I have waited a long fucking time to tell this story. It has simmered inside me for two decades plus now, so I thought this would be the perfect way to begin my TWO WEEKS OF TERROR here at RemyCarreiro.com. I can honestly say this was one of the scariest moments of my life, but as you know from reading this site, there are quite a few of those. What sets this apart from some of those other situations is, I think this might be me at my youngest, in terms of the incidents I’ve shared. I was in the fourth grade when this happened to me, and I was always too scared to tell anyone. Hell, it is still pretty tough to talk about, to be honest. Someone wanting to murder you can do that to a person. Better out than in, I always say. Anyway, this is the true story of the time my classmate invited me over his house to play video games, and then trapped me in the basement and tried to stab me with a butcher knife. Thinking about this again is making me want to vomit. That is generally how I know a story is worthy of sharing with you all.
So it is the fourth grade. My parents have just divorced, and I am a fucking “latch key kid” who lives with his Mom (who is always working, as she is trying to raise three children). If you do not know what a latch-key-kid is, that is a kid who wears his house key around his neck (real safe move, by the way) because his parents (or parent) work full-time, and the kid needs to let themselves in and out of the house. I distinctly recall that the necklace I wore my house key on was a shitty, yellow piece of string that ended up hurting my neck as it constantly rubbed raw against it. Just one of the setbacks to a shitty childhood, I guess.
Anyway, I had just moved out of a mansion that was haunted by the dead relative of a movie star, and I was as sad and as miserable as a kid could be.
I was quiet, kept to myself, and was always alone. In other words, I was the perfect victim. The perfect target. A perfect person to try out some good, old-fashioned “murder” on. A sort of serial killer test run, if I may. It was clear one of my classmates saw that, because he pounced like a true predator, and ofcourse, being sad and lonely, I took the bait. What was the bait, you ask? Simply being asked if I wanted to play video games after school one day. That was it. That was all it took. I was always alone or being picked on back then, so the fact that someone my age wanted to play video games with me was like winning the fucking lottery. Granted, the kid was weird as fuck, and I should have factored that in, but I didn’t. He was very much like the odd kid, Edgar, in Frankenweenie. Seriously. Like that mixed with Chuckie from Child’s Play.
He was pale, and had these odd, rat-like mannerisms. He would twitch and laugh to himself. You know, all the things that are warning flags to people with common sense. Yes, in hindsight, I was NOT one of those people. I just wanted fucking friends. I also should have found it weird he insisted I come by THAT DAY when we get out of school. He lived about a half mile from me, and I lived within walking distance to him, so it was fine by me. But, understand, this was a time BEFORE cell phones. This was a time before internet. So when you made plans like this, no one knew. Now that I survived it is easy to see that somehow, this kid seemed to have all these aspects of it planned. I would have just vanished, and no one would have been aware of how or why. Fucked up, huh? Back then, though, I was just excited at the prospect of playing Nintendo with someone. You see, there’s always a tragic element with me.
The walk home from school with this kid to his house was definitely awkward. Now that I know he was planning on killing me, his behavior made sense, but when I was walking with him, in pretty much silence, I had no idea. Again, cut me some slack. I was in the fourth grade. Really didn’t have a very strong survival instinct back then. Anyway, we get to his house, and he tells me he has the video game set up in the basement. This kind of freaked me out, but I was smart enough to ask him to go first. He did. The basement was just like you imagine it, only add a couch, a TV, and VCR on the floor. This distressed me, but he ran over to the couch and started fucking with the TV, and I took a seat. The first indication something was greatly amiss was he fact that he told he had a Nintendo Entertainment System, and he actually had one of those old VCR light gun games. Chances are, unless you are over thirty years old, you have no idea what that is, so I will show you.
This is the fucking shit this kid put on, that EXACT ghost game, and no, I am not kidding. You take a plastic gun and aim it at the glowing bits on the screen while a stupid video plays. It is like 20 minutes long, and never changes. This is the video game system your parents got you if they hated you. Add to that the simple fact that this kid clearly lived alone, and you have all the trappings of a horror story. Granted, I am sure he had a Mom and Dad, but the house was a fucking sty, and there was NO indication that there were ever any adults there. Could this have been this kid’s kill shack? Well, guess what? It is on route 18 and Weymouth, Ma, and I can still fucking show it to you. You never forget the house someone first tries to murder you in. More on that later.
