“She’s cutting my fucking throat!” he
shouted as I walked into the room.
The man was quite an interesting
sight. Tall, skinny, brown hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, hadn’t shaved in days,
and the perpetual jitterers of a man truly frightened to his core. The officer
who escorted me in told me his name was Travis McCurry and that he was just
another run of the mill wackjob adamantly admitting to a crime which probably
hasn’t taken place, at least not by Travis. However he was an interesting
wackjob, the officer told me, so apparently worthy of some psychoanalysis.
“Who fucked him up?” I asked the
officer as I had watched Travis through mirrored glass.
The officer, a fat, squat, bald
little man in his late thirties, just chuckled, “you’ll have to ask him, Doc,
‘cause we surely didn’t believe it.”
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“Wasn’t you guys?” I inquired.
“No man,” said the officer, “he came
in like that.”
“She’s cutting my fucking throat.”
“Who?”
“The woman I killed a year ago.”
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I sat down across from Travis
McCurry. He wasn’t handcuffed but he was beaten to a bloody pulp. Two black
eyes, nose still dripping blood, swelling on his cheekbones, split lips, top
and bottom, his neck looked as if someone had already cut it, deeply, but it
had already begun healing and was knitting together cleanly. Additionally, he
had two large patches of dried blood on his shirt, one on each pectoral. He sat
uncomfortably in a graywhite chair in a graywhite room with a graywhite table.
A pale florescent light flickered on the ceiling and glimmered just slightly on
the mirrored glass behind which the officers watched us.
“Killed?” I inquire.
He looked exapersated and utterly
exhausted. “You’re the third cop I’ve told this too! Is this a joke to you?”
“I’m not a police officer,
Travis,” I replied, paused, then quickly added, “is it ok to call you
Travis?”
He took a deep breath and leaned back
in the wooden chair, “its fine….but if you’re not a cop what are you?”
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I introduced myself as a clinical
psychiatrist that the police employ from time to time to sus out various
confusing situations and talk to people in certain predicaments where police
are inadequate.
Travis stared at me for a moment,
then stood up and, in dramatic fashion, took off his bloody shirt and threw it
on the floor.
His nipples, still bleeding, had been
cleanly sliced off leaving two dark-red oozing patches on his chest.
“Sus that out…they literally rotted
off me, before my very eyes, decayed and turned to dust over just a few
months….the doctors couldn’t explain it, and once it got this bad they tell me
there’s no way a sharp instrument hadn’t done this….they thought I did it to
myself! Tried to commit me! And look at my fucking throat, man! I’m days away,
hours, minutes maybe! ”
I took a deep breath in an effort to
retain my composure.
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“….do you wanna tell me what
happened?…”
“Already told them…”
“Yes, but they don’t believe
you…try me.”
“Look, that’s what happens next, after the
nipples, I swear, she’s gonna cut my throat!”
Hysterics were setting in. I instruct
him to take a deep breath and he does.
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He was calming down, tired now,
having exerted himself.
“Tell me what happened, Travis.”
He exhaled, sighing audibility to
demonstrate his displeasure, gathered his thoughts and began.
“The night I buried her I started to
feel it…gentle at first, just a light stinging on my ass cheeks, then, over
the next few weeks it got more and more intense, a slapping, like someone was
smacking my ass. Within a month or so the red ass graduated to
these…inexplicable…bumps and bruises…”
He pointed to large, severe and
obviously fresh scrapes and bruises all over his torso and face.
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“…these have been here for six
months.” he looked me sternly in the eye, “and they fucking hurt, worse every
day.”
“Then my nipples….a burning at first,
like a paper cut, then it started to feel like someone was slicing them off…I
went to the doctor, stitches, cauterizations, referral after referral…”
“No results?” I ask calmly, to break
the silence.
“No,” he replied after a moment. “It
just kept getting worse, my face has looked like this for months… months! It
looks like I got my ass kicked yesterday but I haven’t gotten my ass kicked in
years, not like this anyway…
“Then my neck started, a little sting
at first, then the same feeling I had in my nipples: a slow deliberate slicing
that gets worse every minute, every second of everyday, deeper and deeper into
my throat…and you don’t believe a word of it…”
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I leaned across the table slowly and
made eye contact.
“I believe that you believe it,
Travis.”
“But?” he returned eye contact in a
confrontational manner.
I choose my words carefully,
“…but…I think it would be quite difficult for a dead woman to do this to
you…”
He stayed silent, looking down at his
lap, eyes welling with tears.
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“What do you want us to do, Travis?
How can we protect you?”
He looked up, “I don’t know, I feel
like this will stop if I confess and…I don’t know, am punished, if justice is
served or something… maybe if I tell what I did to her it won’t happen to
me…I don’t know! It’s a year now and I’m out of options…”
Long gone now was the man yelling at
me just a few minutes ago. Now he had broken down, looking beaten and without
hope. At that moment nothing remained of his spirit…I pitied him, pitied him
more than I have pitied any man in a very long time.
I stood up and placed my hand
comfortingly on Travis’ shoulder. “Tell me her name.”
