Don't feed the troll (standard:horror, 1457 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Oct 09 2013	Views/Reads: 2922/1931	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Is it ever a good idea to meet an internet troll?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

strange way, and although his employer didn't say anything, he knew 
Terence hadn't put as much effort in, but paid him anyway. 

He felt like a school-boy, scared of a bully, wondering if at any moment
he would be confronted, and although he was sure he could give as much 
as he got, it was the unknown that frightened him the most. Was his 
troll really a geeky schoolboy hiding behind the screen? or was he 
really a body-building maniac who would smash his door in? 

What to do though, confide in someone? Would they even understand?
Perhaps they would, or maybe they would simply say for him to stop 
being such a weakling, and tell this person where to get off. So to 
gain some sort of inspiration, rather like a sportsperson using music 
to inspire and motivate them, he found himself in the magazine section 
of a newsagents, reading about martial arts and weightlifting. He knew 
there was a boxing gym around the corner, and decided to go around 
there to look at the times and prices, but found the shutters were down 
above the sign ‘Jim's gym'. 

Still, suitably motivated. He was going to give his cyberbully a piece
of his mind. He was going to tell him he's picked the wrong victim. He 
was not to be trifled with. 

However, on the journey home, any confidence given by the masculinity
he'd absorbed, soon ebbed away, only to be replaced by the fear, and he 
decided against saying anything. 

The following day, having decided his email wasn't really worth checking
after all, a text message told him he didn't need to. ‘Oi fucko' it 
said ‘If you even think about telling anyone, I will carve you up, and 
I told you I know where you live. Could you give me directions? I'm 
currently by the water feature in the city centre'. Below it was a 
picture of the central fountain two miles away. It didn't look like a 
professional photograph, more like it was taken on a mobile phone. 

Now what? he thought, he's here, he's on his way. 

Leaning against a post-box for support, fear surged through his veins.
Nobody looked at him, and he turned and made his way home. Normally he 
would have hopped on the bus for the two stops it took, but he chose to 
walk instead, and took ten minutes thinking of nothing else as he 
entered his apartment. 

When he closed the door behind him, he received another text. He wasn't
sure about answering it at first, but he knew he had to. ‘Nearly there. 
They're good these phone tracking apps aren't they? Lead me right to 
you. Not too far now. I need to find a diy shop, where they sell 
hammers' Below it was a picture of a nearby roundabout with beds of 
colourful flowers around its edge. That was around the corner. 

Terence rushed into the kitchen and picked up a small knife. He went
into the bedroom and cowered down at the side of the bed, more to hide, 
and to cry, because tears flowed down his face. 

A few minutes later, another text came through and he reluctantly opened
it. ‘Knock knock fucko', was all it said, and the picture below was of 
his apartment. 

Suddenly there came a loud bang on the door, as though the place was
being raided by police. 

For a few moments he wondered if he should use the knife on himself, but
decided against it. Another bang, followed by another which sent the 
door crashing back. 

They came in. The bedroom door was closed, and the footsteps were loud
and heavy. “Where are you you little queer? I'm gonna put this fucking 
hammer in your stupid head, now come out and face me”. Terence's heart 
was threatening to burst, banging against his chest. The bedroom door 
was kicked open, and there he stood, the troll. 

If the light had been different, or he'd been seen through certain
lenses, he could have been mistaken for an actual troll, as he had a 
rather large beer belly, and legs that tapered down to size five feet. 
He wore a white T-shirt, with a face mask of a yellow, smiley face. He 
hefted the sledgehammer as though he wanted other things to break. 

Terence looked at him through tears caused by absolute fear. The man
lifted up his mask. “Only me, your old Dad” he said. “I was just 
playing around. Didn't take it seriously did you? I finally got out of 
jail”. He dropped the hammer and walked across where Terence stood up, 
dropped the knife, and hugged him. 


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