Demons, Freaks & Other Abnormalities

by Michael Laimo

  I stepped to her, placed a gentle hand on her exposed bicep. “What is it?”

  Her saturated gaze met my eyes. “The children, they weren’t really born that way. It got worse...afterwards.”

  I pulled my hand away from her arm, as if her words had somehow made her contagious. I understood what she said, but couldn’t figure as to what she truly meant. “Afterwards?”

  “Evelyn! Enough!” Hank was seething, and I could hear his tempered breaths behind me. I kept my gaze on the woman.

  “T-The children,” she sobbed, “all got significantly worse after they were born. And to this day they still continue to spoil.”

  Spoil? Did she say spoil? She said the children were spoiling. In a sick, deranged way, that made sense to me. Now, all of a sudden, I understood.

  “And my kids aren’t the only ones. It’s happening to others as well. Even some adults.”

  It was here that Mrs. Manners shocked me, blew me away.

  She lifted her housedress and showed me the most ghastly sight of the day.

  From the ulcerated navel of her pregnant belly wriggled a tiny baby arm. It glistened red, rife with veins, as if not developed enough to possess skin.

  From inside Eddie’s room I heard a ferocious scratching and pounding against the door. I looked at the gouges in the door then remembered those hideous yellow nails he had...

  I shuddered, swallowing my gorge, then raised the camcorder, pointed it at Mrs. Manners’ stomach, and shot five minutes of video.

  ~ * ~

  One year later...

  I wait backstage for the announcer’s cue. The audience is brimming, the lights forcing a sweat upon my brow. The host is now on stage...

  ...today’s guest comes from New York. His photography is quite disturbing to say the least, and not for the squeamish. Through much controversy he has garnered great accolades from researchers and fans from around the world. His work has been compared to those who have documented the travesties of the Vietnam War, and the overcrowding of inner city crack houses...

  I think back to the horror I experienced in Hutch Grove, to the Manners family, and how the visit to their home has changed my life, has made a horror out of me...

  The photos you are about to see will indeed shock you...

  They will be more shocked at what I am to reveal today...

  We’ll also show you excerpts from a video that we had to censor most of...

  I think back to the moment when I met Mrs. Manners in the hallway as I exited Carol’s room, she standing there with a glass of water for me. Later, Mr. Manners making coffee, me drinking two cups. And then, what Mr. Manners had said, so much in jest on the surface, so hidden with truth: must be something in the water.

  I gently feel under my shirt. Still there, of course. They will be shocked, all right, with what I reveal.

  A small twisted mouth with three gnarled teeth, a knot of skin for a nose, and one horrible staring eye. All surfacing from my stomach.

  Please welcome our guest to the show...

  I remove my shirt and walk out on stage.

  11:11

  The APB came over at 11:11.

  It was so frighteningly ironic. You see, I have always considered that time as the witching hour, forever wondering as to how many evil misadventures befall at exactly that moment.

  I have also regularly queried myself as to why 11:11 is repeatedly observed by chance; it seems that many a subtle glance at the clock reaffirms the most wicked moment in time.

  Now, you may ask if I've witnessed evil at every instance of 11:11 encountered. My answer to you is no, not in the past, I have not. Not once.

  But this time, this 11:11, I did, and it was fated for me.

  I was summoned to investigate an unusual circumstance at what I call “the crossroads”, that is Waters and Johnson streets, a truly infamous intersection in a loathed section of town where crime is rampant and disease and poison dictate a lifestyle that runs amok amongst the inhabitants.

  At the northeast corner of the crossroads sits the James housing project. It is a sad excuse for shelter and the origin from which the complaint came. A resident there reported a foul smell emanating from one of the apartments.

  The “neighbors” did not associate with one another unless there was a dispute over money, food, or drugs. Only death would cause them to notice one another in a light other than hate. I was certain that this foul odor was a death, unquestionably a murder, and that those living around it hopelessly wished it away for they did not need another premonition of their own ultimate forthcomings.

