A blog owned by a man-skeleton with a monkey brain.
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To celebrate my blog’s latest milestone – 500 unique visitors, wow! – I’ve decided to create a Discord server. You’re all welcome to join. I’m sure the people there are friendly and won’t destroy you via inter-necromancy.
Link to the Discord server: https://discord.gg/vDvfAPSX
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I don’t remember when my Father last told me, “I love you.” But I do know it was years before he died. It was definitely after he sat me down and explained that the law didn’t require him to love me. He only needed to feed me, shelter me, and provide for my education; if I wanted his love, I would have to earn it every day. But it must’ve been before our final conversation. That consisted of him announcing he regretted being my father because of how much of a failure I turned out to be. He clarified that it was now impossible for me to earn his love.
This piece has been a hard one to write. Its conception predates this blog by many years. But until recently, I wasn’t brave enough to see it through to completion, much less publication. I was scared of how my Father would react when he was still alive. Then, after his death, I was afraid of how my family would react. I decided this essay wasn’t worth writing, that I wasn’t abused (or if I was, it wasn’t bad enough to warrant mention.)
Time doesn’t heal all wounds but teaches us how to accommodate the lingering pain. It has taught me how to accept what happened to me. This is a partial record of how my Father abused me.
My Father often told me his proudest accomplishment was not abusing me, which is what his father did to him. This is true: his father was a notable child abuser in 1960s Boston, where parents never spared the rod. But my Father had other ways to hurt me. His words were his whippin’ stick, and my psyche was his target.
He had many ways to hurt me, and he often displayed a sense of gleeful joy when he thought he had discovered a new tactic. Listing all his rhetorical tools would be a waste of time and too hard to be worthwhile. My mind doesn’t like to remember the things he said. It will take me to the precipice of various moments. Still, then I get a headache if I push on to the moment of emotional injury. But I’ll try to give some illustrative examples.
When I was young, my father would describe his fantasies of abandoning me. He never had a chance to live the life he wanted: chronic and crippling health problems left him a shell of himself. He saw his family as emblematic of his failure and wished he could be rid of us. He would tell me how he’d go about abandoning us. He had everything figured out; he just needed a miracle cure for his ailments.
When I was in second grade, I was diagnosed with ADHD and Autism. This was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it opened up avenues for treatment that I needed if I was ever to integrate into society. But, on the other hand, it vindicated my Father’s belief that I was his inferior. No matter what I accomplished, he would never admit I was smarter than him or even intelligent. When my grades slipped in middle school for various reasons, my Father labeled me a “retard.” He had kept some of his old report cards from before he got sick and would love to compare his grades to mine. Over time, “retard” turned to “useless,” then words turned into slaps and smacks. I began throwing away my report cards so my Father would find ways to get them directly from the school.
I first attempted suicide in my junior year of high school. My Father – as far as I know – never knew what happened to me was intentional. But, of course, he learned about my mental health issues. He had to pay for my therapy, after all, a fact which irked him to no end. He grew increasingly paranoid about what I was telling my therapist. So my Father threatened to murder my therapist if he felt I was sharing things ‘best kept in the family.” My therapists were also Jewish, which further intensified his paranoia. He grew more anti-Semitic. This culminated in outbursts calling Jesus “a Jew who deserved to die.” Of course, when he found out I was an atheist – which he learned from reading my journal – he was very hurt.
In my senior year of high school, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. During my college years, my Father grew bitter at how much it cost me to attend. So he would try and guilt-trip me into killing myself. At first, I thought this was just some dark humor on his part. But as the years went on, he would grow more insistent, and his mockery grew even more venomous. This is when I first realized he stopped saying he loved me.
Did my Father actually stop loving me? Did he even love me in the first place? I don’t know the answer to these questions, and I don’t know if I want to know. My Father was not instructed in how to love people by his parents. Though they might’ve thought they did, I don’t think they loved him. My father described some of what they did to him, and people who love you don’t treat you that way. But I also know that people don’t tell people they love that, “I wish you’d just kill yourself already.”
Yet I remember other times when he’d show me great warmth. These happened too often to all be faked. Maybe I am giving him too much credit, but I believe he loved or wanted to love me. That’s what hurts the most about his abuse: he wanted to be a good father, and what resulted was the best he could do. The rage and resentment inside him ate all that was good in his soul until it rotted.
It’s at this point in my reflections on my childhood and my Father that I grow both sad and angry. I am sorry because I wish my Father never had to suffer the way he did. I am angry because I hate that I still think about him as much as I do. So much of my abuse was my Father resenting that I didn’t fixate on his needs, his problems, his wants. I never helped him enough, no matter how much I tried to. Even now, years after his death, I’m incapable of dwelling on the hurt he inflicted on me. I always end up focusing on the hurt he suffered.
Why am I writing this now? I am in my thirties; my Father has been dead for almost a decade. These things that I have described happened in the past. Why can’t I move on?
I only cried once in the immediate aftermath of my Father’s death. It came a few days after his passing and a couple of days before the funeral. I wasn’t sad that he died, so much as I was sorry we didn’t reconcile before it happened. Before his death, I had always held up hope that I would be able to patch things up with him. Now, this was impossible, and the last thing he said to me was that he didn’t love me. To make matters worse, I was expected to give the eulogy.
There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth at my Father’s funeral. He was a popular and beloved man, with many people appreciating his kindness and sense of humor. Most people didn’t know what he was like in private. They didn’t know how much he resented everyone around him and assumed they were plotting against him. A German phrase – isn’t there always – refers to people like my father: Strass-Engel, Haus-Teufel. “Street Angel, House Devil.” My Father was a people-pleaser as long as he thought those people were outside his control. I was the one person he knew he controlled, and he enjoyed that power to its maximum extent.
Control was what my Father wanted most out of life. He felt beholden and inferior to everyone around him, including my mother, who was both his nurse and wife. Before he died, he clarified his feelings towards her by calling her “an investment.” Perhaps that was all anyone around him was: investments. He would pay them in kindness; they would help him as needed. But he didn’t have to repay me in kindness; I was somebody he had control over and had the right to dominate as he saw fit.
My Father still controls me. Even now, his words ring in my mind. Whenever I make a mistake, I can hear him calling me “useless,” “stupid,” or “retarded.” Many of the phrases I use when suffering from a bout of suicide ideation originate from him. Hell, many of my intrusive thoughts – especially the offensive ones – started as things he said when alone. I keep my pain bottled up: I haven’t seen a therapist in years. The full extent of his abuse was always our little secret, something “best kept in the family.” I’ve continued to respect his wishes long after he was around to enforce them.
My Father comes to me in my nightmares. He appears to remind me how disappointed he is in me and to tell me how it should’ve been me who died, not him. Sometimes, I try to fight back, but it’s no use. There is nothing I can do to hurt him, and he simply laughs at me when I try. He is beyond life’s sufferings; he just gets to inflict it now. I suppose that is what he always wanted.
I don’t know if writing this will help me. Posting it probably won’t. If this gets back to my family, I doubt they’ll appreciate why I’m saying these things. The last time I tried to bring up my Father’s abuse to my Mother, she shut it down by saying, “Your father did nothing wrong.” She doesn’t understand. The only people who do are a few of my friends. They know the pain I went through. Maybe now I do, too.
For my first thirty-one years, I spoke to myself with my Father’s voice. I hated myself for the reasons he wanted me to. I’ve sabotaged myself the ways he tried to sabotage me. I’ve tried to live according to impossible standards. As a child, I wanted to be perfect because I thought my Father would compliment me if I were perfect. I now see that this has brought me only pain and suffering. I think I’ve suffered enough according to my Father’s demands; I know I’ve suffered enough to satisfy myself. It’s time I start living my life better and healthier. Do I know what that looks like? Absolutely not. But it’ll be too late to turn things around if I don’t start figuring them out now. I’m too old to be an abused child. I’m too old to speak in my father’s voice. It’s time I spoke with my voice, both to myself and others. It’s time I was who I wanted to be.
