Writings From The Grave

On the outside one may see a normal person, not suspecting one that conceives the dark, tormented picture of macabre that would reflect the unsheltered surroundings that one had been exposed to. But they cannot see the horrors that are within the human mind, nor the thoughts that would birth the killings of Charles Manson or John Wayne Gacy -- Gacy, one that was considered a model citizen, but they could not see that he was truly the face of evil. In the eyes of a man that would be tainted most of his life, and religion would try to have an influence on him -- there are things that are often said.
      Whatever is pure, noble, or praiseworthy; think upon these things -- in the eyes of one’s peers, the thoughts that are conceived left to be shunned in the eyes of the rest of the population. The things that I write are a reflection of the things that are kept well hidden from the conservative society, and the thoughts that are written would even be molested by even the ones a writer would called his loved ones or the one that was once the signification other. It is the driving thoughts that are distorted and grotesque that would drive the writer to pen a nightmare that would not be seen by the non-intellectual community. The pure and lovely become the nightmares that are left unwritten, unspoken and well tucked away in the shadows. The thoughts of the philosopher are left to be molested in the eyes of a pastor or a preacher.
      In the nightmares that would be tucked away -- are the horrors that would descend into the downward spiral as one would hear about a man throwing his former love into a moving freight train. In the mind of the madman, her words would write into his darkest nightmares as he would sit alone in the pews -- “vengeance is mine saith the Lord.” As he would sit in the pew, the nightmares write again into the deepest shadows of his mind -- trying to drown out the deed that he had done, and sitting next to him is the woman that had killed the mother of three then carved out the infant child from the cold, blood-covered flesh of her victim. She was slaughtered like a human sacrifice of the ancient Aztecs of Mexico.
      The writings from the grave will reveal the deeds that these two had done -- the evil inside, the enemy inside, is not the thing that the preacher will call the Deceiver. The thoughts rape them as a hardcore serial rapist fucking a victim in the ass with a spear gun. The nightmares that haunted them lived a thousand years, but the nightmares were without a face. That as they would repent, the Deity knows that they had lied -- clearly taking a Holy Bible then defecate upon it. The truth of what they had done cries from beyond the dead -- that their ghosts are sitting there, knowing of so many lies that they are saying to the pastor with a crystal meth problem. The lies that they hold taken them inside, foretelling the crimes that they are hiding -- the things that they swear upon the cross, are the thoughts that are fucking them; impregnating the evil that is a reflection that is similar to the killings of Richard Ramerez or Ted Bundy. The spirits that would inhabit their nightmare’s are the writings from the grave -- the countless questions that are haunting them as they would sleep are the darkest shadows that would roam the night skies of Du Page County.
      The nightmares burn their souls as acid injected into their veins. The questions that would be asked in their nightmares are, “Why did you fucking kill me, you’re the ones that should be dead instead!!! You fucking hear me -- I will haunt your soul until Satan will have your lives, God is not going to save a mother fucking murder. I have a message from Him, and he said that you are born to burn. These are the fucking first days of your last.”
      They had awakened in horror and went to the kitchen to find a knife -- the one that had murdered the woman in Addison, Illinois, had taken the knife to her own wrists. At her kness was a Bible, and she was naked from the waste down -- she began to take a shit on the first page of the Gospel of John as she began to bleed. Her last words were, “FUCK YOU GOD!!” The police came about an half hour later, but she wasn’t quite dead -- they came in to a picture that was about as disturbing as the crime scenes taken from the Manson Family murders in Los Angles. In blood were the words, “dog ouy kcuf” written upon the walls in the kitchen -- she then carved a pentagram upon her stomach and it wasn’t the one that was used in Wicca. They then found a Holy Bible that was covered in feces -- her eyes were still open and she was chanting out an ancient Sumarian prayer and had a symbol from the Necromicon drawn on the cover of the sacred book, it was the symbol of the seventh gate -- which was the third rite of Chtulhu.
      The Glendale Heights police had heard of similar cases of Satanism before because of Bloomingdale Police Department was investigating a homicide that was connected to a human sacrifice -- a ritualistic murder. They had found a map of Du Page County with an upside down cross drawn on it -- it was starting from Roselle to Naperville, Illinois.
      They had to recruit a horror writer to study the patterns of the killings -- they gave the writer, Nicholaus Andrew Pacione, the pictures of the crime scenes to see if there was a pattern to the ritualistic horror that happened in a three year time span starting in October of 1987 to the year of 1990. They were thinking that Pacione had an idea about how the crimes were taking place. “Pacione, we know that you write about things of this nature, and we were wondering if you can make out these pictures out -- the other pictures were provided by the Naperville Police, Bloomingdale Police, and the Du Page County Sheriff. The images that were found on the crime scene were diplicted to the celebration of Candlemas, a pagan holiday in February. We are suspecting that these crimes were that of a murder cult, one that had used the Necronomicon for their spiritual guidence.”