  And it was not a recent departure--that I was also convinced of, for if an unpleasant smell in that environment provoked the residents there to grumble, it most certainly would have to overpower the dense putrescence presently flourishing in the air.

  I arrived at the tenement at 11:23. I was alone and should have called for backup, but this was my time, my 11:11, and I did not want to burden another to endure the ordeal predetermined for me.

  Comfortlessly, I got out of my car, shut the door behind me and faced the exterior of the building. Within the light of the full moon splaying upon the intimidating structure, I sighted empty eyes gazing at me through broken windows, like hungry wolves in the night stalking their prey, seeking hope for one more night of survival.

  Peering straight ahead I ignored the jackals and ambled prudently along the littered cracked pavement leading into the ominous moon-shadow of the building. Soon after, I set foot through the graffiti-embellished entranceway.

  My footsteps echoed in the hallway like the sound of water dripping in a cavern, the cadence of my stride periodically interrupted as my shoes sliced through garbage and grime. Bacteria and germs thrived within the humid, malodorous atmosphere, creating a milieu that rang the dinner bell for any rats and cockroaches nearby.

  Apartment 7A, the scene of the crime. There were eight floors in the building. The small elevator was waiting for me on the ground floor and I entered. I managed to find the button for the seventh floor amidst the multiple layers of urban art, and depressed it. The car slowly rattled up, shaking loudly. I feared that it was going to give way at any moment and crash down, leaving me abandoned, helpless upon the ground, the scavengers soon helping themselves to my belongings, the perverts surely violating me.

  The elevator came to a halt on the seventh floor and the doors opened. I came into view of a young girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated on the darkened hallway floor opposite the elevator. She was bathed in filth and rottenness. Her glazed eyes contemplated me and no attempt was made to hide the needle positioned in her left hand.

  Then the stench hit me.

  I wanted to vomit.

  It was very bad, the unmistakable reek of death.

  "You come about 7A?" the girl slurred, drool commingling with the white curds of foam that had accumulated in the corners of her sore ridden mouth. "She's dead in there. Ya smellit? And she got twins, two babies, but they ain't cried no more."

  I looked at her pitifully. "How long has it smelled like this?" I asked.

  "Dunno … long … time." She shut her eyes and passed out, her hand still firmly gripping the needle like a napping child holding its bottle.

  Room 7A. Three doors to the right. I moved sluggishly down the hall, the violent stink of death thick, assaulting my senses in such a way that I could taste it. Oh, something seemed different, it felt very wrong, and I feared for the worst as I, step by step, came closer to the door of death.

  My career in the force has yielded me the misfortune of death first hand on a few occasions, but this was different, a death that was meant for me to experience; to hold, touch, and caress. To feel the cold within, to live the rest of my life with this moment of death as my brother, my personal agony, my obsession.

  My 11:11.

  I placed my right hand on the knobless metal door and pushed. Locked. I knocked. No answer. With no other alternative, I pulled out my gun and stood a few f
eet back. Shaking nervously, I fired at the lock. The shot reverberated throughout the tenement like the National Anthem at a ball game. I looked around and saw that no one had come to investigate from their rooms. Gunshots are commonplace here and decidedly ignored by those behind the safety of locked doors.

  I placed my left hand on the door and pushed.

  Still warm from my gunshot, it creaked open.

  It was at this moment that I recalled what the teen-age junkie in the hall had said.

  “She got twins. Babies.”

  What was I going to find? Three dead bodies, one big one and two little ones; small humans, sprawled, decaying next to their mother's body, their futile quest for love and nourishment long abandoned, willingly turning to death as a means for quietude?

  I readied my gun although I knew that all crimes here had already been long committed. I looked around. The apartment was in complete disarray, but burglary could not be assumed for most living quarters in the tenement looked like this. The living area was devoid of the source of the smell, leaving me just one more room in the tiny flat.

