Grimstalker

Copyright Protected @2017 by DarkWorX

In these woods, I am the boss. Least, this is what my fellow brothers and sisters say. Most days I am pretty easy going and you really have to go out of your way to really piss me off. When you do, well, let’s just say you opened up a frosty keg of Old Testament Retribution. Naturally, I’m not religious, and make no mistake, all religions say there is no room for my kind in any heaven. I will say look at the big picture of things, I can’t see my sorry ass sitting on some cloud playing a goddamned harp and that would be a living hell. Nevertheless, something about the unforgiving vengeful god that just gives me some righteous wood. You know what I am saying and if you don’t best mind your own business.

I love rolling with my kind like thunder through these beautiful black hills sporting our colors, our tribal colors that is. Ours is like no other and those fucking sissies that say they are some outlaw biker don’t know the meaning of, “The 1%.” Sure, just because we look human, act human, and on any other day, have empathy of a human, well, there is just more than just leather jackets, high octane, and the crack of an opening throttle. After all, happiness is a flick of the right wrist away. However, you see, there is more than what you can normally see about my kind. There is so very much more beneath the skin as they may say.

Human shell on the outside and our truer selves on the inside. Believe whatever makes you sleep better at nights thinking you know there is no such things as ghosts, phantoms, vampires, monsters, and my kind, the werewolf. Yeah, that’s fucking right, there’s all kinds of creatures walking day or night. We are your doctors, nurses, service men and women, the police, the fire fighters, and shit. But one goddamned thing you got to understand is that we are indeed only human on the outside. Inside of my kind is a blizzard of wrath that no man can contain though many have tried — tried and died. There’s a whole goddamned nation of a cemetery full of them. More scattered to the four winds in the form of shallow graves and rotting remains hidden away. Up here in the hills, there are more old mine shafts than people, and in the bottom of these are hills of bones who thought once upon a time that humans were at the top of the food chain.

DarcWorX International Wallpapers and Art

Listen, the moon does not hold its sway over my kind. Piss me off and have me in a corner, and I will show you the animal within from zero to spilling your guts in less than a couple of seconds. Not to worry, you’ll be plenty alive when your small and large intestines splash its payload on those new boots of yours. Also, let me clue you in on something else, religious relicts, crosses and such, spells and incantations don’t do jack shit either. Once upon a time long before you or I were a pup and then some, we overcame the silver bullet thing. I mean, in the spite of what you’ve seen in the shows, Hollywood, and shit like that, you’re in for one hell of a shocker when your silver hallow-points has no effect on us other than messing up our clothing. Not to mention, pissing any of us off.

Like I said earlier, I am a pretty easy going guy. I’d rather smile, laugh, smoke weed, and hang out at the Gallows talking shit, and meeting other members of packs from out of state sorts.

We all have specialties, I mean, you know, what we do in our more natural, or perceived in your eyes as, “Unnatural” we have our own names, handles, and skill sets. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking and you’re already wrong.
When we are in our natural state, we are cunning, fast as lightening and the weakest among us is as strong as any ten men you may want to chose. The brothers and sisters of my pack and those of my kind call me the, “Grimstalker.”

Trust me, every since I was a pup, I made it a profession in tracking down the free-range rubes that tend to get a little too close to things of ours, our business, our way of life, our land. Oh, for the fuck of Christ, trespassing on my land really raises the fucking hackles on the back of my neck.

Sitting up at my cabin here in the Black Hills you have to go off the beaten path, the roadway, and follow an old mining road and then turns to a path and a bridge over a small creek just to get to my land. I have no use for “visitors” of the human kind let alone uninvited assholes. Trust me in saying, I can hear a real dumbass walking up from the road far below. If the wind is blowing right, I’ll pick up the scent of the poor son of a bitch. Then your goddamned ass is all mine.

DarcWorX International Wallpapers and Art

This is where I turn from a guy catching some porn on the tube to my namesake. I jump up and already I can feel the change come on. I keep it in my pants if you know what I mean. Then on my way out, I grab my stainless mattock. It’s a custom job like a stainless tomahawk or one hell of a bitching hatchet with one unfucking-forgiving business end. You’ll never see it coming, you might hear it buzzing through the air and maybe, just maybe the sun will dance ever so briefly just before I take the top of your fucking skull clean off.

