After my Father died, I found some disturbing things.

Everyone has a phobia or a fear of something.
I have a phobia of not the dark, but of what hides in the dark.
Specifically the shadows.
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Lets go back to my childhood.
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I had a pretty normal childhood, until 9 years old.
When I was 9, my father and mother got a divorce. I ended up staying with my father.
I didn't fully understand what happened, and father only told me that "Mommy is staying somewhere else. Don't worry"
About a month after the divorce, my mother committed suicide.
My father didn't tell me about this, but I learned after a few days.
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My father began to neglect me. He would sit in his study all day, and not come out. He would rarely come out, not even during night. When he did come out, it would be to watch TV or get food.
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One day, I was on the couch watching TV when he came out to get a sandwich. I waved at him with a smile and said "Hey Dad!".
He turned around and he had large bags under his eyes. His body seemed skinny and frail. He lifted up his finger and pointed directly at me and yelled "DO NOT EVER CALL ME THAT AGAIN!", before boldly stomping back to his study, leaving his food on the counter.
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I began staying in my room, as much as possible. I'd come out probably 3 or 4 times a day, for food or water. I went to school as well, but I didn't enter after school activities.
It stayed like this until I was 17. I was laying in my bed, listening to music on my Phone, that I bought with the money from the job I had. My father was in the study, like normal. I heard a loud bang come from the study, and I began to walk down the stairs of the house towards where the study was. The house was silent.
I walked to the old wooden door and pushed it open.
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My father was laying with his head down across the the wooden desk, with a gun and his right hand, then a cigarette in his left hand. A large gash had been formed in his head from where the bullet lodged itself into his skull. Blood sprayed across the old wooden desk.
I have to admit, I didn't cry, I didn't feel anything. I felt numb.
I shut the door and walked to the house phone. I dialed in 911 and told the police everything.
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I'm now 21. I don't have a wife,a family, I have nothing. I still live the house where my father committed suicide, but I never enter the study.
About 4 weeks ago, I finally decided to enter the study. It was normal and nothing felt odd. An old layer of dust coated the desk, bookshelf, and everything else in the room. I looked at the desk where the blood of my dead father was once smeared across.
I began looking through the desk. The first and second desk draws were empty, except for a few spiders and webs, but the 3rd draw had a combination padlock. I began thinking about numbers that mattered to my father.
His birthday?His favorite number?
I couldn't think of anything. Until one number came to mind.
1 3 07
The day my mother committed Suicide by hanging herself in a dingy motel room.
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I entered the numbers and the lock opened letting me peer into the draw. A large metal box sat in the draw. I pulled it out and wiped a large portion of dust off the top. I opened the box ad a bunch of dust fell out into the air, causing me to cough.
In the box laid a photo of my father, mother, and I. It had blood prints on it, and it smelled awful. It had became a rust looking color from how old the blood was. The glass on the photo frame was also cracked to small pieces, but I could easily tell what it was. Underneath the photo was a large amount of pictures, essays, and images.
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My heart began to race and I felt a sickness in my body as I read through the pages.
Drawings of Demons, Witches, Ghouls. Writings on deaths of others around the states, paranormal activity. Everything like that.
The final page, had a large drawing of a women with dark bags underneath her eyes. She was tall but skinny. Her limbs were extremely long, as her arms reached to her knees. Written in red highlighter above the image was IT WAS HER.
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Underneath that, was a red notebook, with small writing all over the cover. It had another small lock on it. I tried the same combination but it wouldn't work. I began looking through the pages again. I looked at the photo and dragged my fingers lightly across the shattered glass. I felt a small lump in the photo.
I slid the photo out and found a small folded piece of paper.
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I unfolded the piece of paper and it was old. I could tell the paper was really old by the feeling and the yellowish tint of the paper.
On it, it said:
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Hello to whoever is reading this,
My name is John. I don't have much time to write this.
You most likely will determine me as some crazy.
But something took my wife, and it may take me too.
If you want to learn more, open the Red Notebook with the code
362813
However I must warn you, if you do continue, you're in grave danger.
You most likely will end up in the same fate.
Murdered, but always known as a Suicide.
I learned a lot about it, but I don't know why it does it or what it is.
Sincerely, The man who wants his wife back.
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I want open the notebook and find out what happened. I want to avenge my parents, but I'm scared.
I walked out of the room thinking, and as I walked back in, everything was in the draw, with the lock on.
But the most terrifying thing is, A Single Bullet sat straight on the desk.
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I want to avenge my parents.
But i'm terrified, what should I do?


Source.