Psycho Revenge

 

Chapter 1: The Photos Arrive

The three photos arrived simultaneously at 3:47 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, hitting James Jenson's iPhone and those of his three older sons like digital lightning strikes.

James was fixing fence on the north pasture when his phone buzzed. The first image made him drop his wire cutters into the dust.

Ryan. His youngest boy. Eighteen years old, shirtless, bent forward with his eyes and mouth sealed with black tape. Some of his red hair fell across the tape, and thick ropes crossed over his young, hairy chest. His arms were bound behind him, completely helpless.

"Jesus Christ," James whispered, his hands shaking as he swiped to the next photo.

The second image showed Ryan's arms in an intricate torture tie—white ropes wound and wrapped above and below his elbows, with hoisting ropes pulling them up high. His shoulders were strained to the breaking point. More ropes circled his wrists and forearms, circled and wrapped tight.

The third photo was worse. Ryan's forearms were bent at right angles to his upper arms, and hoisting ropes pulled his bound arms away from his back. The veins in his hands bulged through his skin, dark and swollen.

One line of text appeared under the photos: ITS TIME FOR MY REVENGE JAMES JENSON.

Why me? Why is this happening to me? Ryan's thoughts were a jumbled mess of terror and confusion. I've never hurt anyone. I help old Mrs. Patterson with her groceries. I volunteer at the church. What did I do to deserve this?

James's phone rang immediately. His eldest son, Marcus.

"Dad, you see these?"

"Yeah." James's voice was barely a whisper.

"What the hell did you do to somebody?"

"I don't know. I swear to God, Marcus, I don't know."

Within minutes, all three brothers—Marcus, 26, Tyler, 24, and Jake, 22—had converged on the ranch house. They found their father sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his phone with the photos still on the screen.

Jake leaned over his father's shoulder, studying the images with a practiced eye. "Look at this rope work, Dad. This isn't some amateur trying to scare us."

"What do you mean?" James asked.

"These ties," Jake pointed to the screen. "The way the ropes are wrapped and tensioned. See how they're managing his circulation? This person knows exactly what they're doing. They're keeping him conscious, keeping him alive, but making sure he suffers."

Marcus nodded grimly. "That's not random rope from the hardware store either. That's quality stuff. And look at these knots—that's advanced work."

The ropes cut into my skin, but not enough to make me bleed out. Whoever is doing this wants me to stay awake, wants me to feel everything. The tape over my mouth makes every breath a struggle, but I can still breathe. Why won't they just tell me what they want?

"Dad," Tyler said quietly, "think hard. Who would want revenge against you? What did you do?"

James looked up at his three sons, his weathered face pale. "Boys, I swear on your mother's grave, I have no idea who would do this or why. I've worked this ranch for thirty years, minded my own business, never hurt nobody on purpose."

Marcus stood up, pacing toward the window. "We need to figure this out ourselves. Fast."

"We need to get the ranch crew involved," Tyler said. "More eyes on this."

Jake was still studying the photos. "And we need to be ready for more pictures. This person isn't done. Look at the progression—they're just getting started."

Please, God, let my family find me. I don't understand what's happening, but I know my dad and brothers won't give up. They're tough, they're smart, and they love me. If anyone can figure this out, they can.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to cast long shadows across the ranch, and somewhere in those shadows, Ryan was beginning to understand that his nightmare was just beginning.

Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins

By evening, word had spread through the ranch crew. James had called in his foreman, Bull Morrison, and the other hands—Danny, Cruz, and Pete. They gathered in the bunkhouse kitchen, the photos displayed on Jake's laptop screen.

"Jesus, boss," Bull whispered, studying the images. His weathered hands traced the air above the screen. "This ain't random violence. Look at these anchor points, the way the rope's distributed across his body."

Danny leaned closer. "That's a chest harness. See how it's wrapped? Takes the weight off his throat, keeps him breathing steady."

"Professional grade rope too," Cruz added. "That's not hardware store shit. That's climbing rope, maybe static line. Expensive stuff."

Pete, who'd been quiet, pointed to the third photo. "Box tie variant. Arms pulled up and back like that... whoever did this has serious experience."