Again, you’ll be still alive when my gifting separates some of that grey matter of yours. Then as you slide down next to a tree, you’ll be sure to see me. Though because of the missing portions of your fucking brains, you’ll be not doing much else except look up at me as blood flows from your mouth and ears while shitting and pissing yourself in doing so. It usually happens to most people and I don’t hold that against anyone just so you know.

Then with my claws I dig into your exposed brain for a fucking taste and that is when you fade away right when I got a good paw full of your brains as your body has its fits, seizures, and shit. I’ll let you die as I eat and fetch my mattock right above your body pulling it from the tree along with the top of your skull and scalp. The scent of fresh blood in the air — your blood that is. You won’t know it, but very soon, day or night, we’ll be feasting upon your remains.

DarcWorX International Wallpapers and Art
Click here to donate
copyright
Advertisements

The Sheriff

Sheriff

Today I find myself out checking the higher trails on my usual routine as the sun was at its zenith, in which says so little in these parts. One thing is the fact that the sun sits lower and rides along the hills, just above actually. Secondly, the sky, seems to be a storm, a bad winter’s storm brewing up in the north as the low-pressure front is just coming upon us.

Listen to me, I sound like a fucking weatherman. I crack myself up sometimes at the shit I say to be quite honest. The new snow, the heavy snow anticipated is the whole reason I am out here today and making, well, a full day of it. You see, world renowned snowboarders, skiers, and the likes will be swarming down from all over the world.
Even in the spite of the time of the season means very little up here. One could always say, “It’s so damned gloomy all the time…” They’d be right in saying that while they’re constantly bellyaching about their trivial shit.

Nevertheless, this portion of the Black Hills is a very secluded, and some might say, “With trails less traveled upon.” In that would be the truth. Though, once upon a damned time, this area all around me was bustling with active gold mining, a railroad, a small town just up the side of the eastern slope here that included a brothel and a school for all the whore’s children. Mining isn’t much of a family life, was it?

It isn’t much of a life period as history would tell us. That is if you were some piss-ant working for the owners of these old mines now in utter ruin. Sure, there are a few openings but you have to know where to look and hope to god you don’t fall into some old air shaft leading a couple of thousand feet down. Most are about a couple of hundred or so into utter darkness. Regardless, it’s more than enough to fuck up your whole day if you fell into one. No one would know, no one would find you. Out of the entire history of this area, there has never been made mention of anyone that fell, and saved, or for that matter, ever recovered.

This area, yeah, it’s not for kids and idiot adults to go off this beaten path. Most of the folks, those even from out of state don’t come up here. They don’t visit the old graveyard now overgrown by the woods reclaiming the scarred land. They don’t even know about the wretched ruins of the old Miller’s Place that looks like an old castle made of crumbling stone. Shit, it’s all cordoned off and there are trees, squirrels, ravens, and whatnot that holds residence there. The state was going to restore that some time ago since the Millers were so filthy rich and powerful. They ate up and owned most of the mines eventually. I don’t really know anything more about those kinds of people or the history, which is not all too flattering according to the local historians. Still, that old place, all dilapidated and all, yeah, that’s on my rounds too. I’ll be seeing that soon enough. You see, it sits up along that ridge east of me. One will see it if you keep on walking south along the trail. Comes into view now and then. That is if it isn’t covered by the low clouds, fog, and the likes.

Regardless, no one has any business leaving the trail and heading up there to look around or explore. Never a good outcome.

Skulls

You see, the Northern Black Forest remains shrouded in heavy mist and the kind of darkness that plays upon the weaker minds out here. I mean, just the gloom in the area, and pick whatever season, it don’t matter and it just throws up one hell of an “Unwelcomed” sign to anyone with some wits about them.

Out here miles from nowhere is not for the frail of heart. In fact, you must cultivate a strong mental attitude if you’re out here. People lingering around these parts especially in the winter has one hell of a death wish. You see, they just don’t last long and if these fools are lucky enough maybe by late spring or mid-summer, their mortal remains may be found. But that’s the exception to the rule in these parts. Out here, most of the time, it’s the wildlife, the environment that gets you in the end. And trust me I know all too well.

It’s my job, it’s what I do as sheriff and all.

Do you want to hear something that will raise the small prickly hairs on the back of your goddamned neck?

Last week before all the people from out of state for all the snowboarding fiasco would be showing up, I was out here like I am now. The only thing different is I’m carrying this rifle. I didn’t need anything like this out here before. That in the past. I saw something that gives me more than enough cause to carry such a cannon. Better to be safe than sorry – better to be alive than dead, I say. That is, if you’re carrying special ammunition like I have. I won’t bore you with the details.

