there he was!
I didn't see him until I reached the bottom of the steps, and by then
it was too late. Suddenly his hand was up over my mouth, really hard, and
he was holding me very tight. Sure, I struggled, but at my size I wasn't
much of a match for him.
"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, Kid", he told me. "So
just you keep quiet. Yeah, that's right -- it's Me. We're gonna have a
lotta Fun today, you an' me; you be a Good Little Boy, and maybe, just
MAYBE, when I'm finished, I'll send you Home." He cackled then, as if at
some private, inner joke, and removed his hand. I didn't scream. It would
have done me absolutely no good, 'cause there wasn't a soul anywhere within
a mile of the place -- the very reason I was there! So I just stood there,
miserably, while he tied my hands tightly behind my back, then stuffed a
rag into my mouth and put a piece of duct tape over it. "Now then", the
man said, "what say you an' me we go for a Ride, eh Kid?". So saying, he
dragged me forcibly on up the steps and outside, and around to the rear
of the building.
His car was there, and that's when I began to fully understand my
mistake. Bitterly did I repent of telling him where I was going! I would
come to regret it even more, but that comes in later. For now, he opened
the trunk and made me lie in it while he tied my feet together. I was
crying pretty hard now, but he told me I hadn't seen anything yet. Then
he shoved me fully into the trunk and shut it. It was pitch black in
there, stuffy, and unbearably hot. He started driving. You can bet I was
struggling, but he was good with knots and I couldn't get free. I finally
had to give up because the heat absolutely exhausted me.
It was a long time before he stopped, and even then nothing happened
for about ten minutes. When he finally did come back and open the trunk, I
saw he was wearing different clothes: an old T-shirt, a pair of baggy
shorts, and a pair of sneakers with no socks. I especially remember his
knobby knees. We were in a yard with a high hedge and a big white house. He
untied my feet and yanked me out.
He left the trunk standing open and shoved me inside and into a back
bedroom. He slammed and locked the door, sat me forcibly onto the edge of
the bed, and began taking pictures of me with an old Polaroid camera that
was waiting on the nightstand. Next he pulled me to my feet and untied my
hands -- but only just long enough to remove my shirt, always holding
tightly onto one wrist so I couldn't get away. After he got my shirt off
he tied my hands behind me again, very tightly, and then yanked off my
sneakers, shorts, and underpants, so that I was completely naked. I was
sobbing. He made me sit back down on the bed again, made me spread my
legs, and started taking some more pictures. As he did, he explained to
me just how much Fun it was for him to rape Cute and Adorable Little Boys
like me, and assured me that I was Absolutely Perfect for him. He rubbed
my legs, and he felt up my chest and stomach, and he poked my belly
button; then he tickled my penis, very very softly, and made it go all
hard and stiff. That really delighted him no end, and I could only sit
there, naked and miserable, while he gloated over how "horny" I was!
Then he pulled me to my feet and spun me around, pulling up against
him, shoving up against my back. I could feel the thick bulge inside his
shorts, pressed into my bound hands. He must have liked that, because he
ordered me to rub it. I did.
Next he felt my ass. "Nice", he told me, "Really, really nice ass, Kid.
I adored the way those shorts of yours showed it off." He was still rubbing
himself up against my ass as he said this, and I knew he was going to put it
in there. I'd heard of such things, of course, but I never thought it would
ever happen to ME!
He sat me back down on the bed then, and stepped back and just stood
there... staring at me. He was grinning. Kind of sick. I was deathly scared.
He dropped his shorts; he wasn't wearing any underwear. His penis was huge,
thick, and hairy, and unlike anything I'd ever seen before, even in Sex Ed.
He stroked it and smiled at me. "All for you, Kid", he said. Then he pulled
me off the bed and turned me around and forced me back face-down across the
bed, with my legs sticking out into the room. He pushed my legs wide apart,
and I started to cry. I felt him messing around and putting something cool
and gooey up my crack.