I can't understand why someone would know so much about hurting people. The ropes don't just hold me—they're positioned to make everything hurt more. Every breath is work. Every heartbeat sends pain through my shoulders. What kind of person learns to do this?

James sat heavily in a chair, his face gray. "I still don't understand who would do this to my boy."

"Dad," Marcus said gently, "we need to think about this systematically. Someone with this level of skill doesn't just snap one day. They've been planning."

Jake pulled up a notepad app on his phone. "Let's break down what we know. The message said 'revenge.' Against Dad specifically. Something from the past."

"How far back we talking?" Bull asked.

"Could be years," Tyler said. "Decades, even. Someone who's been nursing a grudge, learning these skills, waiting for the right moment."

I keep trying to think if I've ever seen this person before. The hands that tied these ropes—do I know them? Did I pass them on the street? Did I smile and say hello to the person who's doing this to me? I can't make sense of it. I can't make sense of any of it.

Meanwhile, twenty miles away in an abandoned hunting cabin, Ryan hung suspended in the dim light of a single Coleman lantern. The tape over his mouth forced him to breathe through his nose, each inhale a conscious effort. The rope harness dug into his chest and shoulders, supporting his weight but ensuring constant discomfort.

The man who had taken him sat in a folding chair ten feet away, occasionally looking up from an old paperback book to stare at Ryan with cold, calculating eyes.

"You're probably wondering why," the man said finally, his voice eerily calm. "You're probably thinking this is about you."

Please just tell me what you want. Please just explain this. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just tell me what this is about.

The man stood and walked closer. "It's not about you, boy. You're just the payment. The price your daddy owes for what he took from me."

He picked up Ryan's discarded shirt from the floor, then walked to a small table where he'd set up a digital camera on a tripod.

"Time for the next lesson."

No, please. Not more photos. My family must be going crazy. I can't stand the thought of them seeing me like this, seeing me suffer and not being able to help. Dad's probably blaming himself for something he doesn't even understand.

The man began untying specific ropes, adjusting Ryan's position. The new arrangement pulled his arms higher, creating more strain on his shoulders.

"Your daddy forgot something," the man said as he worked. "Something important. But don't worry—by the time this is over, he'll remember everything."

Back at the ranch, Jake's phone buzzed with an incoming message. The room fell silent as he opened it.

"New photo," he said quietly.

The image showed Ryan in the adjusted position, his face twisted in obvious pain, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air. His bound arms were pulled even higher, and his shoulders showed the strain.

The message read: DAY ONE. REMEMBER THE TWINS YET JAMES? REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID ON MILLER ROAD?

The pain is getting worse. I can feel my shoulders starting to give. But worse than the physical pain is the helplessness. Is this how I'm going to die? Tied up like an animal, while my family watches through photographs they can't do anything about?

James stared at the message, his face going pale. "Twins," he whispered.

"What?" Marcus looked at his father sharply.

"Miller Road..." James's voice trailed off, something stirring in the back of his memory. A flash of headlights, the screech of brakes, rain on the windshield.

Bull studied the new photo with professional interest. "He's escalating the stress positions. See how he's pulled the arms higher? That's going to cause real damage if it goes on too long."

"Dad?" Tyler was watching his father's face. "What about twins? What happened on Miller Road?"

James shook his head slowly. "I... I'm not sure. Something's familiar about that, but I can't..." He rubbed his forehead. "That was a long time ago. Maybe thirty years or more."

"Think, Dad," Jake urged. "Someone's been planning this for decades. What happened thirty years ago that involved twins?"

James looked around the room at the expectant faces, but the memory remained just out of reach, like trying to grasp smoke.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But we need to keep looking."

Hold on, Dad. Hold on, everyone. I'm still here. I'm still fighting. Just find me before this monster decides talking isn't enough anymore.

Chapter 3: Escalation

The next photos arrived at dawn, waking James from his restless sleep on the couch. His phone buzzed insistently, and he fumbled for it with shaking hands. Two new images filled the screen, and his stomach lurched.