Back to the story of my adventure up here from last week…

I guess I was up by Murderer’s Creek along the old Iron bridge, the “Hanging Bridge” aptly named for the executions of some gold miners gone wrong along with some of the other social “Shames,” Interesting name for the despicable who found a noose around their condemned necks. You’ll find all this just south around that bend in front of us.

That bridge and most of the old events are now two full centuries ago and whatever ghost town it later becomes fell to the insurmountable grip of these woods. These very haunted woods. Just before noticing the sun dipping lower across the hills is when I saw the bloody unmistakable tracks of an adult Silverback Werewolf. The tracks left off to the right side of the bridge, breaking through the thin ice as it stomped through the shallow creek to the freshly laid maiden snow on the other side and disappearing into the tree line.

I reached down resting on my feet for a closer examination when I took into the account the size of an animal, a paranormal creature that some professor says doesn’t exist. I put the creature about three hundred plus pounds and nearly seven feet tall by its gate. I suppose some village idiot would think its Bigfoot or some Bullshit like that – I would leave it right at that. No need for anyone really discover the brutal truth otherwise. I took off my heavy glove from my right hand as the frost built up on my beard. With my index finger, I dipped it carefully into the small freezing pool of blood in the right paw print and tasted it. I found my eyes widen as the blood began telling me the story. You see, I have a secret to tell; He is not the only changing out here in these woods.

Adult

And before you go off half-cocked and say something you’ll soon regret, I for one was born this way just like a few of my kind in the region. You might say, “We’re as old as the hills.” You wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Listen, you’ve been around my kind, my kind are your doctors, your teachers, bartenders, friends, in-laws, and the like to include police and law enforcement. Moreover, I got this problem and it’s bigger than you or I.

The blood I tasted wasn’t his at all. The blood belonged to the victim, a woman that would be found brutally raped while he was still in human form. How do I know this?

The blood never lies…

The blood doesn’t hide anything…

All is revealed through the blood…

I can see through my mind’s eye of what her blood was telling me. I saw that he began to change into his normal self-reaching into her stomach and pulling out her backbone. My ears rang with the snap of her spine. Damn, she was very much alive at the time. The Werewolf barely knew of her and under his false pretenses of being quite the charmer and lover boy. The bastard, he brought her along this otherwise beautiful winter’s day. Oh yeah, a right down gorgeous day all things considering.
Yeah, after he finished with her, sexually, and otherwise, he dumped her remains under the ice of the creek about a mile further up. The blood also shows me his identity in human form and of course, again in his more natural form.

There just isn’t any way I can cover up this hideous crime this time with the people involved. The victim is a resident and much loved in the region. I know the woman killed, her father in which is a good man, and his wife, Betty that I’ve been banging for at least a full decade now. For those of you pretending to hold the higher moral ground, you can hold that against me too. But remember, when you slip, you fall a long ways down and I hope it hurts. Judge if you must, but Betty and I are more than a thing.

Now, this awful news was going to hit the family the hardest. The community will panic as it did before, and even before that as I can remember as for the last full century clearly.

Snowboarders and the like will be flocking to this region and I can’t hide this one. No nothing like the other ones.

I rose up and reaching for my radio, I called it in. I’ll lead my deputies to a haphazard roundabout to the woman’s mangled body. When the dust settles, I’ll square things up with this new idiot stranger in town…

DarcWorX 2017 Official

The Boy in the Box — Brazen Edition

Official 2016 Late DarcWorX Icons, Banners, and Label

For Annette Vecellio, Joseph Mobley, Kelly Forward, and Laura J. Taylor

And to all who have been bitterly abused but has chosen not to become the monsters in a maddening world shunned by society.

We are more than survivors but as warriors.

Another man walks into the den of such devastating violence that just took place some time before his arrival as he folded up his Deadwood Police ID to be allowed just moments ago by two peeked cops on the front porch of the residence and steps ever so carefully towards the opus of unmentionable vehemence.

There across the other side of what would have been a deco kitchen is a mountain of a man wearing his long coat with huge shoulders that one may describe as being in two time zones belonging to a man sculpted by the very hand of god with the most hardened granite ever known to mankind looking at the smaller man.

“Be of great care when you come in here. There are so much goddamned blood and shit in here.” To the smaller detective, all of what he is seeing looks like a savage animal, perhaps a Grizzly Bear or an African Lion came literally in an unfathomable rage.