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Welcome to Year Zero.
President Trump announced his new tariff plan two days ago. It will go into effect tomorrow. The world’s economists, corporate executives, and stock brokers hope that Trump backs down. He won’t. Donald Trump is a coward – as all bullies are – but a persistent coward. Being a billionaire, he has lived his entire life with reality agreeing to warp itself to his whims. Why would he expect this time to be any different?
What does Trump actually expect? I don’t know, and I doubt anyone knows. He is so stupid that there is a qualitative difference in thought between us and him. I cannot put myself in the mindset of such a dullard, and I doubt you can, either. His understanding of basic history is more wrong than wrong. Never mind more complicated subjects such as American tariffs. We have placed an illiterate hunk of wet, fetid flesh at the head of our empire, and now we are paying the price.
Despite claims to the contrary, this is not the end of the American empire, not by a long shot. But it is the end of the age of absolute American hegemony in world affairs. We are now cutting ourselves from the free trade network that upheld our prosperity. Yes, there were issues with that world system, which resulted in economic dysfunction. But you must view those trade deficits as tribute paid by lesser states to the imperial hegemony.
When Rome began to expand beyond Italy, Latium lost the ability to support itself. The yeoman farmers of old lost out to vineyards and estates that produced luxuries. The city had grown too large for the old small farms to feed it and had to import grain from Egypt. After its conquest of India, Great Britain could no longer feed itself. The metropole becomes a consumer, dependent on the hinterland to produce for it. America is the metropole, and the world is our hinterland.
Is this sustainable? Not in the long run, but in the long run, we are all dead. We could have adopted a sensible solution by carefully dissolving our world empire. We could have maintained a prominent position among the nations. It also would’ve fought climate change (America’s consumption plays a significant role). But we are not taking this seriously. I’m sure Trump and his brain trust think they are, but they are fundamentally unserious people. They are self-parodies who, by their very existence, prove how stupid their beliefs are. So, instead of addressing present concerns, we retreat into a past that never existed.
Trump calls the period from roughly 1880 to 1913 America’s “Golden Age.” He thinks that by returning to a replica of the government as it was then, we will Make America Great Again.
But there’s a reason we call that period the Gilded Age. It fucking sucked shit for everybody who wasn’t a Rockefeller or a Morgan. The average American lived on $377 a year in 1914 ($12,030 adjusted for inflation). This is well below the current poverty line of $15,650. Things look better if you exclude farm workers, who struggled hard in this period. Excluding farmers, the average worker earned $573 a year ($18,284 after inflation). Wow, that’s above the poverty line! It also puts America’s per capita GDP in the Gilded Age between modern Bulgaria and Bhutan. (The average industrial laborer had to work roughly 60 hours a week to earn that much.)
Let’s not forget how safe the workplaces of the Gilded Age were. In these glorious pre-OSHA days, you risked life and limb every time you clocked in. Let’s review some statistics again since I know my readers love that. Every year, the average railroad worker had a 3% chance of suffering a maiming injury or death. Let’s assume this chance is consistent throughout their career (i.e., every year brings a 3% of getting fucked up.) The average railroad worker began his career at age 18. By age 52, the odds of them having endured at least one significant injury – or flat-out dying – would be 100%. There was also no such thing as workers compensation, and health insurance was in its infancy.
Of course, workers didn’t take this lying down. They fought for their rights: a safe workplace, better wages, and the right to unionize. In response, the government and the robber barons mowed them down en masse. No less than 500 strikes were put down with the force of local or national troops. One example is the 1914 strike against the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company. John D. Rockefeller paid Colorado National Guardsman to attack the striker’s camp. These soldiers attacked the camp with machine guns and lit the tents on fire while people hid inside. In total, 23 people died, including eight children. The youngest victim: three-month-old Elvira Valdez; the soldiers lit her on fire.
The only people who seek a return to the Gilded Age are the moronic, the deranged, and the greedy. Thankfully, our current President is all three of these. Democratic leaders allow him to staff his cabinet and pass his budget. Thankfully, all the modern robber barons have gone insane from posting. Thankfully, the average Republican believes Trump is a messianic hero.
Where do things go from here? What will the immediate future look like? What about the long-term ramifications of Trump II? I don’t know, but I do know this: neither does anyone else. If somebody insists they have the inside scoop on what happens next, they’re either stupid, lying, or both.
Nobody knows where we’re going, but we’re going somewhere and fast. History is moving again in ways it hasn’t in decades. The old world is dying, and the new world is struggling to be born. Now is the time of monsters.
I have many more things I want to say, but I can’t find the words. It’s hard to conceive of intelligent thoughts in such an unintelligent time. It’s not just that Trump is an imbecile and has staffed his White House with morons. That would be bad enough. But it seems as if everyone has gotten dumber over the last decade or so. Many people blame it on COVID-19, which does cause neurological damage in severe cases. The pandemic has played a role in the enshittification of our minds. Still, it isn’t the actual cause, only a supporting cause. We’ve been getting stupider for a long time now. Imperial decline always begins before you think it does. QANON is only the latest in a family tree of conspiracies. It is the most successful, so much so that it is practically a religion, but it had harbingers. Anti-vaxxing flowed from birtherism, the direct result of Islamophobia, advocated by Clinton-era militiamen. Imperial decline always begins before you notice it. Like a tree, empires rot from the inside out. When the putrid waste starts to dribble into view, it’s too late to save it.
We’re all dumber than we were before… before something. We’re drifting towards an ambient political cruelty. I’m no exception; I get enjoyment out of sending death threats to Elon Musk on his own social media platform. Society is breaking down, but we who are full of despair seek to create a new world through pure violence. We think that we can make a baby by mushing together pieces of viscera into a crude fetus-like shape.
Trump thinks that if he recreates the government of the Gilded Age, then we will become the Gilded Age. To quote the “late, great” Hannibal Lecter:
And if one does what God does enough times, one will become as God is.
Only it won’t work. In the context of the film Manhunter, the one who seeks to become “as God is” is the serial killer Francis Dollarhyde. But Dollarhyde never escapes his reality as a lonely, pathetic monster. Trump’s attempts to become the Gilded Age won’t change our reality. We’re a bloated empire perched on a cliff, looking down towards the bottom and insisting it’s up.
Welcome to Year Zero. Welcome to the new world that slouched towards Bethlehem to be born.
When the Khmer Rouge seized control of Cambodia in 1975, they announced the start of “Year Zero.” Pol Pot insisted creating a “revolutionary” culture required destroying all that existed. Cambodia was to become an agrarian society again, as it was at the start of that nation’s recorded history. The government ordered all books burned and all hospitals and schools closed. All educated professionals not considered essential for the new regime died. The result was the death of one in four Cambodians, making this history’s only self-genocide.
I’ll admit this is an extreme situation to compare modern America to, but I think there’s merit to it. American culture and society feel exhausted as if we have run out of ways to extend their lifespan. We must make fundamental changes to avoid rapid collapse or gradual decay. As far as I see it, two paths are in front of us.
The first is the path advocated by the MAGA movement and the far-right. A path where we respond to decline by embracing purity. Economic purity through tariffs. Military purity through conquest. Moral purity through annihilating gay people. Racial purity through genocide. Like all fascist movements, it seeks a return to the old but can only create something new and far more horrible.
All fascist movements fail; so will MAGA, no matter how much it wins now. It will leave a broken society, one unwilling to change, a culture defined by misanthropy.