“Algea….Algea Reid, I still have her
school I.D, I tried to show them but…..why do you ask?”
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“Well,” I explained, “I’m going to
ask the police to search her name up, and if your story about killing her
checks out, and she’s missing or had been found dead then you’ll get to make
your confession, I’ll talk to the police, you have my word.”
He said nothing but I noticed a very
faint glimmer of hope in his bloodshot eyes.
I patted him on the shoulder once
more and exited.
“Run that name please.”
“Already on it,” one officer replied.
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I poured myself a steaming cup of
coffee, black with just a bit of sugar.
“What had he done to that girl?” I
wondered aloud.
I had recognized no guilt in his
eyes, only fear, only self-preservation. It was an intense fear, a bone
rattling fear, the fear of a man facing the abyss of death…but a fear not
based on guilt.
Only someone who feels guilty would self-mulatate in his
position, he doesn’t qualify, screams a voice in my head
“Got her!” I heard an officer shout
victoriously behind me, startling me.
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I sip my coffee and turn around to
hear.
“I guess Mr. Crazy’s story sorta
checks out,” he began to read from the printout, “Algea Reid…white, female
21, attending Huntington Nursing school, goes missing from her birthday party
on January 28th…hell!….exactly one year ago today!”
“Happy birthday, Algea!” another
officer rudley interjects. Everyone laughs.
“…goes to bar “the Nite Owl” with
friends celebrating her 21st birthday, leaves with older man in mid thirties,
described as tall, well dressed and handsome by her friends…who apparently
recognised little else through their vodka goggles…”
There was a brief pause, then the
officer looked up from the printout with a perplexed expression, “I don’t know,
Sergeant Baxter, should I get a statement from him?”
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“A bit late for that,” I say cutting
off Sergeant Baxter’s reply as I look through the mirrored glass.
The officers crowd around me to see
the brutal site.
Travis McCurry’s throat had been cut, deeply, and he had bled to death, likely in a matter of minutes, on a cold concrete floor, bruised and battered, in a pool of his own blood…alone in the room…
Hello! My name is Tyler R. Martin. I’m a 22 year old U.S Army veteran of the Iraq conflict and am now a full time writer/poet. I run a poetry blog called Bourbon, Cigarettes and Syllables at bourboncigarettesandsyllables.com. Please enjoy my submissions and thank you in advance for taking the time to read my work!
So we’re going out on a limb here in this segment of Nightmarish Nature and exploring one of the most terrifying, most dangerous, most impactful species to walk this planet. I’m talking about us of course. Sure, as humans, we may not seem all that horrific to ourselves, but to many other creatures we have been a force of nightmares.
Why are we terrifying?
Humans are among those species that engage in massive modifications to our environment to serve our needs, like beavers who dam rivers, elephants who eat all of the new growth scrub to keep the savannahs tree-free, and so on. Yeah, all creatures have some impact on their surroundings, but some take it up a notch, and we do so at an order of magnitude higher still. And we have gotten so good at it that we have managed to exist and thrive in places that would otherwise be inhospitable. We are outwardly adaptive and opportunistic to the point of being exploitative. We are the apex predators now.
We have forced many creatures into extinction, intentionally and not, and have sped up these effects enormously. The National Audobon Society chose the egret as its symbol after it made a comeback from being hunted to near extinction, and it was one of the lucky ones. Many weren’t so lucky, especially if they came in direct conflict with humans, such as wolves and the big cats who were in direct competition, or those who were really specialized in really specific niche circumstances that we pushed out of the way. And this is in only a very very limited scope of our earth’s history, and has since been even more ramped up with industrialization.
But humans aren’t all bad are we?
Depends on who you ask… We have created all sorts of incredible opportunities for some species too. Take mice for example. And coyotes. And kudzu. And a whole host of animals whom we’ve domesticated, some of whom wouldn’t have continued to exist otherwise or certainly wouldn’t exist in anything resembling their current forms. And the most massive extinctions occurred long before our arrival, when the earth was still forming and underwent rapid catastrophic changes and swings, decimating critters as they were trying to get a foothold. Nothing is constant except for change; that has always been true.
So it isn’t my goal to get all eco-conscious and environmentalist here. Just that I feel if we are going to explore some of the more terrifying aspects of nature, we need to look in the mirror. Because if a consensus were taken right here, right now of all living beings globally as to what is among the most terrifying creatures among us, I’m sure we’d appear on that list.
If you enjoyed this closer-than-kissing-cousins segment of Nightmarish Nature on Horrifying Humans, please check out past segments:
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous two St. Patrick’s Days… Here are Part 1 from 2022 and Part 2 from 2023 if you want to catch up.
So apparently it really was my lucky day at that suburban gas mart last St. Patrick’s Day. I got the mother lode of all Scratchers. I hit it big time. I had no real idea of what that meant, but it looked promising. Maybe I could get a Cadillac to tour Route 66 AND a cabin in the woods… But who was gonna drive?