Ryan was no longer in the same position. The ropes had been completely reconfigured into something far more complex and sinister. His arms were now bound in an intricate pattern—rope woven through itself in diamond shapes up his forearms, with additional lines running to anchor points above him. His feet barely touched the ground.

The second photo showed the full suspension. Ryan hung mostly supported by the rope work, his weight distributed across multiple contact points on his torso and limbs. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his breathing looked labored.

The message was brief: DAY TWO. STILL NOTHING JAMES?

Every muscle in my body is on fire. The ropes shift my weight constantly, never letting any part of me rest. My shoulders burn, my wrists ache, and my chest feels compressed. But I'm still alive. He's keeping me alive on purpose. Why?

Within minutes, the brothers and ranch crew had gathered again in the kitchen. Bull took one look at the photos and whistled low.

"Son of a bitch knows what he's doing," he said grimly. "Look at this work."

Jake pointed to the diamond pattern on Ryan's arms. "That's decorative rope work. Not just functional—artistic. Someone spent time learning this."

"More than that," Danny added, studying the suspension points. "See how the load's distributed? He's managing circulation, nerve pressure, everything. This isn't torture—it's calculated suffering."

Marcus ran his hands through his hair. "How long can someone hang like that?"

"Hours," Pete said. "Maybe longer, depending on how it's rigged. The way those chest ropes are positioned, they're supporting most of his weight. Keeping him conscious."

I want to scream, but the tape won't let me. I want to beg, but he doesn't care about my pain. He only cares about Dad remembering something. What could Dad have done that was so terrible? Dad's a good man. He taught me to help people, to be kind. What memory is this monster trying to drag out of him?

James stared at the photos, that nagging feeling in the back of his mind growing stronger. Miller Road. Twins. Rain on the windshield, the squeal of brakes...

"Dad," Tyler said gently, "you're remembering something. I can see it in your face."

"I don't know," James said, frustrated. "It's like trying to remember a dream. Something about driving, maybe an accident..."

Cruz leaned over the laptop screen. "Look at the background in this second photo. Those walls—that's not the same place as yesterday."

They all studied the image more carefully. The wood paneling was gone, replaced by what looked like concrete block walls.

"He moved him," Marcus said. "That's why there was no photo last night. He was relocating."

"But why move him?" Jake wondered.

Bull's expression was grim. "Because wherever he's moved him, he can make more noise. Can do worse things without worrying about being heard."

He carried me while I was unconscious. When I woke up, everything was different. The smells, the sounds, even the way the air moves. I'm somewhere more isolated now. Somewhere no one will ever think to look. The walls are thick, and when he talks, there's no echo like before.

Twenty-five miles away, in the basement of an abandoned farmhouse, Ryan hung in his new prison. The man who had taken him sat at a small table, methodically cleaning and organizing lengths of rope.

"Your daddy's a stubborn man," he said without looking up. "Thirty years, and he's blocked it out completely. But that's okay. We have time."

Please, just tell him what you want him to remember. Just tell him, and this can stop. I don't understand why you have to hurt me to make him remember something. I don't understand any of this.

The man stood and walked to Ryan, running his hands along the rope work, checking each knot and anchor point with professional precision.

"Perfect circulation," he murmured. "No permanent nerve damage yet. You can hang like this for quite a while before anything irreversible happens."

He picked up his camera again, but this time he also grabbed something else from the table—a faded wallet-sized photograph.

"Time to give daddy the final clue."

No, please. Not another photo. They must be going crazy, seeing me like this. Marcus is probably ready to tear the county apart looking for me. Tyler's probably analyzing every detail. Jake's probably blaming himself for not being there to protect me. And Dad... God, what is this doing to Dad?

The flash illuminated Ryan's suspended form, but this photo was different. The man had placed the old photograph against Ryan's chest, held there by the ropes.

Back at the ranch, James's phone buzzed again. This time, the message came with just one photo—Ryan hanging in suspension with an old photograph pressed against his chest. Even through the image quality, they could make out what looked like a graduation photo of a young man with red hair.

The text read: TOMMY HENDRICKS, MILLER ROAD, JULY 15TH, 1993. REMEMBER NOW, YOU BASTARD?