But this is not our only option. We can embrace the better angels of our nature and transform society in new and wondrous ways. There would be much pain in the short term as the current order struggles to prevent this. Both paths involve pain, but only one path offers hope. We have all the resources needed for a free society, one where we fulfill our material needs. But more than that, a society where we’re also free of the bosses’ tyranny and the state’s terror. A world where neighbors are collaborators in building something better, not economic rivals.
You know where this is going. Capitalism is dying, and we have two chances before us: socialism or barbarism. No other society in history has been positioned as we are to choose what divine fortune bestows on us. Will we choose the hand that blesses or the hand that curses? Will we take the right-hand path or the left-hand path? None of us individually have the final say, but all of us can choose to fight for one of these outcomes.
I leave it entirely in your hands.
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I recently received a week-long Twitter ban for expressing my hope that Elon Musk would die soon. I want to see his baby mamas tear apart his fortune in endless litigation, like Family Court Diadochi. This wasn’t the first time I got in trouble on that sight for expressing my loathing of its current owner. Since I can’t yell at him through his website, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations on this blog instead. Here, I’m free to explain in detail why I despise this bastard, this vile, rotten billionaire.
I can’t recall the first I heard of Mr. Musk, but I’ve been, at best, suspicious of him for a long time. My hostility towards him started with his role as CEO of SpaceX, of which he also serves as its public face. Privatizing space is one of many issues that concern me more than the average person. Even so, space exploration and colonization are too vital a task to leave to private firms. Firms will chase short-term profit over long-term planning. This is inimical to the very foundations of space exploration. From the start, I knew that Mr. Musk was not the genius that the media in the ’00s and ’10s thought. He was a con man using his vast wealth to make himself appear more important to humanity than he was.
Yet, at the time, my dislike of him was no more intense than that I felt for every other member of the world’s elite. While I never considered him a visionary like many people once did, I assumed he was at least intelligent. His resume had an impressive list of companies: PayPal, SpaceX, and Tesla, among others. His resume had an impressive list of companies, including PayPal, SpaceX, and Tesla. I’ll concede that he was once bright in the general sense of the term; he could seem interesting when he spoke. But if this was ever the case, that time has long passed.
When I look at Musk now, I feel a visceral sense of revulsion that goes beyond the political. He disgusts me in the purest sense of the term. My bowels churn when I see his Innsmouth Look face or Rob Liefeld’s caricature body. I am not exaggerating when I say his visage comes straight from the Uncanny Valley. I worry he’d trigger my lizard brain’s fight-or-flight instinct if I were in a room with him. People mock the shades he wore to his CPAC talk, and they’re right to do so. But at least they hid his eyes, which resemble bags of blood and pus. His skin’s putrid color calls to mind a moldy apple or the thin layer of salmonella slime that coats raw chicken.
It’s no secret why he looks this way, either. It’s not the result of disease or anything that would make me feel bad for this mockery. It’s the result of his alleged frequent mixing of ketamine and amphetamines. Mixing uppers and downers, even taking NyQuil after drinking coffee, wrecks your day. But snorting ketamine and Adderall together is sure to fuck you up.
What is the result of all this drug use? The world’s wealthiest man and co-leader of the United States cannot finish a sentence. Our country is run by a senile dullard (Trump) who is, in turn, “advised” by a man who wouldn’t look out of place in a halfway house. Today alone, Trump supported Musk by buying a Tesla and quoted verbatim from Tesla PR at the ceremony. It’s one thing to know I’m ruled by people dumber than me; it’s another thing that they’re dumber than anyone I know.
Perhaps I’m still being too hard on Musk by mocking him for his drug addictions. I know good people who suffer from this curse and fall into it for various reasons. Some couldn’t handle the stresses of life – no judgment there from me – or drifted into it by accident. Every person with an addiction has their own story, and almost all of them are tragic.
So why did Musk start using drugs? What massive burdens weighed heavily on his soul? As far as I can tell, he started abusing his cocktail of choice because he wanted to post more on Twitter. He couldn’t handle replying to every post by HitlerRapist1488 about evil Wokes. He struggled to retweet posts about “migrant groomers” raping every child in Europe. How stupid must you be to get brain rot from your website? How dumb do you have to be to get tricked by your psyop, your feeding ground for the most degenerate posters?
I suppose that is at the heart of why I hate this bastard so much: he’s so blatantly a moron. He became the power behind the throne – a position once held by evil men, yes, but men of skill -because he posted a bunch.
When I think about Musk’s power, I think of the displacement of feudalism by capitalism. One argument for capitalism was it rewards merit, compared to hereditary nobility. Indeed, this argument seemed accurate for most of the post-1789 era. The Middle Ages saw many incompetent or incapable people handed power due to lineage. But, now liberal capitalism churns out equally pathetic leaders. Look around the world; what do you see? Ascendant fascism rants about imagined slights while dismantling society out of pettiness. Opposing them are centrists who are feckless, incapable of actually performing politics. In the corporate world, the titans of industry obsess over short-term profits. They’re either ripping the copper wiring out or falling prey to scams: the meta-verse, NFTs, and AI. At least the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers patronized the arts and built pretty buildings.
Every time I look at Musk, I think of a quote from the first episode of The Sopranos:
It’s good to be in something from the ground floor. I came too late for that, and I know. But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.
I hate Elon Musk because he reminds me that things will only get worse, and it will be a long time before they get better.
I also hate him because he gives his kids stupid fucking names. “X AE A-12” is not a name you give your son; it sounds like the noise C-3PO makes when he orgasms.
(Forgive me for how rambling this post is. Thinking about Musk for too long gives me a headache.)
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It has been over a week since this blog went live. I’ve received about 84 visitors, about 84 more than I expected. Surprisingly, about 21 visitors were from Belgium and 12 from Saudi Arabia. I can only assume these are bots or people lost on their internet journeys. Let me know in the comments below if you are from either of the two kingdoms mentioned above.
It’s taken me a while to decide what I wanted to post next on The Rattling Skeleton. Sharing my “Career Highlights” was a good way to stall for time, and natural laziness took me even further. But I still haven’t developed something I feel is “worthy” of this blog. I now realize this was my first mistake. Suppose I’m serious about this blog being my archive. In that case, any old mental trash is worthy of the posterity it bestows.
And yet, I still have nothing. I’m struggling to overcome the inertia of depression and the fatigue brought on by anxiety. I have decided to set aside this week to focus on cleaning up some of my life’s literal and metaphorical messes. I have some ideas for topics I want to cover on this blog, but I won’t be able to express them until I clear my mind of cobwebs.
When I return, it’ll be after the start of March. I might have a minor post on current events before then, but I’ll have one of some length afterward.
“How Magic Came to the Cunning Folk” came to me all at once. I found an ad in a magazine requesting submissions in the style of medieval fairy tales. It was late March 2021, and despite official claims that the pandemic was over, the disease was still on my mind. So, as soon as I started writing, I thought of a fairy tale set during a plague and about magical attempts to treat it. I set to work on the main text immediately; I wanted to strike while the iron was hot. Given how short the finished story was, outlining it would’ve been a waste of time.
The story’s explicitly religious nature may strike the reader as strange. Still, it aligns with actual fairy tales, products of an age defined by religion. I looked up the names of Saints that would fit the story(*) and skimmed a few fairy tales to borrow phrases. I finished the story in three hours, and the publication accepted it without edits.
*: The tale of Cyprian and Justina is filled with fantasy elements. Cyprian was a magician before converting. According to their official hagiographies, both performed many miracles.
***
Once upon a time, in the land of shadows, a terrible plague swept through the countryside. Those afflicted suffered terrible boils and pains. It seemed as if everyone who tried to treat them became infected, and entire villages became sick. Scared of succumbing to the disease, the lords hid in their castles. The burgomasters shut the gates to their great walled cities. Left to suffer, the peasants cried out to the heavens for salvation.