Now apparently you can’t just cash these things in at the register. You have to mail them in or something. Why does life have to be so complicated? Anything involving those good for nothing mailmen has to be rigged or part of some larger conspiracy, I’m sure. But I pocketed my prize and made some plans. I couldn’t rely on old Sal not to just pocket my prize for himself; he wasn’t the sort that would let me have my dream. Or even understood that I had dreams beyond just chasing rabbits (though those are the best).
The next full moon I whined and howled at Sal to take me in to work with him. Sal just patted me on the head. Didn’t even offer a treat or nothing. Seriously, I had to get out of there, this suburban situation was the pits. I couldn’t do another year of it, watching my life tick away. So, when that didn’t work, I gently grabbed my Scratchers ticket like I was retrieving a very important slipper and slunk over and hid in his truck under that ratty blanket he kept in the back.
I managed to creep into the junkyard office and hide there while Sal was sleeping on the job. Those mastiffs nearly ratted me out, but fortunately they were chained up, and they weren’t all that bright anyway. Just growled a string of profanities at my cur form, like I hadn’t heard that before. Anyway, I waited it out and before long I heard Monty’s car pull up, rattling like the dilapidated Honda Civic held together with duct tape that it was. Sal’s truck pulled off, spitting gravel and exhaust in its wake as always.
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Dusk was setting in and I could feel the change starting. Nothing to do for it, guess I’d just have to run with it then. Monty had settled in as usual, watching bad porn and staring off into nothing. He still smelled like day old jelly donuts (the kind you can get a whole bag for $1) and coffee, as usual. Good boy Monty, how I’ve missed you and the occasional stale donut, even if it wasn’t a cookie. I approached him from behind and coughed.
Monty nearly leapt out of his skin. He blanched as if he’d seen a ghost before he managed to find his voice. “Shit, that wasn’t a dream,” he stammered, pointing. As he realized I meant him no harm, he regained his composure and even offered me a day-old jelly donut, which I accepted gratefully. I think he could tell that my tail would have been wagging if I’d still had one at that time.
“Lucky, what in all of hell are you doing here?” he asked, eyes still wide as saucers. “And for Christ’s sake, put on some pants.” He offered up the spare uniform that still just hung from the hook behind the door. I guess in my fervor to talk to him I’d forgotten to dress. Oops.
“Monty, old friend, I need a favor,” I barked. I handed him the Scratchers. His eyes grew wider.
“Shit, where’d you get this?” That’s a lot of money,” Monty exclaimed. “They’ve been looking for the winner of this one…”
“I’d stashed it in my hidey spot under the place where the carpet peels up after I got it… It’s our ticket out of here,” I retorted. “You don’t think I want to spend the rest of my days laying around suburbia with tightwad treat-skimping Sal do you?”
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“I suppose not,” Monty quipped. “But what’d you have in mind?”
“You and me, we could get a cabin in the woods, live off the land. Get out of this shit-hole. Hell, you could even get a real car, one of those big-boat Cadillacs with the wide tongue-lolling windows…”
“Um, you could do a lot more than that with this, but I catch your drift. And I want out of this hellhole too. But, like…? I mean, you aren’t gonna bite me or anything, or get all weird.” Monty fidgeted like he did when he was nervous. “I guess I knew but didn’t want to admit it – dude you’re a freak show.”
“Gee thanks. Trust me, being a dog is better any day except that you can’t drive or get your own treats and crap,” I retorted. “And if was gonna bite you I’d have done so a long time ago. It doesn’t work that way, anyway. Seriously, you don’t believe all that werewolf mumbo jumbo on Netflix too, do you?”
Monty shook his head tentatively. “I don’t really know what to believe. I mean, I guess I always knew you were like this, but I didn’t let it sink in.”
“Well, get over it and help me get my dream cabin,” I snipped. “Seriously don’t just stand there gawking all night; I put on clothes and everything. I only have tonight.”
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“You mean before you turn back into a dog?” Monty asked.
I nodded, still licking the jelly off my lips.
“But I thought werewolf changes happened every full moon,” Monty asked.
“I do, but these Scratchers change like the wind. We gotta cash in quick,” I growled. “And if you try to turn on me, I’ll hunt you down. That’s OUR ticket outta here.”
“No, no, I get it,” Monty said. “I’ll make good on it, I promise. I can follow up on the ticket first thing tomorrow; it says to mail it in or go to the courthouse or something. I’ll figure it out… I guess you can stay with me until we get it sorted, but you have to be really quiet about it. I’m not supposed to have pets in that crap apartment for all that a little dog hair would be an improvement.”
Work is letting you go. Amidst all of the layoffs, you just didn’t make the cut. Well, I’m sorry to say, but it behooves you to go quietly. And quickly. Because you don’t want to stick around for the Firing Squad…
In fact, if your HR department is outsourced to one of those Eldritch contractors like so many are nowadays, get outta dodge NOW. Like seriously. Leave the lunch you brought in the fridge; leave the personal items in and on and around your desk. Hell, leave your coat and purse if you are not near them. You can get new ones. Maybe one of your ex-coworkers can help you retrieve your stuff later. Because you need to get out while the getting is still good.
The Firing Squad is coming.
And if they so much as see a pink slip anywhere in your immediate vicinity, it is complete and total annihilation…