  I grasped my stomach and stopped to choke back a second wave of nausea as the syrupy fetor of rotting death violated my senses even further.

  I needed to get this over with and go on with my life.

  Trying to ignore the thick aroma filling my lungs, I walked three steps to the doorless frame of the bedroom and went inside.

  First I saw the feet. Two milky pedals protruding from the far side of the bed, the toes black and green from decomposition; the remainder of the body was hidden from view. One step closer revealed more of the corpse, up to the calves. Another step, blackened knees. One more, death white thighs, swollen and discolored in blotches. The body appeared to be nude.

  Then, I heard something.

  On the floor, in hiding with the upper half of the torso, a whimper.

  I stopped, afraid to investigate further. My heart stammered, and I prayed for peace of mind after this was all over. I listened. Quiet. Utter silence. I convinced myself that it was an envisioned sound, an unrealistic, subconscious hope for life amid death.

  But it was not my imagination, nor unrealistic, for I heard it again and recalled for the second time that the woman had twin babies. Could they still be alive?

  I held my breath and walked around the side of the bed to view the rest of the body.Shock gripped me and held on tight as the sight before me nightmared its way into my line of vision and toyed with any residuum of sanity I had left. An anomaly so bizarre, so grotesque, I had trouble deciding if it was an act of God or the work of the Devil.

  The woman lay dead, the pale white of her skin scourged with patches of black and green. Six bullet holes riddled her upper chest, their circumferences spreading wide with decomposition. Her mouth and eyes were open, a last emotion of fear forever frozen in time.

  Nestled at her side were her babies, their faces and bodies splattered in many shades of red.

  Still alive.

  At that dreadful moment one of the babies crawled atop the body and began to suckle one of the gunshot wounds in its parent's chest, burrowing its entire mouth and nose into the diseased flesh. The dead woman's breasts were flattened and pale, devoid of all nutrition.

  The other turned its head and contemplated me with blackened eyes, and I could see, feel only despair and insanity impressed on the babe's blood stained face.

  Dear God, it was all too obvious to me. The nurslings survived by feeding on their dead mother's blood.

  I radioed for help. Immediately after, I vomited.

  ~ * ~

  Paramedics attended to the babies while police and detectives questioned, answered, and contemplated.

  A paramedic walked by me and I grabbed his leg. He looked down at me, a surprised look on his face.

  "How long?" I asked.

  "Excuse me?"

  "How long has she been dead?"

  "Well …" he said, "I can't say for sure right now, but it looks like a week to ten days."

  I never mentioned that I had witnessed the infants' act of survival instinct. The mystery remains to everyone as to how they survived all that time.

  The following day, the Captain sat me in his office for questioning regarding my find. I seated myself in front of his desk, prepared for a tedious session of detective formalities and paperwork, anticipating his first question and my answer for it.

  "At about what time were you called to investigate?" he asked.

  "11:11."

  The Alley Man

  It was summer and twilight was fading beyond the skyline of the city. Lester wandered into the alley, lungs reaching for air, frayed boots challenging puddles thicker than stew. The world behind him quickly drifted away--the people who brushed by him, the cars that glided by him, the subway trains that awoke him so many times like thunderstorms in the middle of the night.

  He stopped and cautiously scanned the area ahead. Long and dark, the alley emulated a looming, forbidden place…a mouth that wanted to swallow him whole. On each side, abandoned buildings towered into the dark star-lit sky, the shattered glass from broken windows high above scattered beneath his feet and beyond. The dead end, only slightly visible in the dull gray moonlight, merged the two opposing structures, creating a menacing impasse to the narrow passage, like the throat of a giant monster. A small green dumpster, mottled with graffiti and jagged patches of rust, hunkered in the far left corner.

  Firming his grip on the worn duffle bag he held, Lester set his sights on the dumpster. With no trash overflowing, the reek was bearable; he’d smelled worse in the past. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad place to spend the night?

