Las Vegas, NV (October 2005)
Theresa felt the spasms in her stomach, while the taste of hot bile rose in her throat, as she tried to
put the phone back in its cradle. The phone fell to the floor as she bent over into the small black
trash can that sat by the desk in her office and began heaving uncontrollably. Along with the
vomiting came uncontainable tears. She had remained composed throughout the conversation as she
listened incredulously to what she was hearing. Her brother had just revealed to her that he had been
molesting little boys for over twenty-five years.
“Ramon and Donald knew. Ask Donald, he’ll tell you,” he told her referring to their murderous,
crack addicted youngest brother.
Gathering her poise, the horrid taste of vomit coating her throat, she sat back as tears continued to
roll down her cheeks. Her mind was reeling with questions. “What the hell was wrong with him?
Had he been predisposed to this shit … molesting kids? Or did something snap in his brain when he
was hit by the police car on its way to a crime scene when he was five. Maybe, just maybe, his brain
was damaged when he banged his head against the wall for hours on end night after night after night
before he would fall asleep or when he didn’t get his way,” she thought.
She sat pondering ways to turn him in. What other choice did she have? It was the boding evil, yet
gentle, way he responded she recalled, when she asked, “What do you get out of messing with little
boys?”
“They just feel so nice and soft and cuddly Theresa,” he answered. His voice was dreamlike.
“How many of them were there?” she questioned not really wanting to hear a number.
“A lot ... I had me a ball, Theresa. Yeah, I had me a ball,” Stephen recollected, his tone salivating the
taste of his actions.
“How old were they?”
“From six to thirteen.”
“Are you still doing it?”
“I was until Michael Jackson got caught. The first time he got caught, I figured I could keep doing it,
but the second time I figured he had to stop now, so I better watch out too.”
Stephen was her brother. She was still skeptical of his guilt, yet it was his voice on the other end of
the line telling her this horrid information. She was hearing these words from his very own mouth.
Theresa was torn between leaving him in his small little world as he made it and turning him in.
Then very hesitantly she asked him, “Did you kill any of them?” Theresa shuddered, feeling a chill
run down her spine as she waited for his response. It never came.
The call disconnected.
She had no way of calling him back.
And suddenly her brother had become one to be very afraid of; more afraid than she could ever
imagine.
He was now the boogey man who coveted the minds of the young.
He was the Michael Meyers from the movies that scared us on Halloween nights.
He was the Freddie Kruger who crept into our dreams.
But in reality, he was now whom she identified as … the Man in the Woods!
Theresa felt the spasms in her stomach, while the taste of hot bile rose in her throat, as she tried to
put the phone back in its cradle. The phone fell to the floor as she bent over into the small black
trash can that sat by the desk in her office and began heaving uncontrollably. Along with the
vomiting came uncontainable tears. She had remained composed throughout the conversation as she
listened incredulously to what she was hearing. Her brother had just revealed to her that he had been
molesting little boys for over twenty-five years.
“Ramon and Donald knew. Ask Donald, he’ll tell you,” he told her referring to their murderous,
crack addicted youngest brother.
Gathering her poise, the horrid taste of vomit coating her throat, she sat back as tears continued to
roll down her cheeks. Her mind was reeling with questions. “What the hell was wrong with him?
Had he been predisposed to this shit … molesting kids? Or did something snap in his brain when he
was hit by the police car on its way to a crime scene when he was five. Maybe, just maybe, his brain
was damaged when he banged his head against the wall for hours on end night after night after night
before he would fall asleep or when he didn’t get his way,” she thought.
She sat pondering ways to turn him in. What other choice did she have? It was the boding evil, yet
gentle, way he responded she recalled, when she asked, “What do you get out of messing with little
boys?”
“They just feel so nice and soft and cuddly Theresa,” he answered. His voice was dreamlike.
“How many of them were there?” she questioned not really wanting to hear a number.
“A lot ... I had me a ball, Theresa. Yeah, I had me a ball,” Stephen recollected, his tone salivating the
taste of his actions.
“How old were they?”
“From six to thirteen.”
“Are you still doing it?”
“I was until Michael Jackson got caught. The first time he got caught, I figured I could keep doing it,
but the second time I figured he had to stop now, so I better watch out too.”
Stephen was her brother. She was still skeptical of his guilt, yet it was his voice on the other end of
the line telling her this horrid information. She was hearing these words from his very own mouth.
Theresa was torn between leaving him in his small little world as he made it and turning him in.
Then very hesitantly she asked him, “Did you kill any of them?” Theresa shuddered, feeling a chill
run down her spine as she waited for his response. It never came.
The call disconnected.
She had no way of calling him back.
And suddenly her brother had become one to be very afraid of; more afraid than she could ever
imagine.
He was now the boogey man who coveted the minds of the young.
He was the Michael Meyers from the movies that scared us on Halloween nights.
He was the Freddie Kruger who crept into our dreams.
But in reality, he was now whom she identified as … the Man in the Woods!
| All rights reserved. |
| from ... The Man in the Woods |
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