I can see the photograph against my chest when I look down. It's a young man who looks like he could be my brother. The same red hair, the same gentle eyes. This must be who died. This must be the brother this man lost.

James stared at the phone, and suddenly everything came flooding back like a dam breaking. The rain, the slick roads, coming around that bend on Miller Road too fast. The young man—Tommy Hendricks—walking along the shoulder. The truck sliding, the impact, the terrible silence afterward.

"Tommy Hendricks," James whispered, his face going white as a sheet. "Oh God. Tommy Hendricks."

"What?" Marcus looked at his father sharply.

"July 15th, 1993," James continued, his voice hollow. "I was driving home from town in the ranch truck. It was pouring rain, roads were slick as glass. I came around that curve on Miller Road too fast, and there was this kid walking on the shoulder..."

The room was dead silent.

"I hit him," James said, his voice breaking. "I hit Tommy Hendricks. He was eighteen years old. Just graduated high school. I pulled over, but he was already... he was already gone."

"Jesus, Dad," Tyler breathed.

"There was no one else around. No witnesses. I called 911, stayed with the body until the sheriff came. They ruled it an accident—weather conditions, poor visibility. No charges filed." James looked up at his sons with haunted eyes. "But this kid, Tommy, he had a twin brother. They were identical. I remember now—at the funeral, seeing the brother, how destroyed he was."

Bull leaned forward. "What was the brother's name?"

James closed his eyes, forcing himself to remember. "Michael. Michael Hendricks. He screamed at me at the funeral, said it should have been me who died. Said someday he'd make me pay."

Marcus stood up abruptly. "Michael Hendricks. That's who has Ryan."

"After thirty years," Jake said quietly. "He's been planning this for thirty years."

James looked around the room at his sons and crew, the full weight of his past finally crashing down on him.

"He's going to kill my boy," he said. "He's going to kill Ryan the same way I killed his brother."

Chapter 4: The Move to the Woods

No new photos came that night, and the silence was almost worse than the images. James sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone, willing it to buzz. The crew had dispersed to search local abandoned buildings, but they'd found nothing.

At 6 AM, his phone finally rang with an incoming message.

The photo that appeared made James's blood run cold. Ryan was no longer indoors. He hung suspended in what looked like a dilapidated cabin, with daylight streaming through gaps in the rotting wood walls. Thick ropes ran from his bound arms to heavy beams in the ceiling above. His feet dangled two feet off the wooden floor.

But worse than the new location were the deep cuts across Ryan's chest—gaping wounds that were bleeding heavily. The rope work had evolved again, more complex and cruel, but now it was accompanied by serious injury.

The message read: DAY THREE. THE BOY SCREAMS SO BEAUTIFULLY JAMES. ALMOST AS BEAUTIFUL AS TOMMY DID.

The cuts are so deep I can see inside them. Blood runs down my chest and drips onto the rotting floor below. I'm losing so much blood, and I can feel myself getting weaker with each heartbeat. He's not just restraining me anymore—he's killing me slowly, and he's enjoying every second of it.

Within minutes, the brothers and ranch crew had gathered again. This time, the mood was different—more urgent, more desperate.

"Jesus Christ," Bull whispered, staring at the wounds on Ryan's chest. "Those cuts are deep. He's bleeding out."

"Look at the blood loss," Danny said grimly. "Those aren't surface wounds anymore. Kid's in real danger now."

Marcus studied the background. "That's an old cabin. Look at the construction—hand-hewn logs, probably built sixty, seventy years ago."

"And look at the light coming through those gaps," Pete added. "That place is falling apart. Probably been abandoned for decades."

Jake was already pulling up a map on his phone. "We need to focus on abandoned structures in the hill country. Dad, think about where you used to see old cabins when you were younger."

James closed his eyes, forcing himself to remember. "There's old homesteads scattered all through Chapman's Hill area. Some of them been empty since the fifties."

I'm getting so cold, and it's not just the morning air. I can feel the blood leaving my body with each cut he's made. My vision is starting to blur around the edges. I don't know how much longer I can stay conscious.