Hearing their pleas, the Saints asked God to intervene and save those sick. The Lord agreed and called upon Saints Cyprian and Justina. Bowing to the Heavenly Throne, these saints listened as God commanded them. “Cyprian, in your lifetime, you wrote a brilliant book of spells, which you took to your grave. Go now to the land of shadows with Justina. Disguise yourselves as plague victims and visit the eminent physicians there. The one who agrees to treat you is worthy to receive the book containing a cure for the plague.”
The two Saints left Heaven at once, descending to that part of the land where the plague was worst. Disguising themselves as old beggars infected with the plague, they began their journey. They said to one another, “Come, let us visit the physicians’ college and see if they will help us.”
It is sad to say, but their visit to the college was a grave disappointment. Though they knocked at the school’s entrance for an entire night, nobody answered. It wasn’t until the next day that they overheard a college servant say the school had closed. The doctors had fled to their homes so they wouldn’t have to risk infection by treating the sick. Though disheartened, Saint Justina said, “Come, let us see if the walled city over the hill will let us in and help us.”
They came to the walled city, but nobody answered until after they had knocked all day and night. The Burgomaster announced, “Nobody is to enter the city until the plague has ended. May all the devils curse you for trying to bring the pox upon us!”
Though she wept, Saint Justina said, “Come, I hope the lord across the valley will let us see his physician.”
But they met with even less success at the castle. After knocking at the gates for two entire days, the castle’s men-at-arms shot at them with bows and arrows. The disguised Saints fled the rain of arrows, running through the surrounding woods. They didn’t stop until the next day when they found themselves in the deepest part of the forest.
Unable to find their way out, the Saints became overwhelmed by despair. They wailed and gnashed their teeth. Cyprian resolved that he would destroy his book of spells if they remained lost by nightfall. It was with heavy hearts that the two Saints searched for a way out of the woods. It wasn’t until dusk approached that they found a clearing in the dense forest thicket. But in the center of that clearing, they saw a small hut.
With some trepidation, the two Saints approached the hut. But it opened before they knocked on the door, and an old woman rushed out to greet them. Seeing the advanced state of their sickness, she gestured for them to enter her humble abode. As she set a pot of stew and a kettle of tea atop her oven, she said, “Come and spend the night here. I will gather herbs from the garden to treat those boils.”
That night, the two Saints ate hearty stew and drank comforting tea. While they relaxed after supper, the old woman treated their boils with an unguent. When Cyprian and Justina were finally ready to sleep, the old woman insisted they lay in her cozy bed. The old woman stayed up all night knitting in her rocking chair. She carefully watched her visitors to ensure their illness didn’t get worse.
But despite her best intentions, the old woman dozed off around down. When she woke up a few hours later, the two old, infected beggars were nowhere in sight. Instead, standing before her were the two Saints in their heavenly forms. Golden halos blazed around their heads. Instead of the tattered robes they had on the night before, they now wore luxurious robes of many colors. In Cyprian’s hands, he held a large, black codex.
Cyprian offered the book to the old woman, saying, “Oh blessed crone! Above all other healers, you have proven yourself worthy of this honor. Inside this book is a cure for the plague and many other ailments. Take this book and cure the land of shadows.”
With a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes, the grateful crone accepted the book. She flipped through its pages, each containing a magical cure for a common ailment. She prostrated herself and said, “A thousand blessings upon you, Heavenly Protectors!”
But Saint Justina grinned a knowing smile and approached the old woman. She blessed the old woman with a long life, saying, “Go now and heal the land. Then teach worthy people you find the secrets of the black book.”
With that, the two Saints left, ascending back into the heavens. As they re-entered the court of God, all the angels and archangels sang their praises. The Lord said, “Come close to me, my blessed Saints. You have proved yourselves and given out a glorious bounty.”
Meanwhile, the old woman didn’t tarry a moment in her new task. She set out at once from her hut, black book in hand. Following the land’s ancient paths, she went from one village to the next. At each place she stopped, she bid the locals bring her the sickened among them. She examined them and, using the spells and balms listed in the book, healed them back to health. All those treated by her survived. Not one person in the villages she visited died of the plague after her arrival.
In each village she stopped at, she picked the kindest and most worthy among them to be the village healer. Before leaving, she had this apprentice copy the black book by hand. This became the local healer’s private copy, passed down through the generations. This was the start of the cunning folk and how they got their magic.
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In the late summer of 2020, a friend told me that a regional magazine was seeking submissions. Three weeks later, I submitted the story below. The publication accepted it but would serialize it due to its length. I’m pretty confident the publication went belly-up before publishing the entire piece. I base this assumption on the fact that they ghosted me suddenly after the first issue.
Overall, I think “The Townies” is a good story – or at least a good idea for a story – and I am satisfied with the work I put into it. I have complaints: the balance between explanation and ambiguity favors the latter. The ending is unsatisfying, and the cross-cutting between sections is rough. But these are minor issues. Someday, I might come back to this idea and see if one more draft can sand it down to perfection. But not today.
***
I grumbled, then answered, “I told you I don’t know anything.”
The detective exhaled smoke and placed his cigarette on his ashtray. He leaned in, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I find that hard to believe, James.”
This wasn’t my opening round in the station’s metal-gray interrogation room. Its official name was the “Police Information Room,” but it was an interrogation room out of an old film noir. Neither was this the first time Detective Price of the State Police questioned me. I was the first of the local teens he interviewed when he arrived in town. He must’ve cycled through the rest of the bunch and come no closer to solving the mystery.
I sighed, “Why? I’m a normal fucking kid.”
Detective Price shook his head, “You’re not normal. You’re a Select-men’s kid in a town where they’re all turning up dead.”
“What’s so mysterious about those deaths? I thought they were both suicides.”
“That was the official ruling.”
—
NEWSCASTER: We now take you to Angela Adams in Catamount. Angela?
ANGELA ADAMS: Thanks, Bobbie. I’m standing in front of Catamount Town Hall, where a large press conference was held this morning.
(Earlier that day.)
MEDICAL EXAMINER: As I listed in the reports, I have concluded both deaths were suicides. If the state disagrees, it has a right to investigate, and I intend to cooperate with that process.
ANGELA ADAMS: That was local medical examiner James Perez. He’s involved in the controversy rocking this quiet Berkshire community. He has ruled the two deaths of selectmen’s children as “suicides,” but the State Police disagree.
(Earlier that week.)
UNIFORMED SPOKESWOMAN: We have decided to open up our own investigation. The attention given to deaths of this nature has been inadequate.
ANGELA ADAMS: The state’s decision has put this quiet Western Mass town on edge.
—
I perked up, “So you think someone murdered them?”
The detective gave me a look, “I thought I was the one asking questions here.”
Detective Price adjusted his suspenders. He was the first man I ever saw in person who wore suspenders. I’d seen suspenders before, but the men wearing them were all guys in old black-and-white films. I didn’t even know clothing companies still made pants with suspenders. Detective Price pulled a file from his messenger bag and placed it on the table. He looked up at me while he opened it and asked, “But don’t you think it’s strange how two teens have killed themselves? And in a town that didn’t have a single suicide at all last year?”
I looked down at the file. Inside it were photos from the area where Libby had killed herself. I could still remember the brown-red stain on the monument left by her body’s fluids. I saw it before they put the tarp over it.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Me too, kid.”
—
LIBBY G. MORRISON, age 17, died on Monday, February 1st, 2010, in her hometown of Catamount. From her birth on March 1st, 1992, to her death, she nourished people with love, faith, and music. She was born in Catamount to David and Britt Morrison (née Johnson) and was an only child. Libby started playing the piano at five, and by 15, she was giving lessons from the parlor of her house. She was planning to attend a performing arts school for college to complete her training. From there, Libby hoped to start a career teaching children how to play the instrument. She was also a faithful Christian. She served the Catamount Congregational Church as a service pianist. Left to honor Libby’s memory are her parents, her friends, and the Catamount community. People will remember her as a bright, shining light in the town she loved and the church she served. Funeral services will be on Thursday at 11:00 AM at Catamount Congregational Church. The Rev. Jodie Howard will preside. All are welcome to attend.