  He reached the rear of the alley and noticed a small crevice--about two feet wide--between the dumpster and the wall. Perfect, he thought. It’s just perfect. From here, most of the City’s ambience was absorbed into the porous night. It always amazed Lester how peacefully quiet it got between a pair of tall buildings.

  “Hey...you...out...there...” The voice was deep and gravely, not loud but carrying a distinct tremor that suggested its owner was angry--that Lester might be invading space.

  Lester took a step back, squinted, listened intently. A steady breathing whispered out from the lightless area between the dumpster and the wall. Sensing a pair of eyes on him, Lester tightened his grip on his duffle bag.

  “You be tresspassin’ on pravit’ property!" shot the voice, a little louder than before. Lester brought the bag up and hugged it to his chest with two hands, just in case this sudden and unanticipated encounter turned aggressive. In the distance, the wails of police sirens leaked into the quiet of the alley.

  “Where are you?” Lester asked warily.

  “This is my home...so you gots to get outta here...” The voice trailed off into a series of sickly gasps and wheezes.

  Lester craned his neck, tried to peer further into the shadowy corner. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he was able to make out the blurred form of someone crouching down. “I’m...I’m just looking for a place to sleep. I’m very tired.” He hoped the mysterious dweller wouldn’t give him a hard time. This was a “good” alley--quiet, not too smelly, and barely occupied. Most of the alleys in the city were overcrowded and downright disgusting. He would probably get a rare good night’s sleep here.

  Lester pressed his right hand against the rear brick wall and bobbed his head slightly back and forth in attempt to glimpse the alley man, but darkness still shrouded the unknown inhabitant. He then hunkered down and nestled himself in the opposite corner, eyes glued to the dark crevice. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, there was a shuffling, and from amidst damp gloom, a figure emerged.

  It appeared to Lester that the alley man had spent a great deal more time on the streets than his own four months. Like Lester, his clothes were tattered and torn. But they were much dirtier, layered upon his body like oily rags atop a service station pump. There wasn’t the slightest hint of skin beneath the filth on his face
. His hair was a mess of tangled strands. He coughed and a thick stream of mucous shot from his nose into the thatch of moustache and beard covering his mouth.

  “You got a name?” the bum gurgled, leaning forward, examining Lester wide-eyed, as if he were an oddity.

  “Lester.” He pressed back, repulsed at the unsightliness of the vagrant. “You?”

  The tattered vagrant was silent, eyes darting back and forth between Lester’s face and the duffle bag. “Jyro...”

  “Huh?”

  “The name’s Jyro!” He coughed and something purled in his throat, but thankfully nothing showed. “So whattya so quiet about, Lester?”

  “Nothing, I...” Nervous, he turned his head away to face the distant street.

  Jyro shuffled on his knees, inches away from Lester. Lester could smell God-awful breath on him, a repugnant mixture of whiskey and something rotten. “What’s your story?” Jyro asked.

  “My story?”

  “Yeah, what’s brought you down?”

  Lester took heed and swallowed hard, half afraid, half nauseated. Perhaps it would be best to talk. No telling what the alley man might do. “Well, I...I used to be a doctor. Up until about a year ago, that is.”

  Jyro let out a half-laugh, half-snort sound. A little more ”stuff” flew out, this time from his mouth. His grunts of amusement quickly skewed into a labored cough.

  “Really, I was...” Lester shook his head with frustration.

  Jyro stopped hacking, took a few moments to catch his breath. “How long you been on the streets?”

  “Four months.”

  “Ha! A newcomer! Welcome to Hell!” Jyro took his sleeve and wiped the spittle from his mouth.

  “You?” asked Lester.

  Jyro cut off his laughter almost immediately. His eyes bulged wildly. “Nine years, Lester. Nine years on the street...but your story first!” Again he leaned forward. “What’s brung you down?”