The younger detective took his care fighting off the shock and awe of the crime scene unfolding before him while missing the splatters, pools of coagulating blood in the obvious arduous process.

The older and bigger detective began to talk as his voice drowned out other below the kitchen and from those behind him. “You know that little boy that has been locked away in a fucking box in a locked closet down there in that damp basement. Looks and smells like fifty shades of hell. He’s been in his own mess for days on end. However, he got a hold of a steak knife and cut a new doorway through what remains his mother’s underage boyfriend.” The large and powerful man by the name of, Special Detective Stone Phillips stated in a voice that sounds more akin to five miles of a crushed gravel road.

Stone rubbed the bottom of his freshly shaven square chin of his rugged face His dark blue eyes smoldering then flashed about the kitchen as he lit up a cigarette.

“Feels like I need a little something stronger than this, wouldn’t you say?” Stone flicked his stainless zippo and put it back in his pocket as he exhaled watching his smoke cloud up around the single ceiling light above.

“I can see you ain’t quite used to the smell of all this fucking blood, are you?” He looked down at a much smaller man wearing wire titanium bifocals also dressed as sharply as Stone stood looming over him.

“So much fucking blood you can smell the goddamn iron, the metal in it all. When you begin to get used to all of this shit, then it’s time to get the fuck out of this cursed job and maybe find something in retail or something.” Phillips drew in another deep hit off of his cigarette and chuckled at his own comment.

Strong Females

The two standing there with the cellar door open and the Deadwood CSI Team hard at work as two street officers bent over the front porch splashing vomit on the cold concrete driveway from what they saw.

“Can’t really blame them. The two cops on the porch.” Stone reached into his long tan coat and pulled out a small jar of Vic’s and opened the lid from the jar.

“Just a dab under the nose will help you. Go ahead.” The other detective, a detective known as Joseph Mobley who is the very same that headlined most of South Dakota’s newspapers started out as a beat cop until the night that the entire world would turn for him.

Mobley working off a vague at best, caller of the possible address of Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez, the notorious rapist, and on occasion, a Meth Cooker, not to mention,  a real low-life scumbag. Geronimo was someone that was protected in many ways by the feds since he became a snitch for them. Ratting out those involved in the meth trafficking in the region by the Banditos in order to keep his stinking hide from doing a life sentence at Yankton. The local and regional law enforcement in the past were persuaded by the FBI that the scumbag was off limits.

In Officer’s Joseph Mobley’s mind, this new information on an otherwise thwarted case by the protection of the FBI kept the local law guessing on these rapes and murders that led the public citizenry in the discovery first hand who were finding the mutilated and mangled underage female bodies all over town in dumpsters, just off of park trails, and belly up along Elk Creek. 

In the minds of a few to include, at the time, police officer Joe Mobley, this “Hump, and Dump Killer” as the locals dubbed. A murderous pedophile that needed to be brought down like the rabid animal this predator desperately demanded.

With the new information given, Officer Mobley came upon the house in the middle of the night knowing that this is indeed the home of what they bikers called this monster as, “Harley.” More like Harley the fucking Snitch Rat Bastard. Joseph caught some noise from inside as some young girl was begging  Geronimo to stop raping her as she cried.

In this fact alone, gave Joseph more than enough cause to bust down the front door with his weapon and light above the aim of the barrel, Mobley continued in a pitch-dark living room. It would be in Geronimo’s wretched bedroom that Mobley would find the scum raping the naked blonde girl. Probably just another typical girl that may have run away from home and made it into the grip of the biker gang to prostitute in drugs and money. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez  would end up getting new trim in trade for his trafficking deals, Besides, all the girls murdered were not from around Lawrence County. The scene with her spread eagle and pinned down by this monster was more than Joseph Mobley could stand even if it meant his job.

Fast Betty

Geronimo turned up looking into the blinding light as he pulled out of the young girl. That was enough for Officer Mobley. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez  flinched in saying that whoever was on the other end of the flashlight blinding him in the act. Rodriguez yelled that he is a “…protected man.”

Joseph only answered back with his standard issue semi-automatic by emptying his firearm, a standard Glock-9 that didn’t do too much good at first Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez was jacked on Meth. Though every shot Mobley made was fatal in its own right to the heart, chest, throat, and finally a double-tap brought this insane animal down. An entire clip and in a flash, Mobley loaded up a fresh magazine and took a filthy blanket off the bed so the girl can cover up herself as he instructed her to go outside and asked her is there were any others like her among them in the house. Mobley would find three additional underage girls ranging from about nine to fourteen in age naked and shivering in the cold left to piss and shit in a goddamned bucket up in the attic. They were understandably terrified.

