Home --> Creative Writing --> Headless Gunboy
Tbh this was just some bullshit story I made up around some stupid doodle I made in one of my journals. Not gonna lie though it's all just a shitty attempt at some ghost/horror story.
And I'm pretty sure this goes without saying, but the Harris in this story is not me, or Harris Kriegman, seeing as I'm not a 90s kid (tragicly). The kid's name is Harris just becuse I'm creative, but only so much (which just means I'm shit at coming up with names or creating characters not based on peple I know irl. I can do it I'm just shit at it).
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Back in the 1990s, our school had a student named Harris. He was a lonly boy, who all the teachers considered to be a quiet student, but he wasn’t always quiet. He was a bright and talkativ boy growing up, but in middle school, the other kids bullied him into silense. He thought if he stopped talking in clas, maybe they would stop making fun of him. But they didnt. His silence did not protect him, but the teachers didnt ether, and he died during his senior year.
Why did he die? Well, I’ll tell you…
When they reached high school, his bullies took their abuse a step further and began assaulting Harris physicly. They would slam into him, trip him, knock things out of his hands, and even push him down the stares. On one of the days Harris came home with bruses, his brother Matt was home from deploiment. Seeing his kid brother in distres, Matt gifted Harris with his favorite shotgun, a Remington 870. Matt would take Harris into the woods every day after school to teach him how to shoot the gun. The only problem was, the gun would do no good, since the bullying only happened at school, and Harris could never take a gun to school. So insted, Matt offerd to pick Harris up or drop him off at school evry day. Small as the chance may be, perhaps if the bullies saw Harris with his big brother, they would leave him alone. But before the brothers could put that idea into practise, Matt was shipped out.
This was when Harris was a freshman. He would never see his brother again.
By the time Harris was a senior, the bulying got even worse. There was nothing he could do. If he tried to stand up for himself and fight back, he was punished. His grades began to slip. His parents would call the school, but the school said there was nothing they could do. The boy tried to stal and wait for up to 30 minuts before leving the school, by which point the other kids would ether be gon or in their sports practises. But alas, his tormentors caght on, and once they did, they beet him harder. They once even took him to the back of the boiler room to beat him. The one time they did, the boy was beeten so bad that he blacked out, and woke up under some pipes, which the bulies must have hid him under. When he tried to leve, the door was locked. He never got out until the door was unlocked at lunchtime the next day. That was when the school finally desided to do somthing.
But Harris was determined to take care of the problem for them.
That weekend, Harris came up with a final solution to end the problem once and for all. It would be risky, and if he was caugt, he would get in serious truble. He had always been a well-behaved kid; he never wanted to get in trouble.
“Well, suck it!” he must have told himself. “Behaving myself must not be enugh to give the techers any reeson to protect me. They expect me to sit ther and take the beat-downs, like a good litle boy.” So he put his plan into action. On a cold, moonless night in October, he snuck out of his room and took his bike out to the road, pedaling his way right to his school, with his brother’s shotgun slung over his shoulder.
He brok into his school thrugh a window in the cafetiria, and picked the lock on the door of the boiler room, where he hid the gun in the very back, behind some pipes. Then he left the way he came.
For three days, the boy tried to lure his bulies to the boiler room. He had forgoten to load the shotgun, so he carried the shells in his bookbag, except for one, which he hid in his pocket. Finally, on Friday before Halloween, Harris was able to put his plan into action. He ran to the boiler room, and huried to the back and grabed the gun. Unfortunatly, he had lost his bag to the bulies during the chase, when they grabbed it and forced him to slip out, so he had only the shell tucked away in his pocket. Quikly, he pulled back the forarm, poped the shell into the action, and pumped the forarm forward, pushing the shell into the chamber, just as the bulies arrived.
They froze in their tracks at the sight of their prey, sitting there on the dirty, wet floor, with a long, black gun in his arms. Thogh they were frightened, the pack leder was still brazen, still had no idea of when to turn and run with his tail between his legs.
“Heh heh heh,” he probably chuckled, swinging around to look back at his enturash. “Whatchu gon’ do? Shoot us?”
Wordlesly, the boy glared at him, eyes full of wrath and spite, and swung the muzzle round to point right for the pack leder, and he stood up.
