For there are many tales of ghosts, but there is only one that really crosses my mind for many years -- perhaps as long as one could remember. The tale which I will recall was told to me by a stranger I met on a subway as I picked up this journal. The stranger explained the journal to me, how it belonged to a girl whose ghost still inhabits the subway -- the girl was walking off on the wrong side of the tracks. The side where two gangs were in the middle of a gang war -- she did not know what exactly was going on. She was not from that area, and decided to walk in the midst of the gun fire. Quite unfortunate on her account, because where she was is one of the most dangerous area’s in Cook County. The newspapers say it was ignorance what murdered her -- to her friends -- she was known as Xzena. She died in Cicero right before her 20th birthday on February 29th -- the day she died apparently triggered a series of mysteries all left unexplained and unsolved in the eyes of the police, but a few have seen the apparition in the subway looking for her journal since she has something written about a murder in her native land. I slowly opened the journal to reveal an unspoken cry for help -- the entry was about how she fled to Chicago to get away from the horror. She witnessed a serial killer who murdered her parents using a military rifle shooting them both in their mouth.

The killer left behind this cryptic writing on a sheet of paper -- “Time is the only thing that holds firmly while other thoughts will decay within the shadows.” One would surely say that this serial killer is poetic -- the mentality of Norman Bates, but poetic. Xzena writes on how the killer took both her parents and buried them in their basement -- apparently he was a copycat to the Chicago based murderer, John Wayne Gacy. The sickening thought was that he made her watch him kill and bury her parents in the basement. Then he went after her brother taking him to the butcher shop and walled him in the freezer -- all that Quintien could hear was the devilish laughter as he realizes that he was helpless with the ducktape on his eyes and handcuffed to a meathook on the wall as psycho slowly tortures him to death by cementing each brick into place making a coffin around him with the bricks. The horror one experiences as I continue to read on in her journal -- she describes the killer having a tattoo on his left eye for each of the victims he murdered, a gang member. This gang member was nothing described by the police -- he did not go with the rest of his gang since he was far more insane. He looked at his murderers as works of art signing one of them “S Red Rum Na Tas.”

One would say that this murderer has a hideous sense of humor or a perverse view of the arts. Signing his name in the witches language -- perhaps one observes the killers patterns he will see that he has no intent in his killings and kills at random. Each time he kills he takes a photograph of the victims and posts them up somewhere on the Internet. The morbid thought of this would make one very ill to think about it. the reason for one to do such an act is unexplained -- but the apparition in the subway appears as a cry for help in form of Tarot Cards in the journal. The super natural message appears written in the journal of the girl who was slain for reason. The reality of it is as strange as a black rose blooming in the middle of a cold, gloomy winter. The markings on the floor appear in form of a baphomet in the middle of the train, as if a cult had a practice of devil worship in the middle of the subway -- one notice this and was speechless, a horror beyond human understanding. The account of the stranger was tied together somehow -- perhaps all this was told to me for some reason -- a reason I cannot explain for certain. This thought in my mind is of an unspeakable evil -- this surely was unspeakable in my eyes. For question one will always ask as one continuous to see the image of Xzena’s murder on the wrong side of the tracks. the horror becomes a reality as one could see her body cold an lifeless haying right on the rail road tracks along the Burlington North Line with the signature, “S Red Rum Na Tas.”

I was walking along where the murder took place and I pick up this cloth which looked like a cape. This was draped near a cemetery about two blocks away from the train station -- perhaps where the artist buried his works of art after he photographed the corpses along with a chest full of old articles. The articles spoke of the British Columbia murders in full detail. I preyed open the chest to see what else was hidden in the chest -- inside the chest it was full of police reports dating from December 25, 1982 from the Christmas murders about the serial artist. Apparently he used to work for the police department before he went on his rampage -- he snapped after doing a sketch on a satanic murder ritual -- then he went after one of the nurses. He had a history of murders before he joined the police force -- killing all his teachers in his old high school, one he carved out the entire circulatory system and kept it as a trophy.