Everything else became a blur to him, the “Hump, and Dump Killer” was brought to a deserving end. On Mobley’s way back down with the children holding hands in a human chain. Mobley radioed for an ambulance and backup to come at once. The neighbors around the low-life awoke and two women brought coving for the naked and heavily abused girls. Joseph seeing that the girls were momentarily being looked after went back into the house alone and carefully entered the bedroom where Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez’s limp body rested. Joseph dumped two more shots in the back of good old, Geronimo for good measure.

As for Officer Mobley,  he was promoted to detective first class and would be working on cases now and again with Special Detective Stone Phillips. As for Joseph, he didn’t mind at all working alongside Stone with years of street knowledge from his days in Chicago’s notorious South Side.

“Thanks, Stone.”

“Sure, Mobley, not a problem. But…” With Stone’s right hand holding the burning cigarette in between his fingers, “Look on the wall there behind you and notice that strange carving?”

Joseph turned and noticed a bloody patch running down the carnation pink wall drawing closer to it.

“What the fuck is that?!?” Mobley nearly shrieked and realizing it is made of bone turned to face Stone Phillips.

urban_thumb (1)

“The little boy is a fucking Michael Angelo with knives. Who knew? Not with a steak knife, mind you. The paring knife, a butcher’s blade, and the fucking very steak knife itself that he used in freeing his escape is all there in the sink filled with bleach and water.”

“But what in the fuck is that?” Mobley asked drawing for his own cigarette.

“The sculpture is of human bone from what we can tell is from his mother’s missing sternum. Oh, she’s gutted in the bath tube over there in the only bathroom in this house.” Stone pointed in the direction.

Mobley can clearly see that there is a CSI personnel in the bathroom as their shadows danced off the yellow door and the white wall of the room itself.

“I think I’ll skip that part.”

“Quite a masterpiece the boy did on her. I can tell you that Mobley. That up there, so I’m told by Doctor Annette Vecellio, she says it is some kind of tribal design of a devil or some kind of demon. She told me that the young boy says it is his friend? Yeah, I know, right?”

Detective Mobley just shook his head in stricken awe as a police photographer is a shade south of pale as his eyes wide open to this oeuvre of murderous mania played out through the illustrations of smeared blood made by the boy’s small hands.

Mobley is trying desperately to get his mind around the fact that this, all this malevolence was created by the hands of a young child.

“Hey, Jimbo…” Stone snapped.

The police photographer turned to Phillips, “Yeah, Chief?”

“Take a good photo of that up there on the wall for me, would you?”

“Certainly…” The police photography took the shot as Stone and Joseph standing there noticing that Jimbo is heading for the front door for some much needed fresh air.

get

“Tell me Stone. How did this all go down?” Mobley asked.

“Well…” There is a spark of light cutting across Stone’s dark eyes and pointing down the cellar, “CSI will fucking confirm what I already know. The little seven-year-old –” Stone is cut off by Mobley.

“Seven? Just seven did all of this shit? Fucking seven?”

“I know, right? Besides the kid is standing about so high…” Stone motioned the height with his left hand. “Yeah, about that high and weight about 65 pounds soaking wet in his mess. Doctor Vecellio made him change his clothing and helped to clean up the entrails and saturated encrusted shit and piss for days he was wearing. God fucking insane. Let me tell you something, my friend. This shit is what makes good people wonder if there is even a fucking god in the first goddamned place…” Stone’s voice lowered as he continued.

“You know, Joe, there are places for the likes of the good doctor in some sort of a pleasant afterlife…” Stone’s voice faded once more.

Detective Mobley nodded in agreement as he took in the entire crime scene of the kitchen area as Stone went on.

“The child, Dougray Scott was obviously tormented for god knows how fucking long, managed to stash a knife, that steak knife in the sink in fact. He used the weapon he concealed on him knowing his fucking bitch mother and her stunted boyfriend would go and lock him up – What they didn’t know, it would be the fucking last time as you can see.”

“How in the fuck did these monsters get away with it all along in this day and age?” Joe glared up at Stone.

“That is a question that I can easily answer. To cover up the screaming and such, they would turn that radio down there loud to cover up the hell going on in that fucking trunk.” Stone paused.

