"Sons, we must have a discussion about the internet"

That's what I told my son when he was on his computer. He was playing Minecraft on a public server. He was absorbed by the game, his eyes riveted on his screen. You could see lines of conversations scrolling on the chat channel.

"Sonny, can you stop your game a few minutes?"

For once, he agreed to quit the game and turn off the computer. He asked me if I would still tell him one of my "tacky stories". I pretended to be heartbroken by pointing out that he usually seemed to like them, my stories tacky.

He had grown up listening to my stories about children encountering witches, ghosts, werewolves, trolls ... Like many parents, I used these tales to somehow learn caution to my son. Unmarried fathers like me must use all the tools available to us for the education of children.

He kindly told me that he liked it when he was six, but now that he had grown up, it did not scare him any more and he even thought it a bit stupid. He added that he wanted to listen to one on the Internet, but only if I made it really scary.

I hesitated a bit, but he reminded me that he was 10 years old and he was not a coward, so I said I was going to try.

We went down into the drawing-room, and I began to tell the story.

"Once upon a time, a boy named Colby ..."

One could see the disappointment on his face. He seemed to be saying "another story for dad kids."

Colby had connected to the internet and had sailed on several sites for children. After a while, he started talking to other children, via online games, or on forums. He had become friends with another 10-year-old boy named Helper. They liked the same video games and the same series. They laughed at the jokes of both. They discovered new games together.

After several months of friendship, Colby had offered 6 diamonds in the game they were playing at that time. It was a very generous gift. Colby's birthday was fast approaching, and Helper23 wanted to give him a great present in real life. Colby had thought that it would not matter if he gave his address to Helper, on the condition that he promised not to divulge it to strangers or adults. Helper23 had sworn to say nothing, not even to his own parents, and had posted the package.

I interrupted my story to ask my son if he thought it was a good idea for the child to give Helper his address. He said no. In spite of himself, he had finally been carried away by history.

Well, Colby did not think the idea was good either. He felt guilty for giving his address, and his guilt was growing, more and more. As he put on his pajamas the following night, his guilt and fear were such that he had never felt anything so strong before. He had convinced himself to confess the truth to his parents. The punishment would be hard, but at least he would have a quiet conscience. He slipped into his bed, waiting for his parents to come and wish him goodnight.

My son knew the scary part was coming. Despite what he had said before, he was still a little anxious, and clasped my arm firmly.

Colby heard the slightest noise from his house. The washing machine that was drumming in the next room, the branches of trees that struck the windows, her little brother sleeping in the next room. And other noises ... that he could not identify. Then the footsteps of his father as he approached the door of his room.

"Dad ?" he said nervously. "I have something to tell you."

His father then passed his head in the door opening, but the angle of the door was weird. In the shadow, it seemed that his mouth did not move and that his eyes were not normal.

"Yes, son?"

The voice was not normal either.

"Is everything okay, Dad?" asked Colby

"Yes, yes," replied the father, still with this weird voice. Colby sank into the blankets, worried.

"Um ... Mom is here?"

"Here I am !" His mother's head emerged below that of his father. His voice sounded false, forced.

"Were you going to tell us that you gave Helper23 our address?" "You should not have done that, we've always told you not to reveal your personal data on the internet!"

She continued.

"He was not a child, he was just pretending to be one, you know what he did, he came to us, penetrated inside, and then murdered us, both of us Just to have a good time with you!"

A man then emerged from behind the door of his room, holding two sliced ​​heads in his hands. Colby screamed and gasped, while the man dropped the heads on the ground, drawing a large knife. He entered the room, and went to the boy.

My son had yelled as well. He protected his eyes with his hands. But the story was just beginning.

After several hours the boy was almost dead, and his cries had turned into tears. The killer then noticed the lamentations of a baby coming from the next room. It was a treat for him, he who had never murdered a baby before, and was then enthusiastic about this idea. Helper23 removed the knife from Colby's stomach, leaving him in agony, before following the cries in the house, like a sirens call.

In the baby's room, he approached the pram, and took the infant in his arms. He turned to the light to see him better. As he held him in his arms, the baby's tears stopped. He was smiling. Helper23 had never held a baby in his arms before, but he rocked it as if he had done it all his life. He wiped his bloody hands on a blanket so he could stroke the toddler's cheek.

"Hey, cuckoo you!"

The gleam of sadism in his eyes had faded away, giving way to a benevolent and warm look. He came out of the room, named him William and decided to take him home to raise him as his own child.

Once my story was over, my son was visibly disturbed. Between two jerky breaths, he stammered: "but papa ... My name is William too!".

I winked at him, while stroking his hair.

"I know that, son."

William went up to his room running, and weeping all the tears of his body.
But basically ... I think he liked the story.