      “Officer Freedman, I will have to take a closer look at these pictures. Holy fuck -- I was quite afraid of this, this is something that was taken out of my rough drafts. About five months ago my rough drafts had been stolen from my locker in Glenbard North -- I don’t know how they were stolen, but the crimes that are taken place are straight out of my direct research of the occult and of my correspondence to a true crime writer out in Tacoma, Washington. Do you think that I can call her? I am asking as your best friend?” Nicholaus states to the police officer, “Steve, trust me on this -- and do you think that I can mail copies of your findings to her.”
      “Nik, if it can help our case, I am all for it. I have been a member of homocide since 1983, and I had never came across crimes this brutal. As a kid, I grew up in a small Minnesota town, but I heard horror stories on the news in the Twin Cities about murders -- I never thought that Du Page County would have murders that are so grosteque and disturbing, I cannot begin to describe the details. It is something that would only come out of the fiction that you would write. I am only 26 years old and have a son that is 14 years old; I never was prepared for the gang related murders and bizarre murders that would happen in Glendale Heights. I only pray to God that I don’t find a body that had been disembowelled or dismembered, but that all changed when I got the pictures from the murder of that woman in Addison, Illinois.
      The way that she had been just brutalized -- strangled while she was being raped, and the murderer had been cutting her open while he was fucking her, the murder turned out to be an African American woman in her late 20s. It frightens me how one would truly do such a deed.” Officer Freedman had said while giving me the go ahead to call Roxanne Edwardson, an aspiring true crime writer.
      “Steve, I lived in Du Page and Schamburg most of my life -- gangs are a factor anywhere in Du Page County.“ I said while dialing out to Tacoma.
      “Roxanne, I had some pictures to show you -- how fast can you get to Chicago. When you get out here, book a hotel room in Joliet and call the Glendale Heights Police Department. The homocide unit recruited me to help them with the investegation because the murders are mirroring the content in my manuscripts. How soon can catch the next plane to O’Hare Airport. Steve will be joining me in Joliet.” Steve was shaking his head to me, “Steve your going -- Joliet had said that something had some murders that are equally as bizarre as what happened in. Get into a pair of jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a flannel shirt then put on your hiking boots -- trust me, you can keep your gun in the back of your jeans. Your Lt. had giving you the okay to make this trip and he has given me a gun too, I am also armed with a knife because I know what I am up against in Joliet. Come on -- we got to get to Glen Ellyn Station.”
      Steve had put on an oversized flannel and black jeans, I was dressed in mostly black clothing -- and had some jewelery on. My shirt had kept a .22 pistol hidden from plain site. The ride into the city was long and Steve had many questions. “Nik, what made you want to become a horror writer? I know that this is a deep question, and while I was in college, I too wanted to become a writer -- I have some of my writings with me. I also have a curiosity for the occult like you, but I became a police officer because of the things that I had seen in college were quite disturbing -- my roommate was found dead, they said that he was suffocated with his own pillow. When I came into the room and I thought he was sleeping, I tried to wake him up and his body was cold to the touch -- later found that he had a cut from one side of his neck to the other.”
      It was quiet most of the way -- he had said nothing much after that. He sort of knew that the writings from the grave are a dark prophecy, one that would later speak of a being that was lurking in the dark of the Joliet Union Station. It was without a face and walked the station only at night. When Steve and I had seen this thing, we pulled out our guns and began to fill the fucker full of slugs. “What the fuck is this thing, it is just keep coming at us. Do you have any silver bullets -- I am saying this because it has a strong odor to it, the odor of slow decay. It has the mind of Charles Manson, but smelled like the decay that is beneath the basement of John Wayne Gacy.”
      By the time that we got to the hotel in Joliet, we were too late because we found Roxanne all right -- her body had been wrapped in a sheet and duct taped like a mummy. She was still alive, but barely because her skin was cool to the touch -- the only part of her that was exposed was her face up to her eyes. They had her hanging from her feet upside down. Whe we tried to cut her loose, she flopped once like a fish and then she wasn’t moving anymore. “Nik, call the fucking ambulance -- she is still breathing and has a pulse, but she is baring awake. Her eyes are closed and she is badly shaken -- I am going to try to untie her and put some clothes on her, she looked like that she had been raped and someone had forced a knife across her wrists. This is too much -- it is like one of your stories and one of her crime articles.”
      She was mumbling something -- it sounded like the name of her attacker. We had stayed with her until the Joliet Police arrived, then we had picked up a blanket from the floor and had her lay down across the bed -- Steve managed to get a dress on her and I managed to get some socks and some boots on her feet, but we did the best that we can not to tamper with the crime scene. After we managed to get her fully dressed, I covered her up with a thick blanket. There was a pentagram on a mirror and a cryptic message on there, it was written in cat’s blood. It referred to the burning of 100 people inside of an idol made of straw, it was a ritual on Samhain -- it was accompanied with a tarot card of a hanged man, Roxanne was hanging in a similar fashion from the ceiling. All of this did not make sense, but the horrors that were keyed together were a nightmare that one either a true crime writer or a horror writer cannot key together because the details were beyond the eyes of madness -- or the nightmares within the writings from the grave.