“God knows how long he would be confined like that with no answers to his screams and sufferings.” Stone growing a bit angry as anyone would then continued.

“Then the boy must have picked the lock and with all of his might, snapped the latches, picked the closet door, and threw that radio against the wall in pieces. That is what brought the fucking idiot down the stairs, turned on the light below to find Dougray wielding a knife and gutted on Michael Anthony Glenn.”

“You mean to say, this Dougray Scott did all that I’m seeing with a single fucking steak knife?”

macabre_thumb

“Yeah for the most part downstairs, and by the looks of things, a few years of pent up seething rage with about a gallon of pure adrenaline and a demand for a pound of flesh and then some. I cannot fucking blame the little lad one fucking second for…” Stone grew quiet for another moment as Mobley hung on to every word.

“Retribution, retaliation, revenge, all wrapped up in such a tiny malnourished boy. His mother…” Stone took a moment.

“As you can see by the bloody footprints of the young lad came right up the steps and kicked the door ajar nearly shattering it off the hinges as you can see.”

“My god…” Mobley’s mind is playing out the scene that happened over the course of a couple of hours earlier.

“Seems mother on her meth-binge came running right into a buzz saw of sheer animalistic rage. Dougray Scott snapped under all this hideous shit.  Now Dougray had the element of surprise totally on his side as he began with a killing blow and slashing effect upon his mother’s stinking neck. You can see there on the floor of her choking spasms of blood. The boy seeing this monster now lying nearly naked jumped over her body for something a little bit heavier to use on dear old mom. She was alive to see it coming and that there, my friend, is a fact.”

“Horrifying…” Joseph could see ever swing, every action being played out before them by the blood evidence alone.

“I don’t know if there is a word out there somewhere that aptly describes all of this…” Stone lit up another cigarette as he did before.

“He jumped over his moms?” Detective Mobley asked.

Stone in deep thought in a very dark place inside him if only for a moment and then turns around to face Mobley looking up at him. “Yeah, yes, he jumps over his mother and grabs the butcher’s blade because it is heavy. He knows he must have, must need something more brutal to get the job done. Dougray, he begins to dismember her arms and legs hacking away…” Stone shows with his right hand holding the cigarette up to the further wall and ceiling opposing the two detectives.

Stone went on breaking it all down,  “She is bleeding out as you can see and the effects of his unrelenting chopping and hacking. The floor here really tells the fucking story and make note of the arterial spray that looks more like morbid wings of some kind of hellish angel or something.” Stone allows Mobley to take it all in as he points to the morbidity of this inhumanity.

“Treat a boy, any person like this and you create a goddamned monster in your own right. Though this monster might be a seven-year-old boy, but you know the deal Mobley; it’s not how big the monster is, but how big the monster within that counts at the end of the day, and I am afraid based upon this blatant evidence that whatever carved a new doorway through that asshole down there is something much more of a monster that was running to meet him. And that too, my friend, is a fact” Stone grew silent once more.

untitled

“Goddamn…” Mobley nearly whispered.

“Now, Dougray takes the Butcher’s blade and cloven his mother’s skull as you can see some of the gray matter all over the floor and the goddamned ceiling above over there. Hacking away he then began putting body parts in the bathtub. Really, she’s all kinds of fucked up. Quite the jigsaw if you ask me.” Stone barely grinned.

Detective Mobley just stood there as his eyes dancing as the entire gore played out in his mind.

“I know you’re seeing this in your mind, Joe. I just needed to point the way. Shit, you would have figured it out all on your lonesome given the facts as I did earlier from the CSI guys.” Stone takes another heavy drag.

“How did we come to know about all of this about the radio bit?” Mobley quipped.
“So glad you’ve asked, Joe. The next door neighbor by the name of, Kelly Forward said she heard screams and what sounded like a ‘rabid dog’ — her words. She came up to the kitchen window there and peeked in. What she saw would sear her mind like a white hot iron into her memory. It will never leave her what she saw. In this too is a natural fucking fact.”

“I fucking bet,” Joseph added.

“Misses Kelly Forward is down at the hospital being treated for shock. She said in her brief statement that sometimes these people play the radio downstairs now and then a little too loud. She has no knowledge of the boy other than she would see little Dougray Scott that would smile at her on seldom occasion.”

“What is going to happen to the kid?” Mobley asked again.

“Like what happens to most monsters his age. He’ll become a ward of the Whispering Pines Sanitarium, hence, the state up until he becomes of age. He’s got a long and bumpy road ahead of him with the so-called rehabilitation processes no doubt.”