The hideous history that remains as one slowly walks on the wrong side of the tracks -- the sound of the gunfire conceals what real horror one knows beyond the streets of Chicago. The story continues to be told of Xzena’s ghost which roams on the wrong side of the tracks, which keeps the fear company of the unknown streets and the hunting ground of the serial artist. I notified the police to keep an eye out for the signature “S Red Rum Na Tas.” In the mean time, I went to the library. I needed some answers so I searched for books on Satanism and case studies tied together with the murders in Vancouver, BC. As I was reading this, a ghost exist but the reality is for certain that they do, This apperation was trying to say something on the sheet of paper. Something cryptic perhaps somewhere in the shadows foretelling the unsolved mystery in this horrifying web of intrigue.

I observed this very closely -- writing everything down as I see it. The apparition was scribing a message into a sheet of paper -- I sit there in shock as I recall this event calmly, asking myself the question “Why is this ghost coming to me for help?” Is there something in my dreams tied to her death?” the Erie reality keeps replaying in my mind as one could witness something of this nature. A sermon from beyond the grave as I sit here in the library calmly reading what she wrote, as my heart continues to race as I cannot accept the fact that ghosts are a reality. The ghost’s cryptic appeared in form of a type of writing, that would appear to come for a typewriter..

“I have seen many horrors thought the shadows of time” For this horror time stands surely still. In my afterlife, there are many horrors that are not forgotten -- the murders that I have witnessed. An artist who practice murder as an art form -- a serenity in madness within the shadows. The chanting that is left to be heard by the children as I watch them praying in the grave yard, as they hear screams of murder coming from the House of Nior. The slow trobbing as one holds the gun up to my parents as they lay asleep in their bed and the will to pull the trigger. All I was able to hear was the evil sounds of laughter coming from my parents room -- followed by a deafening blast from the shotgun.

I went to talk to the police as soon as I rushed out the back door -- my fear was starting to quicken as I could hear the breathing with in the night. I was horrified by my sight as I saw the police officer dismembered in front of the Vancouver Police Department. He was left to rot in a bloody mess on the street. I felt at this time which was frozen in fear as I spotted a signature “S Red Rum Na Tas” Apparently he’s been there already -- my heart was racing as the nightmare occurred. All that was left of the Police Department were skeletons without flesh crucified in front of the church starting to burn along with the priests still alive on the crosses. The person on the cross was muttering a prayer under his breath. They were called the martyrs on the wrong side of the tracks since they were cult also burned down the church as well.

Now I ask of you, whom ever shall read this you must stop this mad man -- he may still be on the rampage. For the sake of your life -- please stop him.

Xzena Rheta.

I took the letter to the police department -- I showed this letter to the chief of police. He laughed and told me to fuck off before they were going to throw me in jail. I pulled out the journal I found in the subway -- showing them the photographs that appear on the case in Vancouver relating to the hideous extictions of the entire police department. They examined the journal -- they took the signature to a mirror which it reads “Satan murders.” I asked if I could speak to the chaplain and they directed me to the police chaplain. I showed him the journal because he would have been the only one who would understand what I am saying -- but he explained that the murderous psychopath used to be a police artist until he joined the occult and practice witchcraft. The power that he tapped into, took control of him and killed his soul -- cursing him with the art of murder. His curse kept living on the wrong side of the tracks -- with his lust for murder continued to get stronger.

The police went all out looking for this murderer -- only to return with a large body count. The horror one tries to destroy for his next victim within the shadows forever stalking on the wrong side of the tracks.

One cannot surely explain the mystery within the darkness or the horror one has seen in the streets. The signature one still remembers all too clearly of the serial artist in the shadows who is the one stalking on the wrong side of the tracks near the Burlington North Line -- the cryptic writings in blood along the rails each one was a symbol showing the signs foretelling the seasons in the abyss. One can see the tell tale horror -- the horror that is far beyond description. The fear slowly creeps in one’s heart as this thought crosses my mind -- a thought of where the stranger told me of the gang fight, on this spot. The place had a pentagram right where I stand, was an evil that had no boundaries. A shadow appeared in the darkness which bears no reflection -- a vampire perhaps. The vampire had a tear drop on his eye and was carrying a gun -- as he appeared, the voices in the shadow chanted, “Su Noij.”

I kept hearing the unholy sound of gunfire -- as I turn to look where the police department was, right where I was standing. As they arrived I kept thinking about the message “Su Noij.” For many things one doesn’t understand, but many remain to be unexplained on the wrong side of the tracks.

4-21-97 Glendale Hts, Illinois
1997 Writings From The Grave
may be reproduced by kind written permission.

This is the letter that I have sent out to Elizabeth Miami.