“O-oh, I’m scared!” the pack leder said mokingly.
Then the reality of the situation struck Harris. If he did what he wanted most to do, he would go to jail. And he had only one shell — not enough to pick off each and evry one of these fuckers. His misery would never end!
His face betrayed him, turning from rage and hatred to dispare. He put the shotgun down, buttpad on the floor, his chin brushed by the choke-tube at the end of the barel, pointing upwards. The bulies watched him quizicly as he kicked off one shoe to slip his toe into the trigger guard. As teers began to trickle down his face, the boy closed his eyes and took a deep breth.
KLOW!!!
Brains and blood and bone shot everywhere. The led shot blew a hole in the celing. The boy’s face, though in-tact, was detached from his body, which droped to the floor like that of a vintrilaquist dummy. His spine could be seen as blood pored out of his body and pooled around his beloved gun.
Though their ears ringed terribly and felt cloged, the bulies looked upon the seen, at first with shock, then with triumpf. One by one they broke into uncontrolable laghter, which blinded them to the sight that quickly folowed.
An arm shot up from the corps, then laid its hand upon the barel and tube of the gun. Then the legs bent, and the other hand pushed the corps onto its feet. The bulies stood in awe of the dirty, bloody mess that stood before them, with a gun’s barel in its hand.
Then the corps rased the gun over its sholders, and ran for the group. The girl of the pack shreeked, and turned to run, folowed by three more. The pack leder stood, frozen in horor, as the dead boy swung his gun and smashed the buly, square in the side of his head, with the stock of the gun. The slowest of the bulies stoped in the doreway to witness his leder’s fate. The gun had smashed the buly’s head, and now the headless boy was beeting the buly’s limp body into a bloody, brused pulp with the gun. When it was finished, the headless corps turned to the forth buly, who took off runing.
The corps was faster, however, and smashed the slow buly’s head into the trofey case, where his throat was pierced by shards of glass. The corps was not done, however. Just outside the door, the three remaning bulies were trying to call for help on their pagers, when the head-less boy cauht up to them. They ran, screeming across the black top. But they could not run as fast with feer as the corps could with rage, and Harris’s living-dead body cauht up to each of them and blujoned them all, one buly at a time.
The very last of them was near the road, when sudenly a car came speeding towards him. Hoping to stop the driver for help, the bully flaled his arms about. But, just as his feet were about to leave the curb, he was takled by the corps, and he fell into the street. He did not have time to screem before he was run over.
All through the night, Harris’s corps continud to beet each of the dead bodies to his unbeating heart’s content. When finaly the morning came, the corps rushed inside the school and locked himself in the boiler room, hiding his gun under various discontinud maitenence equipment. Then, on the wall above the spot where Harris shot himself, he wrote two seperate mesages with his own blood. Finaly he lay down and fell eternaly asleep.
The first person to discover the scene was a teacher who always arived early. When he saw the three dead students outside the bilding, he went in and called 911, descovering a fourth body, with a bloody trail leding into the boiler room. School was quickly called off for the day. The police on scene unlocked the boiler room and went in, finding the lead bully’s crumpled remains, and another boy’s headless body, with his cloths caked in dried blood. They looked up and, to their sheer horror, read the two messages painted with blood:
“IF I HAD A SHOTGUN, ID BLOW MYSELF TO HELL.”
And...
“SEE YOU FUCKERS IN HELL.”
It did not take long for the gun to be found, nor the bag with the shells, and once the victims and Harris had been idenified, the school and police quickly concluded that Harris was the perpetrator. They said Harris blujoned the bulies on school grounds, then stole a key to the boiler room where he cut himself to write the message before blowing his head off. After the investigation concluded, the school held a vijil for the students.
But not for Harris. No, the vijil was for his “victims.” Even thogh the school staff knew the victims were on record for bulying Harris, they clamed the attack was unprovoked.
Over the years, misterious events and tragedies have plaged our school district. Students, parents and staff have all been atacked or murdered, and always with blunt force. All of them were somhow involved in the bullying of another student at the school. Some say it’s Harris’s vengful spirit, fighting for the victims of bulying like him. But regardless, the school district continues to deny the existence of the ghost, and portray Harris as the villain of this story.
But now you have heard my story, and you believe the real hero is the Headless Gunboy…
...don't you...?