Tyler was already moving toward the door. "We need to cover every old structure in a twenty-mile radius. Split up into teams."

"Wait," Cruz said, still studying the photo. "Look at this rope configuration. See how it's anchored to those ceiling beams? And the hardware—pulleys, eye bolts. This took time to set up."

Bull nodded grimly. "Professional rigging in a prepared location. He's been getting this place ready for weeks, maybe months."

Marcus was already grabbing his keys. "We need to move. Now. If he's cutting him this deep..."

"How long does Ryan have?" James asked, his voice barely audible.

The ranch hands exchanged glances. Finally, Bull answered. "With blood loss like that? Hours, maybe less. We need to find him fast."

I can taste blood in my mouth now. The cuts are so deep that every breath makes them gape wider. I'm trying to stay strong, but I can feel myself fading. Please, God, let them find me before I bleed to death in this horrible place.

Twenty-eight miles away, in the abandoned cabin deep in the woods, Ryan hung from the rotting beams while his captor sat on an old wooden crate, admiring his handiwork.

"Look how the blood catches the light," Michael Hendricks said, running his finger along the blade. "Your daddy never got to see Tommy bleed. This is so much better."

He's enjoying this. He's actually enjoying watching me die. The way he looks at the cuts, the way he smiles when I make noise through the tape—this isn't just about revenge anymore. He likes hurting me.

Michael stood and walked closer, pressing the tip of the blade against Ryan's ribs.

"Don't worry, boy. I'm not going to let you die too quickly. Your daddy needs to suffer longer than thirty seconds. He needs to know what thirty years of pain feels like."

I want to tell him that Dad is sorry, that Dad never meant to hurt anyone. But the tape won't let me speak, and I'm getting so weak that I can barely think straight. The blood loss is making everything fuzzy.

Back at the ranch, the search teams were mobilizing. Marcus, Tyler, and Jake would take the main logging road up Chapman's Hill. James and Bull would circle around from the north. Danny, Cruz, and Pete would come up from the south, covering the old hunting trails.

"We're looking for an old cabin," Marcus said, clipping a walkie-talkie to his belt. "Something that's been abandoned for decades. And we're running out of time."

James looked around at his sons and crew, men who were risking everything to save his boy because of a mistake he'd made three decades ago.

"Find him," he said simply. "Whatever it takes."

"We will, Dad," Tyler replied, checking his rifle. "We're bringing Ryan home alive."

Please hurry. I can feel the life draining out of me with every drop of blood that hits the floor. But I'm still fighting. I'm still here. Just find me before this monster finishes what he started.

As the search teams spread out across the hill country, Ryan hung alone in the decaying cabin, suspended between rotting beams and splintered floor, bleeding heavily and praying his family would find him before it was too late.

Chapter 5: The Rescue

The final photo arrived as the search teams were already deep in the woods. James's phone buzzed, and the image that appeared made his heart stop.

Ryan hung in the cabin with his shoulders visibly dislocated, his arms twisted at unnatural angles. More deep cuts had been added to his chest and abdomen, and blood pooled on the floor beneath him. His face was pale, his eyes barely focused.

But worse than the injuries was what else appeared in the photo—Michael Hendricks stood beside Ryan, a large hunting knife pressed against his throat, ready to draw it across.

The message was simple: FINAL PAYMENT DUE. GOODBYE JAMES.

I can't feel my arms anymore. The pain has gone beyond unbearable into something else—a kind of floating numbness. I can see the knife at my throat in my peripheral vision. This is it. This is how I die. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger.

"Jesus Christ!" Marcus shouted into his radio. "All teams converge on my position! Now! He's about to kill him!"

Marcus, Tyler, and Jake had found the cabin first, hidden deep in a grove of pine trees off an old logging road. Through the gaps in the rotting walls, they could see Ryan hanging inside, and Michael Hendricks raising the knife.

"No time for strategy," Tyler whispered, raising his rifle. "On three."

"One," Jake breathed, sighting through the largest gap in the wall.

"Two," Marcus whispered, his finger on the trigger.

Michael Hendricks smiled as he pressed the blade against Ryan's throat, thirty years of hatred finally about to be satisfied.