I tensed when I felt his cock pushing up against my buttocks. He kept
on pushing and laughing, and I cried harder, and then he was in me, all thick
and hard. It hurt like hell. He did me fast, then slow, laughing and holding
me down the whole time. He squirted hard inside me, moaning several times,
then pulled out. I hoped it was all over; it wasn't.
Next, he pulled me off the bed then and put me on my knees facing him.
He ripped the duct tape from my face and yanked the gag from my mouth, and
put the head of his prick to my mouth and ordered me to make like I was this
tiny little baby sucking on its bottle. I didn't want to -- the very thought
of it turned my stomach, and some of my own turds were hanging from it from
when he'd done me earlier -- but I somehow managed to suck a little at the
head. It was thick and warm, and it tasted slimy and felt funny. He pushed
it deeper and deeper into my mouth, so that I was beginning to choke. He
started to moan, and I felt it jumping and pulsing in my throat. "Oh yeah,
kid, good, good!", he told me. "Suck me! Suck me! You know you want it!"
I sucked harder -- I wanted to get it over with. His cock started to
get thicker and tighter, and then suddenly he gave a kind of gasping moan
and shoved himself really in deep, and he was shooting it in me, down my
throat. I gasped, gagged and choked and swallowed, struggling to pull away
from him. His cum was salty and bitter, and it left a bad taste, and smelled
like chlorine. He pulled out then, and kissed me on the mouth and used his
tongue in there. Then he sat me back down on the bed. When would this
nightmare ever end?, I wondered.
As it turned out, all too soon.
The man pulled up his shorts, then stooped to remove my belt from the
floor, where they lay still looped through my shorts. He approached me.
"It's been nice raping you, Kid, and I've had a lot of Fun today, but all
things must come to an end sometime -- even Cute Little Boys like you. Now
it's time for you to Die." To my horror, I saw that he meant to strangle me
with my own belt! "But--! Y-you said-- you said you would send me HOME!", I
shrieked. "Why sure I did, Kid", he sneered, grinning wickedly from ear to
ear, "But I was referring to the FUNERAL home." A standing joke, apparently,
that he played on all his victims. I screamed for help. I shrank back from
him. I struggled, tried to fight; but none of it was any good. He was too
big, and I was too little, and I was quickly overpowered. I was pleading
and crying now as hard and as desparately as I could, but he paid not the
least attention to me. He put my belt around my throat and twisted it
tight. I gagged and choked; it hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt
before, and worst of all, I couldn't breathe at all. I writhed and bucked
and squirmed and thrashed and flopped about naked on the bed, fighting
frantically for life and air, but it wasn't any use, and everything very
quickly grew faint and dark and fuzzy. The last thing I ever saw in this
life was his face peering down at me with maniacal ecstasy, staring right
into my eyes as I died.
And then suddenly I was near the ceiling, looking down at the back of
his head! I knew then that I was dead. My body looked horrible -- it was a
ghastly purple, with bulging bloodshot eyes, discolored neck, and protruding
tongue -- but I myself felt absolutely wonderful. No pain, no anxiety, no
nothing. It was completely peaceful. So I stayed to see what he'd do with
me next.
Well after he was sure I was dead, the man gagged me one last time,
and began taking pictures again. He took quite a few, then he shoved my
polo shirt, shorts, underpants, and sneakers into an old paper bag, and
carried me, still bound, gagged and completely naked, my belt still
fastened around my neck, out to his car and put me in the trunk again,
and tossed the bag with all my stuff in it onto the back seat. Then he
shut the trunk, got in the car, and began driving.
He drove a long time, to a deserted road leading into a farm; there
he got out, opened the trunk, and dumped me face-up by the side of the
road. Then he took the bag and poured out all my clothes and stuff about
five feet away from me. Then he took more pictures of me -- a lot of them.
Then he got back into his car. And then he drove off. It was almost sunset.
