It was awful, and sublime at the same time, admire the infernal paradise staged autumn beyond the glass a little 'dirty. Martin stared, motionless, in silence without end that hung in his room, seated at the window. And he thought. After all, there was nothing for him, to do, and think gave him a mixture of anguish and exaltation. The dried leaves whipped by the wind gliding as gray drunk bat, bumping against each other taking sudden eddies of air. The sky was colored gray, westward, an ash beneath which was a dying embers and flickering blood. By shifting his gaze to the east, gradually, you could instead contemplate the inevitable creeping advance of the night, ready to swallow the world already. The lights in the houses, tiny squares were soaked in a poignant serenity, bright foci of redemption, peace, warmth ... Martin had only a candle with its flame which darted sick and struggling, ardent shaken by convulsions. However, the house was prey to the shadow, as always. The shadow that permeates the walls, you can breath, clutching his heart. The shadow of his mother, lost in some room. The shadow of the wheelchair, from which Martin would not have raised more. Outside, meanwhile, the first ghosts began to whiz in the distance, as came out of a daydream. And there were skeletons, witches, walking corpses emaciated arms extended and uncertain step. In small groups, appeared and disappeared from streets and yards, and occasionally stopped to ring at a door waiting to receive some goodies. Martin would have given anything, at least in the past, to be with them, to be one of them. To collect sweets, or chocolate, or candy, then go home and enjoy the euphoria following the successful raid on the eve of All Saints. But he had never disguised ... His mother would not permit him, anyway. His mother ... She entered the room just as he was thinking of her. Martin stood listening to the creak of the door behind him, slowly opening and then close with a lazy shot that he could recognize among a thousand. The light steps, a little 'shuffling, crossed the dusty twilight, stale, to approach him, next to the window. The woman did not say a word. Only, put his hand on his son's shoulder and was stunned to contemplate the agony of day shine over his own face in the glass. What a terrible eyes, She had ... Martin had always thought that those were the most evil eyes in the world. But with the passing of the years he had realized that they were just sore eyes, far away. His was the look of a stranger, of a wrong person. She was sick in the head. As it was his body. It was the existence of both has always been a sleepy endless stream of anxieties, loneliness, and especially of silences. His mother ... She had never accepted help from anyone. would be an affront. It was enough to each other, two of them. In his head muffled despair there never was room for nothing more than for herself and for poor children unable to keep a constant companion, always protected, always a prisoner. All for the love, of course. Poor mother ... A flock of shrill laughter, rose up from somewhere, sailing in the warm breeze. The candle is twisted, bending under the burden of thoughts ... Martin's room was now full. It was the last night of October. And even the first of a new life for him. It was easier than expected, all things considered. He feared that his mother would not have accommodated. Instead, amid tears and sighs and mumbled prayers to invoke the forgiveness of who knows what god what is hidden in the folds of his wretched mind, she did everything he asked. "You'll see, Mom," he had said. "You will give me the greatest satisfaction in the world. And everyone out there, everyone who wish us ill, they do not laugh anymore ..." And so the day was wrinkled, little by little, of itself, like a page covered with crazy red scribbles by the fire. Plan, hour after hour, the shadows had crept, afraid, inside the house, to contemplate the work of mother and son, both hopelessly lost among the cobwebs of a mournful silence. "Thank you, Mom," thought Martin. It was a strange revenge, that, against all the friends he never had, against a life that really did not make sense, if it ever had one. Perhaps the shadows carouse without respect in the brain of his mother had infected him, too, over time. There would be no marvel. And besides, he did not care at all. He felt that was a good choice. The little monsters came cackling in small groups, but when they came under the house of Martin, instinctively lowered their voices, scanning the front door with eyes rimmed in black or deep-set behind masks of papier mache. Martin knew that they wanted to ring the bell, but they were torn by fear. Afraid of his mother. They had always called "the mad", in no uncertain terms. But he was no longer angry about that. Probably would have done the same if it were one of them. But he had never been, one of them, and never would be. There no way. Now he was, and forever, from the part of the night. He watched those kids with disdain, tempered by just a hint of compassion. His mother retired to the shadows, silent for a moment before the monsters rise up the eyes to that window. Martin heard her raise her hands to her face, trying to stifle her sobs. "Do not worry, mom", he wanted to say. "I'm fine now". "I've never been happier than that". But now he couldn't say a word. The feet of his mother bumped, backing away, the large spoon before lying on the floor, half-covered in red pulp. The noise, slimy metal, bounced from one wall to another, like the tolling of a rusty bell. The cutter, lost in the dark, should not be far off. "Do not worry, Mom". "I've wanted you to do it". "And I'm grateful". And when the kids saw him, at last, began to scream. The flame inside of empty Martin's head, struggled suddenly, as the screams had reached it from the street. Through the hollow eyes the light wavered a little, producing two faint beams launched to probe the way. Martin felt shake a thrill of exultation. His mother, now, laughing and crying. Soon people would come, of course, and would have taken both. It did not matter. Martin, however, would remain in the house forever, inevitably. In the minds of those kids on the run he had now become a force as the most terrible of nightmares, those that can not be forgotten. Her image sitting in that window, the skull uncovered and the lighted candle surrounded by carved head like a pumpkin head, with his crazy flickering light where there should have been eyes, there would never be erased from their souls. His mother had been perfect. never would have had the opportunity to make a gesture most impressive, memorable and gracious in all his life. Whatever things had happened to her would have no meaning. Some dead leaves, similar to truncated and withered hands, slapped the glass, as if to chase away the madness nestled in the room, looking out the window maliciously. And Martin already knew to belong to the night, that night, and bugbear eternally damned, forever living, radiant and terrible. Three, four, five doors were flung open on the road, looking confused and alarmed, and people responded to the screams of childrens. Everyone looked in the direction of the "mad house", as it was known, and began to approach running, ready to invite the horror that would haunt them for life.

This is a Italian CreepyPasta translated by me.
Sorry if there is any grammatical error. It is a very long story.