“Damn…” Mobley looked down at his feet.

board

“I had enough of this hell myself this evening. I got what I need and tomorrow I’ll get with Doctor Vecellio over some of that preliminary stuff. You can come along if you like. But, I think I hear the police chief coming up and all’s we need is another asshole in this stew. Besides, we did all we are going to do here. Let’s go have that fucking drink, Joe.”

The two walked out before the flashing red and blue lights and the shadows dancing in the reflections off the walls of the houses as the entire neighborhood is cluttering the street after allowing the two undercover cars leaving into the chilling night air.

Tomorrow is another day of a media blitz as the horrors come to light right under the very noses of the folks of Deadwood.


If you enjoyed this story and style. There are more posts to read freely. Also, you may want to check out the “Haunted Library” where you shall find Kindle Books, and Traditional Paperbacks sold Internationally via Amazon, and Amazon Books. Don’t forget to share this site with your friends who enjoy horror, the macabre, and the weird. Subscriptions are free and to subscribe is simple. Just use the feature at the top of the right column.


 

stoked_thumb
copyright-2016_thumb

The Dream…

TheDream

Last night I had the most vivid and surreal dream. I found myself upon another world in another time. In this reverie of the bleakness surrounding me, I was upon a great and powerful beast. Cloaked and as the bitter cold, I clutched my tattered garment as I can see my own breath. I looked up at the leper sky as this wind, a wind of broken promises threw dust into my watering eyes. I know this rancorous wind. This wailing wind is all too familiar to me in life as well as this desolate place I know not.

I looked around me and could only see that I was on a bloody field of pain and misery. These things I have known throughout my life as well. Though, nothing as graphic and pronounced as if it is a dark omen of the dread and trepidation to come. Yet all of this I thought as I gazed in silence to consider. Again, more questions without answers.

I heard long ago in the realities of my world I have departed from in my slumber that hell is the impossibilities of reason. Have I reached such a malevolent place?
 
I sat there upon my blackened beast reconciling all the things I am taking into account. Off into the great and distant dismal horizon as I could only see the countless rotting corpses and among them captured in their own mortal finality, I can see all the false flags and banners of hollowed hopes and the deafening silence of insurmountable defeat save for the wind giving cause to the flapping of these banners and flags. Most I can see, none is alive, no man, or beast among the unimaginable carnage.

Perhaps these tens of thousands of bodies frozen into the earth where they fell in death were of what I can perceive is of three different armies.  Among the dead were their ancient religious relics. I recognized these artifacts – each of them.

Stunned by the vestiges around me with the notion that I was beginning to draw a conclusion, at best, formulating a cause for such violence and barbarity unimaginable. My heart began filling with sorrow and dismay as I moved on making my way. I would soon discover a dark slowly moving river of the terrors within. I can see just below the waterline waiting for another victim, waiting for me to fall into their arms only to be brought down to the depth of this wretchedness.

Disturbing

This spellbinding river of rancid with the stench treachery and of deceit began to show me the callous of such revulsions of how all this death became. Fascinated but cautious to the shadowy promise of sudden death I kept safe from the banks of this sable river of both horrors and mysteries. My suspicions confirmed that this mighty battle of legions upon legions fighting to their own deaths in a falsehood spun by their faiths and those that cast such damning lies. For among the dead I saw the bones and decay of children caught up in this great battle.

The wind unceasing, I turned away from the banks and found an old bridge. This eerie bridge as I could clearly see is made from many skulls and spines of the dead. I crossed over precariously only feeling more alone and alien to such a place.

I whispered, “What God would demand or closer to this horror would approve of such a great waste of humanity that I bare in witness?” This question of course went unanswered as the path before me would take me yet to another landscape of black vespers rising into the same sky poisoned by the acrid toxins which would turn to a poisonous rain devouring any chance of life from the earth.

The air now growing still of the rotting sea of bodies all around I continued to press on though as the rain burned my face and exposed skin stinging like many small vipers. Though, the true poison from such a rain has an odor of condemnation, jealousy, pride, greed, and avarice.

“Is this the abstruse work of some sorcerer that bewitched so many, too many, to fight and die upon?” Again, I whispered in spite of the stinging lacerating rain.

As that of the wind, the rain had come to end as I continued winding through the destruction of humanity. The air still strong with the rotting and the essence of unrelenting vengeance. As I continued following the course laid out before me through this mysterious means that I truly know not the reasons of travelling through such a hellish place ever so foreboding.