After he left, I wondered what I should do next. I discovered that
just by thinking about it, I could return, instantly and invisibly, back
home. Mom was there, but of course, since I was only a ghost, she couldn't
hear or see me at all. But I could sense her thoughts; she was mad at me
because I hadn't come home yet. She wasn't worried about me very much at
all -- just mad. Here I was, lying dead, and she was MAD at me! Can you
believe it!? Hell, she didn't even call the cops until around midnight;
they took one good look at her attitude and suspected HER immediately!
Of course THAT wasn't going to get them anywhere, and anyways, besides
that, they didn't have the faintest idea where to look for me. So I
returned to my body, which by this time had started to lose its horrible
purple color and was now getting very white. It was a long, lonely night.
It wasn't until very early the next morning that someone found me: a
small freckle-faced, brown-haired boy about three years littler than me
wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with wide green stripes and faded blue
"shortalls" (that's what they called overalls with shorts for legs where
I live) came pedalling along down the road on an old red bicycle from the
direction of the distant farmhouse. You could tell he was going to school;
there were books and a bag lunch in his bike basket. When he saw my little
naked corpse lying at the side of the road, he skidded to a stop and just
stared at me in horror. After a minute or two he got off his bike and
approached me, ever so slowly. I guess he needed to make sure I was real.
Well, he stooped down, reached out, and touched me on the stomach. And
when he saw I WAS real, he leaped back with a yelp of horror and disgust,
and began wiping his hand on the bib of his shortalls. Man oh man, was he
ever scared! Then he hopped right back onto that bike of his and pedalled
back the way he came just as fast and as hard as those little pipestem
legs of his could pump, hollering for his "Pa" all the while.
Well, after that it wasn't long before the police came, and did all
sorts of weird stuff to me before they finally stuffed me into this big
cloth bag and loaded me into a black ambulance. There was an autopsy too,
later on, but I didn't stay to see very much of it. I mean, they even sawed
my head open and took out my brain! That was a lot worse than ANYTHING that
my killer ever did to me -- certainly too horrible to watch, and I left in a
big hurry. I mean man oh geez, but I never knew they DID stuff like that. I
mean, I may have been dead, but I was still just a little kid, you know?
And of course I saw my funeral. My death really shook everyone, no one
could believe it had happened here. Just about the whole town came. My Mom
was there too, of course. She put on a show of grief, but you could tell it
was all just an act for the neighbors, since she'd never really wanted me
to begin with. Unfortunately for her, she never was much of an actor; the
other mourners noticed it right away, and whispered to each other about it
the whole time. I knew that within a week the whole town would be full of
nasty rumors about her, and that she'd have to deal with their suspicion
and hostility and contempt for years to come. I couldn't say I was exactly
sorry. Poetic justice is what I'd call it: she didn't want me, so now THEY
don't want HER! I had to admit to a certain feeling of satisfaction.
But afterwards, I found myself drawn, irresistably, inexorably, back
again to the old factory I was kidnapped from. There I was drawn, and there
I must stay: I can't leave!
Why? Well, I've since learned that I'm not the only kid my kidnapper
has killed; apparently there are at least ten other little boys just like
me. Don't ask me HOW I know; I'm not sure myself. I can just "feel" them.
And five or six new ones seem to get added every year! I wonder about them
a lot -- what they're like, if we could could be friends, stuff like that.
It only makes it that much harder, 'cause I know it'll probably never
happen. They're in Heaven, you see, while I am not. That's because while
they died innocently and through no fault of their own, I had very stupidly
told the man where I would be -- without which he probably would never have
got me at all.
So here I am, forced to roam and wander this stupid factory, the
factory where I was kidnapped from. Here I must stay until the man is
caught, and his crimes paid for. Only then I can finally be at peace.
That hasn't happened yet, and I know now that it probably never will.
So I am left to roam here, a lonely, miserable little ghostie. And still
the long, slow, desolate, empty years crawl by.
Sometimes, I cry...
***** The End *****
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