—
I rested my head on the metal table. The room’s fluorescent lighting was making my headache worse. “Then why are you looking at the pictures?”
“Because this ‘suicide’ doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of anybody killing themselves via impalement. Have you?”
I chuckled, and the vibrations shook the table a little. “You’re the expert, not me.”
I heard Detective Price flip the file shut. “Yeah, but you live in this strange little town.”
I exhaled, bringing my head up to look at the cop. “That doesn’t make me an expert on the place.”
“It means you know a bit more than I do. I have some questions about this town.”
“Ask away. It’s not like I can leave.”
Detective Price opened up another file. I could tell by looking at it that the papers inside were copies of various town documents. Some of them looked old enough to date from the town’s founding. “Why are all the selectmen fathers to only one child each?”
—
Catamount, Massachusetts
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Catamount is a town in Franklin County, Massachusetts. In 1812, the Catamount schoolhouse was the first to raise the United States flag. Catamount was a farming community until the late 19th century. Nearby Pocumtuck Mountain was often a popular destination for people around the state. In 1880, Governor John Long visited the Old Home Days festival on Pocumtuck Mountain.
Due partly to the remote location, Catamount was only a tiny village until the early 20th century. The discovery of a “medicinal hot spring” resulted in an influx of wealthy Bostonians. These Boston Brahman families displaced the local farmers. The Commonwealth incorporated most of the surrounding villages into Catamount in 1967. The summer tourism industry dominates Catamount’s economy. The town-owned Pocumtuck Mountain Resort funds the town’s municipal budget.
—
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess they all won the genetic lottery.”
Detective Price lit a cigarette. He inhaled a noxious amount of smoke, then held the cigarette and watched it burn while exhaling. “If you all are offing yourselves, I wouldn’t call that ‘winning the genetic lottery.’”
I looked at the one-way mirror behind Detective Price. Was it hiding somebody scrutinizing me for any signs of guilt? “Why am I still here? How much longer do you plan on keeping me here?”
Detective Price put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Not much longer. You’re not under arrest or even a suspect. Consider this a fact-finding mission.”
“I’m sure you could get more out of the town’s historical society than me.”
“Members of the town’s historical society aren’t killing themselves in Catamount. Selectmen’s kids are. There were four of you when the year started; now there’s only two.”
“Look, Detective Price, I got nothing more to give you. Let me go home.”
—
r/Ask an American
What was the creepiest town or state you’ve been to, and why?
[ASlickbackNamedPimp] 18 points – 11 years ago
Catamount, Massachusetts, is on the border between Massachusetts and Vermont. It feels like the whole town is some sort of living museum or dead. It’s dominated by this big mountain (for Massachusetts, anyway), and the entire city rests on the slope. The place looks like it could topple over at any moment. It reminded me of that fake town we dropped a nuke on in the ’50s, a terrifying artificial feeling all around.
[JesusElPacifico] 4 points – 11 years ago
My family goes deer hunting in the area. In the last few years, we’ve had to stop butchering our meat, so we go to one of the few remaining local farms. You pull up to a beautiful farm, and a handful of dogs come running up with toys in their mouths. Wait, those aren’t toys. They’re deer heads. The dogs lick you with blood-covered faces. There are deer heads and feet everywhere. And then you meet the people.
—
“Did you ever meet Mr. White, the town manager?”
I thought back for a second. “Dave? Of course, I did. He was a friend of my parents. He came to all our holiday parties and stuff.”
Detective Price perked up and asked, “So you’d say you were close with David?”
“I wouldn’t say I was close to him. But he was a family friend, and when I was younger, I’d call him Uncle Dave.”
“Did that make your ‘real’ uncles jealous?”
“I don’t have any uncles. Or aunts. Both my parents are only children. I told you that the last time you brought me in for questioning.”
Detective Price smiled. “I must’ve forgotten. Isn’t it weird that all the selectmen – and their wives – are only children, like all their kids?”
“I never gave it much thought, to be honest. Yeah, that is kinda weird.”
“What do you think about, James?”
“The stuff every boy my age thinks about. I think about video games the most. I’m good at League of Legends.”
“I don’t know or care to know about that.”
—
On Saturday, January 16th, 2010, DAVID WHITE, a loving husband, passed away at age 75. David was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on April 30th, 1934, to Charles and Alice (née Stanton) White. He received his law degree from Harvard University in 1961. David practiced business law for 13 years in Springfield. On March 28th, 1975, he married Karen (née Cole) Winter. Later that year, Catamount appointed him Town Manager, a position he held until his death.
David had a passion for painting. He loved bird watching and combined his two favorite hobbies to create extraordinary art. His paintings of various birds were much admired, but not only by friends and family. They were also loved by customers of the Wisdom School coffee shop, which displayed them. He was also an avid lover of Celtic music. People will remember his quick wit, infectious smile, and compassionate spirit. Preceding David in death was his father, Charles, and his mother, Alice. Surviving him is his wife, Karen. Funeral services will be a private affair. Instead of flowers, send donations to the Catamount Historical Society.
—
After what felt like forever, Detective Price said the words I’d been waiting to hear. “Alright, you can go now.”
I bolted out of my chair, then tried to play it cool, adopting a casual demeanor as I walked by the detective. I had nothing to hide from him, yet I felt I had to model that fact to him. Then he grabbed my wrist on the way out and spoke to me. “Something about this case doesn’t make any sense. Stay safe out there, and if you come across anything odd or fucked up, you tell me right away. Got it?”
“I… think so, sir?”
“Good. Ms. Moore is waiting on the bench outside. Send her in on your way out.”
He relaxed his grip, and I got the fuck out of there. That trip lasted only a few steps because something was clearly wrong as soon as I exited the room. Sarah (“Ms. Moore”) wasn’t sitting on the bench, though her purse was. The lights were off, leaving only the natural lighting offered by the setting sun. I turned around to tell Detective Price. He was already standing behind me, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
—
Third Selectmen Child Goes Missing in Catamount
by Kyle Peterson, Associated Press
Events in Catamount have again taken a disturbing turn. Sarah Moore, 16, only daughter of town Selectmen Erwin Moore, went missing yesterday. This follows the recent deaths of two other children, Libby G. Morrison and John Campbell, 17. Both were the only children of other Selectmen. What makes Sarah’s disappearance so shocking? She was last seen inside the Catamount Police Station. She was waiting to answer questions for the state probe into the deaths mentioned above.
CCTV cameras recorded her walking to a window across the hall from where she was sitting. She stands at the window for several minutes, conversing with an unseen figure. Moore then exits the police station, leaving a purse with her belongings. The mysterious circumstances have furthered speculation of a serial killer in Catamount. This theory contradicts the ruling of medical examiner Jamie Perez, 38. His official reports concluded both Morrison and Campbell committed suicide. The state has thrown out this ruling and is investigating possible foul play.
—
The cops sent me home after recording my eyewitness statement. I guess they decided I answered enough questions for one day. Besides, Detective Price was grilling me when Sarah went missing. That’s a pretty rock-solid alibi. My parents were silent for the whole car ride home. They seemed so exhausted, and I can’t blame them. This year was a perfect storm for them. After Uncle David died, the new Town Manager discovered he’d been cooking the town’s books, and we were bankrupt. Drug use was becoming a real problem; one of my teachers died of an overdose during the summer. And, of course, there were all their co-worker’s kids dying.
With Sarah missing, I was the last of those kids left safe and sound. After tonight, there would be no doubt that a killer was on the loose. Would I get taken out of town for my safety? Beyond that, my thoughts focused on Sarah. I wanted her to be okay, even though my gut told me she wasn’t. She had always been kind to me, though we weren’t friends. Who could steal somebody out of their own life’s story like that?