Flash forward, I am playing this awful “game”, begrudgingly. I don’t like the smell of the house, I don’t like this kid’s vibe, yet I am all alone and my Mom has no idea I am here. It is starting to dawn on me that I am going to die. Let me tell you, that is an ABSOLUTELY shitty and hopeless feeling. The freak tells me to keep playing and that he is going to grab something upstairs. Again, I will say, may God strike me dead if I am lying about a single word of this. I wouldn’t waste your time. Anyway, he goes upstairs, laughing to himself. I remember feeling like I was going to cry, but I kept telling myself to keep it together. I was looking for ways to escape, but the basement was a fucking tomb. The only way out was up the stairs and out the front door. Fuck.
Then it happens.
He opens the door to the basement, and starts coming down the stairs, carrying a massive butcher knife. I won’t lie and tell you it was bloody. It wasn’t. I won’t lie and tell you he put on some kind of mask. He didn’t. he just came back down stairs, all matter of factly, carrying the fucking knife. I, being stupid, asked him what was going on. He then told me he wanted to show me his knife. I will never forget what he did next, because it is the kind of thing you see in a film. He sort of “switched”. He went from being the quiet kid in class to suddenly being a fucking frothing lunatic. I was standing up at this point, and this is when he lunged at me, blade pointing out. Holy fuck, dude was trying to kill me!
I remember throwing the toy gun, hoping it would hit him in the head, but forgetting it was attached to the VCR. I whipped it at him, only to watch it smash to the floor inches away from him. I can barely recall the next few minutes of my life because it was one of the most insane things I ever experienced, and my brain has tried to push it REALLY DEEP DOWN so it doesn’t ruin me, but there was a lot of juking. Jumping left or right. Jumping behind the sofa. Just trying to NOT get stabbed and find my opportunity to dash up the stairs and out of the house. I often think to myself that there were a handful of chances the kid had to REALLY stab me, yet he would miss, or lodge the knife into the couch next to me. In hindsight, I think it may have been more sociopath than psychopath. I am not so sure he wanted to kill me, but I know he wanted to see if he could fuck with me and potentially get away with it. Sadly, he did.
I had danced around him for five minutes or so, all of the time, him blocking the stairs. Finally, I got a chance to run by him and up the stairs, and I took it. I fucking ran, with him yelling “where are you going” and laughing like some pre-teen Heath Ledger Joker, feeding on my genuine fear and the chaos of the situation. Though I know he didn’t follow me out the door, I never turned back to look, and I just kept running. Years later, I would see this, and get absolute chills:
That may seem dramatic, but really, the ending of Texas Chainsaw fucked me up quite badly because it flooded the memory of that day back into my skull. I know he wasn’t behind me, and he didn’t have a chainsaw, but the moment I saw this film three years later, it was all I could think about. That is what I associate most with that moment.
I ran out of his house, and just kept running. I ran way faster and further than any fat kid should ever be able to run, and I didn’t stop until I was in my bedroom, under my covers, shaking. Why did I never call the cops? Why did I never tell my Mom? Why do you think most kids who get fucked with, beaten, or molested don’t tell anyone? It is a liberal cocktail of shame and fear. Mostly, you blame yourself for putting yourself in that situation, and don’t want your parents mad or worried, so you spare them. You just get back to life. Did I ever look at that kid again? No, and I am not kidding you. I NEVER looked at that kid again, because I knew. I knew back then, behind those dark, soulless eyes, he would have been laughing at me. Back then, I wasn’t strong enough. Yet, also, in the same breath, I am not that same kid I was. There was a REAL switch that happened at one point in my life, when I stopped being the victim. Now, I am the more dangerous one, and guess what?
I still remember where he lives.
Maybe he is the one who should be sleeping with one eye open now. A Remy never forgives, and a Remy NEVER forgets.