Women

As I rose higher along the side of a slow rolling hill I could see before me on the horizon a great chair amongst the heaping bodies as I lead my beast towards this mighty chair made of precious stone and jade. There as I drew ever nearer I could see it is the remains of some great king who died so many years before like the great sea of others. I can clearly take into account of his heavy golden crown upon his brow while holding a large sword with both of his skeletal hands as he sat there through the ages of time in his rotting clothing and rusted armor. I can see he is or in life, wearing a single eye patch as I found myself whispering once more, “In the land of the blind, the one eye man is king. King under this leper sky.” I scorned.

I continued as I entered a strange mist and into a heavy fog froth with phantom spirits of the damned that lie decomposing for legions of miles untold. Like Sirens, these phantoms sang out their acrid songs of their beliefs and of their superstitious leading them only to a lethal outcome.

In this daunting fog and mist, I can see those behind the phantoms clutching on strings as if these specters were nothing more than marionettes controlled by these otherwise, taskmasters of the utmost cruelest tyranny possible.

Then like a clap of thunder booming overhead I shunned myself from the impending doom of the onslaught of the brooding weather.

I heard a gentle whisper from somewhere beyond saying it was time for me to leave this place and to wake up…

Create
FBI


A Fools’ Circle…

November2015

I see ISIS has already killed 250,000 of Muslims in Syria, Iran, and Iraq. The CIA did a great job engineering Obama’s dream of, “By Any Means Necessary…” So now those in fear grows into Islamophobia and this fear is spread across the sea of the innocence. Yes, Islamophobia is spreading like a virus of condemnation among the mind-numbing mentality of the Walmart Nation and from the fear mongers they cast upon these coals of white-hot lustful hatred to anyone calling themselves Muslim.

As Adolf Hitler first killed his own, so has ISIS governed by the guise of of another Holy Jihad. Though the true cause is the lust for war and obeying their true god, the CIA who beckons instability in the lands of the former Great Persian Empire and before the Ghosts of Babylon. The rotting bodies of innocent Muslim men, women, and their children shown proof of paying the ultimate price by the bloody hands that guide this wretched army of killers among their own.

ISIS who is blinded by their deadly ambitions are only a fragment of the lethal deeds of the United States Secret Societies in Government shrouded in treacheries upon treacheries that knows of no bounds.

For the Corporate Powers that be have used another successful wedge to drive into the people of America that is still in a deep coma called, “The American Dream.”

OutAlive

The witches of the CIA conjure spells and casts upon the empty minds yet another Middle Eastern Boogiemen. ISIS enabled, fueled, and armed with murder seared into their dark hearts stretch out to a northern land and strike against the innocents who dwell among the brightest cities in Europe.

Terror once again reaches the people of Paris yet again. Though Obama, a marionette of his masters plays the role of Arson and a Firefighter upon a tightrope. Instability in the Region of the Middle East and Syria by his tightest focus is his ultimate endeavor.

I see into the plans of the masters that govern this world and its marionettes called governments. Yes, Obama is fascist owned and operated. That is the Mindset of Corporate America’s Greed Empire. Get ready for the next False Flag coming soon, very soon to a major city near you.

Will it be the ancient city of the Romans?

Will it be the ancient city of the Anglo-Saxons to surely be leveled by the black hand, the dark instrument of the CIA in ISIS?

Who is to say?

Parasite

Yet the signs are out here in the darker corners of the Internet as the NSA is once again completely blind while distracted in spying of the millions of Terabytes of data being stolen from you and me here in America.

Among the ashes of the dreams dined upon filling your belly. Your heroes for distorted tales of phantoms – Ghosts.

You shroud yourselves in a cloak of paranoia, fear, and as the drums of hatred pounds the enchanting morbid beats under a brooding sky compels you further down a path that will destroy your way of life ever so much more.

There you are caught listening and watching upon bated breath the words of wretched pariahs as they fleece you from your last dollar, your last freedoms, your last drop of blood.

Drunken with power, the taskmasters of this world will stop at nothing, and yet you are entranced into the malevolent spells feeding into the doom and gloom baring the fruits of bitter dread.

So easily without a rational thought amongst, you give up your sons, and daughters to a slaughter of another war without hope but only filled with the deceptive falsehoods you believe as truths.

This is a game I see with plans within plans and a game I shall no longer entertain…

FBI
DarcOfficial