—
Detective Price Investigation Log, August 1st, 2010:
How the fuck does a 16-year-old girl get kidnapped out of a police station? Why didn’t the desk officer on duty stop her from leaving the building? He claims he was getting a cup of coffee and didn’t see her go. Bullshit! Something about these cops stinks to high heaven. I’ve dealt with some local yokels with badges before, but nothing like this. The town cops claim they “lost” the clothes Campbell was wearing when discovered. Finding the box took two staties five minutes once they got access to the evidence locker.
If the cops are corrupt, their medical examiner is even worse. I bet he didn’t examine the bodies before he filed that report. Those cuts on Campbell’s body weren’t caused by “scraping” against the tree he was hanging from. Somebody flogged that boy before hanging him. There’s a serial killer in Catamount. He has a specific victim pool—like an Agatha Christie villain—and he’s almost out of options. If I can nab the fucker before he kills James Butler or that Moore girl, I’ll finally make a name. I can leave Franklin County and get promoted to one of the major squads.
—
My neighborhood is quiet. No kids playing outside or old ladies walking around pumping those five-pound weights. Sometimes, I see a curtain flutter or a shadow pass by a window. But people feel exposed outside. They want to stay inside their castles, only venturing when necessary. I don’t know why they feel so safe inside their homes. Sarah was inside the police station, surrounded by men with guns, and she still got taken. What could my neighbors do to defend themselves that the cops can’t?
Besides, this killer isn’t targeting them. I’m his next target. Detective Price has posted two state policemen in an SUV outside my home for my protection. It’s better than nothing. I fucking hate cops. The local cops are some of the biggest fucking bullies in town. Everyone knows Officer Adams tried to kill my friend Karim for being black and gay. At least Karim got his parents to move out of this dump. Now he lives in a Mc Mansion in Westfield. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in Catamount, waiting for some psycho to barge in and decapitate me.
—
Steam Chat Logs, August 3rd, 2010
> Karim”TheDream” is now online.
Karim”TheDream”: Hey now, how are you holding up? (6:40PM)
BooEye-Stealer: I’m fine. (6:54 PM)
Karim”TheDream”: You didn’t reply for 14 minutes, bro! My heart was in my throat. (6:55 PM)
BooEye-Stealer: Can’t believe it found any room there next to your boyfriend’s cock!!! (6:58 PM)
Karim”TheDream”: Fuck you, man, you know I’m the top. (6:59 PM)
>BooEye-Stealer is now playing Left4Dead2.
BooEye-Stealer: Man, the water from the faucet has been weird lately. (7:03 PM)
Karim”TheDream”: What are you talking about? It’s the same H2O, as always. (7:04 PM)
BooEye-Stealer: No, man, this water got black-and-green flakes in it. (7:06 PM)
Karim”TheDream”: Dude, what the fuck? (7:08 PM)
BooEye-Stealer: I know, right (7:09 PM)
Karim”TheDream”: Get out of Catamount, James. (7:11 PM)
>BooEye-Stealer is now offline.
BooEye-Stealer: Jesus Christ, Karim. They found her. They found Sarah in the water tower. (1:32 AM)
—
I was there when they pulled Sarah’s body out of the water tower. A crowd had gathered at the scene overnight. One of the local cops blabbed about it to his wife, and she posted the news on Facebook. News used to travel fast in Catamount; now, it instantly reaches everywhere. None of us saw the body leave. The state police took it by helicopter to Bay-side Medical Center in Springfield. The state has so little faith in our local investigators that none of them touched the body.
While there, I saw my Dad talking with Sarah’s parents. They were off from the leading group of gawkers, so I couldn’t hear what they said to each other. Sarah’s parents seemed like they were in shock. Their faces were blank, and what I could hear was their voices, which were droning and monotone. I decided to walk over to them and offer my condolences. I didn’t know them well, but it was the least I could do. While walking over, I picked up the last thing Dad said before they all turned to look at me. With his hand clasped around Mr. Moore’s shoulder, Dad said, “At least it’ll be over soon.”
—
NEWSCASTER: We take you to Angela Adams in Catamount, where tragedy continues. Angela?
DETECTIVE PRICE: Yes, at this point, this is a murder investigation.
ANGELA ADAMS: Earlier today, Detective Christopher Price announced the discovery of Sarah Moore’s body. Moore, 16, had been missing for 21 days, prompting a massive county-wide search.
LOCAL RESIDENT: I’ve never seen anything like this happen in our little town.
LOCAL RESIDENT #2: People used to move to Catamount from Boston and other cities to escape crime. But after this, I can’t see anybody else coming here.
LOCAL RESIDENT #3: It’s all so bizarre. Why is this happening to us?
ANGELA ADAMS: Much of the attention is now on James Butler, the last Selectmen child. The boy is now under 24/7 police protection, but will this stop the serial killer from striking again?
—
It was a Department of Public Works employee who discovered Sarah’s body. She was floating inside the tank, face down. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on when she went missing from the police station. The day after they found her, I searched for information online. I wanted to know what happens to a body submerged in water for so long. I wanted to know what happened to Sarah after she died. To be honest, I don’t understand why I wanted to know, but I had to.
It turns out that a body lasts longer in water than it does on land. I assumed that the flesh would get all wet and soggy and that it’d all fall apart. However, according to this paper, cold water acts as a refrigerator, keeping the body fresh for longer. There are also different bacteria in the water, and they don’t consume the remains as fast. Then I saw the pictures on the gore websites. Dead corpses floating in rivers, on oceans. Wrinkled, putrefying lumps of human meat, meat that once held a soul. Then I saw a close-up of a body in the Ganges, a vulture plucking out its eyes. I shut my computer off and went to bed.
—
Detective Price Investigation Log, August 21st, 2010:
I’m now the head of an official “special investigation.” For the moment, the police of Catamount gotta do as I say. The local boys in blue can’t be happy about it, but fuck them. Their incompetence has killed three kids and has put a fourth life at risk. I saw the Moore girl’s body today. It was fucking awful. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, but none as revolting as hers. I had never felt skin so wrinkly and desiccated nor such a revolting shade of orange-green.
The examiner concluded the obvious: death by drowning. The killer threw her into the water tower and left her to swim until she was too exhausted to swim anymore. The whole process leading to her death might’ve taken hours, even days. What a fucking horrible way to go. I have research materials coming up to Catamount tomorrow. Another detective pointed out the killings are lining up with ancient pagan holidays. Never thought I’d take out books from the Boston Public Library as part of a murder investigation. Theory: the killer thinks if he kills a few kids, the “Luck of the Irish” will be his.
Don’t cry because you got what you wanted, Price.
—
I pointed at the ornate dagger my Dad held and asked, “What’s that?”
My Dad turned around a little too fast. “This? It’s an old family heirloom.”
“I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”
My Dad put the knife back in the jewelry box he’d taken it out of and put the box back in the family safe. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Later that night, I got to examine the dagger up close. I had cracked the code to the family safe years ago (it was my Dad’s birthday). I waited until my parents were asleep, then crept downstairs and went to please my curiosity. The blade was extra-sharp for what my Dad described as a “family heirloom.” Sharp enough that he must’ve taken care of it recently. But the handle was far more fucked up than the blade itself. It was of high-quality lacquered wood.
There were four stick figures engraved on it, each of them marked differently:
– the first had a line cut through it.
– the second had a line wrapped around its neck, connected to a horizontal line above.
– a box with waves surrounding the third.
– fire surrounded the fourth.