"Three."

The three rifles fired simultaneously.

Michael Hendricks jerked backward, three bullets punching through his chest. He dropped the knife and crumpled to the cabin floor, blood spreading beneath him.

The knife is gone. The pressure at my throat is gone. I can hear my brothers shouting, but everything sounds so far away. I'm still hanging here, still bleeding, but somehow I know I'm going to be okay now.

The brothers burst through the cabin door, Jake immediately cutting the ropes while Marcus and Tyler checked that Michael was dead. Ryan collapsed into Jake's arms, barely conscious but alive.

"Ryan! Ryan, stay with us!" Marcus shouted, applying pressure to the worst of the chest wounds.

"Call for medevac!" Tyler yelled into his radio. "We need a helicopter now!"

I can hear their voices, but they sound like they're coming from underwater. I want to tell them I'm okay, that I'm so glad they found me, but I can't make my mouth work. Everything is getting dark around the edges.

Within minutes, the clearing filled with people. James and Bull arrived first, James dropping to his knees beside his youngest son. The sheriff's department came next, followed by paramedics who immediately began working on Ryan.

"Sheriff Patterson," Marcus called out, "we had to shoot him. He had a knife to Ryan's throat."

Sheriff Patterson surveyed the scene, then noticed something glinting in the corner. Michael's camera was still running, mounted on a tripod, having recorded everything.

"Well, I'll be damned," the sheriff said, walking over to the camera. He hit the playback button, and they could all see the final moments—Michael pressing the knife to Ryan's throat, the shots being fired, Michael falling, and the brothers rushing in to cut Ryan down.

"Boys," Sheriff Patterson said, turning off the camera, "this is the clearest case of justifiable homicide I've ever seen. That video shows everything—the imminent threat, the life-saving action, the immediate rescue. You did exactly what the law allows when someone's life is in immediate danger."

I can feel hands working on me, bandaging the cuts, stabilizing my shoulders. Someone is talking about blood pressure and fluid loss. I want to tell them I'm grateful, but sleep is pulling me down.

The medevac helicopter landed twenty minutes later, its rotors whipping the pine needles into a frenzy. The flight paramedics quickly assessed Ryan's condition and loaded him onto a stretcher.

"Severe blood loss, bilateral shoulder dislocation, multiple lacerations," the lead paramedic reported. "He's stable but critical. We need to move now."

James climbed into the helicopter with his son, holding Ryan's hand as they lifted off toward the regional trauma center.

I can see Dad's face above me, and for the first time in days, I'm not afraid. His eyes are full of tears, but he's smiling. I'm going to be okay. We're all going to be okay.

At the hospital, Ryan was rushed into surgery while the family waited in the corridor. Hours passed before Dr. Martinez emerged, still in his scrubs.

"He's going to make it," the doctor said, and James felt his knees give out with relief. "The blood loss was severe—another hour and we might have lost him. The shoulder dislocations will require physical therapy, but there's no permanent nerve damage. The lacerations were deep but clean, and we've repaired everything."

Marcus put his arm around his father's shoulders. "He's tough, Dad. He's going to be fine."

"The psychological trauma will take time to heal," Dr. Martinez continued. "But physically, your son is going to recover completely. You got to him just in time."

I can hear voices in the recovery room, but I'm not afraid anymore. I know those voices—they're my family. I'm safe now. The nightmare is over.

Later that evening, when Ryan was awake and stable, James sat beside his hospital bed. The sheriff had already taken statements from everyone, and the case was officially closed—the video evidence making everything crystal clear.

"I'm sorry, son," James said quietly. "This was all my fault. That accident thirty years ago—"

Ryan squeezed his father's hand weakly. "Dad," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the tape and trauma. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't know this would happen. You couldn't have known."

James looked at his youngest son—battered, bandaged, but alive—and felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he'd been carrying for three decades.

Outside the hospital window, the sun was setting over the Texas hills, and for the first time in days, the Jenson family was together and safe.

I'm going to have scars, and I'm going to have nightmares, but I'm alive. We're all alive. And that's what matters.