—
Excerpt from “The Secret Inscriptions of the Oak-Seer”:
Soon, there will come a day when I will no longer be among you. On the day of my burial – which you must delay until the next holiday gathering – begins the great Ritual. The four Druids I will choose among you to become Noble Prophets will carry the burden. Their sacrifice will end our return to human bodies and give us entry to the Other World. Each of them must produce only one offspring. When the Ritual of Transmigration comes to pass, they will sacrifice the child. This will sever our connection to the mortal world.
Choose the order of sacrifices by a lot. Each death must fall on one of our Four Great Days as they follow my death.
Let the first child suffer impalement in the name of Andraste, Goddess of Victory.
Let the second child suffer flogging and hanging in the name of Esus, God of Vegetation.
Let the third child suffer drowning in the name of Toutatis, God of Protection.
Let the fourth child suffer immolation in the name of Taranis, God of Thunder.
Once you have given up these four Supreme Offerings, the Other-world is yours.
—
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I even re-read the passage, hoping against hope that I read it wrong. But I hadn’t. It all made sense now. I flipped through the book again, trying to understand more. The following section mocked modern people for “denying the Old Gods their due.” Next was the section on the Wheel of Seasons, the “Four Great Days” of the cult’s year. The last one left was Samhain, the night of October 31st.’
Shit, that’s tomorrow. I have to get out of this town now. I grabbed the knife and the cult’s books and threw them in my bookbag. I’m shocked my parents weren’t woken up by all the noise I was making. I shut the safe and grabbed my jacket. I was about to run outside to the police, watching our home, but they weren’t there anymore. There was an unmarked black car, which was suspicious as fuck.
I slipped into our backyard instead and hid behind a tree growing in the corner. I took out my phone, took a deep breath, and called the only person I thought would help me.
“Detective Price here. Speak.”
—
Detective Price Investigation Log, October 30th, 2010:
Can’t believe the asshole Butler kid cracked the case while I was fucking asleep. That’s what I get for going to bed early. The kid calls me up a quarter past 11, babbling into the phone about how his parents will kill him. It took me five minutes of babysitting him over the phone to calm him down. Then he tells me he has proof: a ritual dagger and some notebooks filled with some wizard shit.
I told him to meet me at 7 11 near the police station and to show them to me. James looked shaken up when I met him. I could tell he wasn’t pulling a fast one on me immediately. The stuff he gave me would be damning everywhere but a murder trial. Their lawyer would argue it’s circumstantial and that we’re curbing religious freedom. However, circumstantial evidence is a good start compared to what the local police have found. I’m going to bring the parents in for questioning tomorrow. I can’t trust the local police anymore, so I’ll need to call in more boys from the Athol barracks. Both to back me up and to search for the officer who had ordered me to guard the Butler house. He’s still missing.
—
I’ve spent most of Halloween in this ratty, old motel room on the edge of town. A state police officer sits inside the room, and another is outside by the door. They aren’t talkative, and neither am I. Instead, I sit here and watch the news. My hometown has made national news for the first and only time in its history. The cops brought my parents in for questioning. Somebody tipped off the media, so all these journalists were there even though it was dawn. My parents said nothing while the state troopers escorting them cleared a path.
Detective Price held a press conference later that morning. All the local channels interrupted their broadcasts to air it. He quickly emphasized that neither of my parents was under arrest, but he called them “persons of interest.” I guess that’s what you call a suspect who you don’t want to lawyer up yet. He also made clear he had more “persons of interest”; he was “reaching out to” them that day. I assume he means the other Selectmen / Noble Prophets. Good, I hope they all suffer for what they’ve done.
—
YYou are now chatting with Christopher Moore. Say hi!
John Butler
They’re onto us. My son found the ritual items.
Christopher Moore
Are you still at the station?
John Butler
She got sent home. Jen’s still answering questions, but I’m scared she won’t be out in time for Samhain.
Christopher Moore
Our friends on the force will free her if necessary. Are you ready to present your offering?
John Butler
Of course, we are. But they have our son under guard somewhere.
Christopher Moore
Officer Adams said he was at the Econ-Lodge on Route 2. He will collect James.
John Butler
Soon, this will all be over. It’ll all be worth it.
—
Around sundown, there was a knock on the motel room door. Nobody had come by the room that day, not even housekeeping. The cop sitting next to me got up and opened the door. It was Officer Adams – the piece of shit himself – on the other side of the door. He smiled his smug grin and said to the state trooper, “Hey there, I’m here to take the kid back to the station. Price has more questions for him.”
The state trooper remained unconvinced. “Price told us to trust the kid with nobody but him.”
Adams kept on smiling while he replied, “He’s away. We found something in the woods near Mount Pocumtuck. He sent me, instead.”
The trooper shook his head, “I’ll have to clear it with Price first. Let me call him.”
As the trooper turned around and pulled out his cell phone, Officer Adams took out his gun and shot him in the back. He then turned and pumped two rounds into the head of the trooper standing outside. Both men were dead before they hit the floor. I stood up to run to the bathroom, but Officer Adams pressed his gun’s barrel into my forehead until I sat back down. He finally stopped smiling as he pointed to the door and said, “You’re coming with me.”
—
Detective Price Investigation Log, October 31st, 2010:
The parents didn’t crack once under questioning. They claimed James must’ve made the knife and books himself to frame them for “attention.” The two of them were cold as ice. I’ve never seen two “average” people so unfazed by an interrogation. There’s no doubt in my mind now that they’re involved. I guess James and his cult stuff was right on the money. But I need more evidence before I start making arrests.
Who else knows about this plan? Is every adult in Catamount part of it? If so, this investigation could become one of the biggest busts in state history. The only other event on this level would be the Innsmouth Raid of 1928. I must be careful with the moment because I’m in enemy territory. Somebody working at the Mount Pocumtuck Resort found a ritual sacrifice site. I’m taking some troopers with me. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch some of these freaks in the act of sacrifice. The Butler boy should be safe; the men guarding him have impeccable service records. This Halloween ought to be a quiet one for him.
—
“Where the fuck are you taking me?” I kicked at the mesh screen, dividing Officer Adam’s cruiser’s front and back seats. “Let me out, you asshole.”
Officer Adams laughed while turning his head to look at me. “Come on, James, I’m taking you to see your parents. They’re throwing a party for you.”
I almost asked for a second time when he was taking me, but then we passed by the sign for Mount Pocumtuck. I steadied myself; I couldn’t afford to panic yet. My eyes scanned the car, settling on the mesh screen. My last kick had knocked it loose. One more kick from me pushed it right into the back of his head. “What the fuck are you doing?” shrieked Adams while he pulled his service handgun out of its holster.
He turned again to look at me, taking his eyes off the road. Neither of us saw the stag standing in the middle of the road until it was too late. The impact sent the car off-road, down the mountain’s side, until it came to rest against a large boulder. I was already unconscious by this point, my forehead bleeding from a cut caused by flying glass. My sight went black, and I felt like I was dead.
—
Body From Burnt Car on Mount Pocumtuck ID’d
by Lisette Clark, Associated Press
December 4th, 2010
The Massachusetts State Police confirmed what many feared yesterday. The remains found in the burned car are Detective Christopher Price. Price, 39, was head of the investigation into the murders, now called the Catamount Cult Case. He had gone missing Halloween night while investigating a possible crime scene. It is still unknown how much of a role Price played in what’s now called the Pocumtuck Halloween Massacre.
That led to the deaths of twelve cult members, along with two state policemen. The identification of the remaining bodies found at Mount Pocumtuck Resort continues. In other Catamount news, Attorney General Martha Coakley announced ten new indictments. This brings the total number of people charged in the murders to almost 200. The state legislature plans to vote on dissolving the township in a special Monday vote.
—
I woke up about an hour after the crash. Officer Adams was dead, with a chunk of deer antler impaled through his face. I remember the feeling of relief that ran through me when I saw that asshole was killed. I grabbed his gun – it was lying on the front passenger seat – then crawled out of the car. I couldn’t walk far; the crash had injured my leg. So I sat behind the rock, trying to use the vehicle to hide. Once secure in my spot, I looked around to figure out where I was. That’s when I saw the stag we hit. It wasn’t dead, far from it. It was missing half of its left antler and had several deep gashes along its body. But it was alive and alert.
I looked into its eyes, and it looked back at me. It walked over to me, limping on its front left leg, which looked broken. The deer stood over me, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed me up and down. Then it laid down next to me, its healthy right antler touching my side. After much hesitation, I reached out and started petting it. Why? I don’t know, but it didn’t resist me or flee. It stayed with me until help arrived, after which it limped away.
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NEWSCASTER: We will take you to Angela Adams at Mount Pocumtuck. Angela?
ANGELA ADAMS: Thank you, Bob. As you can see behind me, scattered fires litter the area even after hours of work by firefighters. What was once one of Massachusetts’ most popular resorts is now a smoldering ruin.
NEWSCASTER: Any word yet on survivors?
ANGELA ADAMS: The state police have confirmed that most of the resort’s night staff are alive and well. The cult took them hostage when police first arrived, but they escaped. Currently, police believe all members of the cult at the resort died in the fire they set.
NEWSCASTER: Any other updates?
ANGELA ADAMS: Yes. First, I can now confirm that Officer Britney Torres has died. That brings the number of cops killed in two separate incidents in Catamount last night to four. Finally, James Butler is at Bay State Franklin Medical Center and is in stable condition.
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It took me months to find out how my parents died. I didn’t learn the whole story until the trials began. Even after all the plea bargains, I still had to testify several times. So many defendants had to use all the state courthouses west of Boston. It was all a huge mess. The cult beheaded them. It was my parent’s punishment for failing to offer me as a sacrifice. The surviving cultists testified to their belief that decapitation destroyed the soul. So not only were my parents denied the “Other-world,” they had no afterlife at all.
I didn’t react at all when I heard what happened to them. My parents are nothing to me now—no love for the people who created me, knowing what was in store. I don’t hate them, either, since I’m sure they felt justified by their faith. There’s no use in holding onto your hate of people who are dead. Their bodies are now a pile of ash and bones in some police evidence bag. The state asked if I wanted their remains returned after the trial. I want nothing more to do with them.
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Catamount Becoming a State Forest
by Dora Garcia, Associated Press
March 19th, 2012
Catamount, Massachusetts, once home to a notorious cult, will soon be gone forever. Governor Deval Patrick announced the plans at a press conference yesterday. The state plans to use eminent domain to buy the remaining private property. Once the remaining residents move out, their houses will get torn down. The plan comes after a recent spate of arson in the area raised fears that organized crime may be moving in. Once the remaining structures come down, the site will become a state forest.
For those still living in the area – many life-long residents of Catamount – the news is bittersweet. Memories of the town as it once was are tempered with the knowledge that Catamount is infamous. The city is now associated with the Oak-Seers. This cult ran the town and carried out many human sacrifices. The cult was a local secret until murders in 2010 brought the group to light.
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I visited Catamount today, the first time I had been there since Halloween night a decade ago. Since his parents adopted me, Karim has been my legal brother, and he came with me. Of course, there is no Town of Catamount anymore, only Catamount State Forest. There’s not much more forest there now than when I left. When the state seized the land, the plan was to tear the buildings down. But then, the construction firm hired to oversee the project collapsed.
So, I spent the day walking through an artificial forest of dilapidated houses. We tried to navigate our way around ripped-up roads and downed power lines. My old home was one of the ones burned down by the serial arsonist, but we found Karim’s old house. We took a bunch of photos to post on Instagram. Graffiti covered the walls, much of it Satanic in nature. 16-year-old me would think the artwork was incredible; some was well done. 26-year-old me found it tasteless, but Karim found it all hilarious; “can’t even get the cult right.”
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Top 10 Most Haunted Ghost Towns in America
– 10: Catamount, Massachusetts
Starting off our list is America’s newest ghost town, but one with the creepiest backstory. You know about Catamount and the cult that ran it like a suburban Illuminati. If not, check out this episode of the “Conspiracies You Can Believe In” podcast that covers the topic. As for being haunted, this place has weird goings-on in spades. The site is located near Vermont’s Bennington Triangle. Some paranormal experts believe this fuels the supernatural in this state forest.
There are both eyewitness reports and videos of strange lights atop Mount Pocumtuck. These lights vanish when approached. Photographs showing shadow people near the site of the murders went viral in 2018. These still get featured spots on amateur YouTube “Scariest Ghost Sightings” videos. But do beware of the hooded cultists that local teens claim to see in the abandoned houses. They might invite you to their next sacrifice.
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“Hey, mister, you see any hooded dudes hanging out?”
I turned around so fast that I stumbled over the desk beside me. I assumed I was the only person on the second floor of the high school. It serves me right to trust Karim to keep watch. My fear of getting beaten up dissipated once I laid eyes on the thin boy standing at the other end of the classroom.
I answered, “You know that’s an urban legend, right? The police arrested everyone in the cult.”
The kid scoffed before replying, “Did you see that Kay-cast with the 3AM challenge in Catamount? He got chased out by a cultist!”
I laughed, “Do you believe everything you see on YouTube?”
The kid was getting indignant. “Kay cast is raw shit. I even subscribe to his Patreon.”
I didn’t want to further upset the kid, so I shrugged my shoulders and walked towards him. “What are you doing here, anyway, stranger?”
“My name’s Simon, and I’m here to get ghost videos for YouTube.”
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Excerpt from “The Secret Inscriptions of the Oak-Seer”:
There may come a time when the outside world discovers our secret shared virtue. America may try to destroy us like the Romans wanted to kill us in our past lives when we ruled our ancestors. They failed to beat us when we practiced in the open, and their heirs will fail to destroy our secret society. Should all our preparations fail, do not be afraid. Scatter to the four winds, like seeds eruption from a dandelion in bloom. Catamount – our Hy-Brazil, our sacred mount – will call you back when the time is right.
The town may die, but the vertices of magic that drew us here at the start of the 20th century will remain forever. Gather here under cover of night, with practitioners old and new. Consecrate this holy mountain again with worthy sacrifices. Even those ignorant of all magic will come to this area when it calls to them. Seize those you deem worthy, and slay them, body and soul. The quintessence released by the Ritual will empower you, and the Gods will protect you.
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Karim and I were standing with our new friend Simon outside what was once the police station. I asked him, “You sure you don’t want a ride back to town? This place isn’t too safe at night.”
Simon shook his head, “I’ll be safe. Two friends of mine are driving up from Greenfield. They’ll be here before nightfall. They’re both big football players.”
Now it was Karim’s turn to shake his head. “Alright, if you insist on doing this 3AM Challenge, have fun. Tell any ghosts you meet I said ‘hi.’”
Simon was already walking away from us, trying to find a signal with his phone. “Will do, mister.”
Karim laughed to himself as we walked through the deserted streets. “Think we should’ve told him we knew those ghosts when they were still alive?”
“What, and get dragged into hanging out in these woods overnight?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Simon’s a good kid, but he got on my nerves after an hour.”
I stopped walking and turned back to look at the town center one last time. “I hope Simon knows this a bad place for a kid his age to be.”
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Search Continues for Missing Local Teen
by Tobias Myers, Associated Press
July 22nd, 2019
Park rangers continue to search Catamount State Forest for Simon Edwards, 17. Myers, a resident of Greenfield, went missing one week ago. He was last seen by two other men, former residents of Catamount, who met him while exploring the area. Police consider neither man a suspect in the disappearance. Simon was in the area to film a “3AM Challenge” video for his YouTube channel. This genre involves people staying overnight in “haunted” locations. Simon had gone out alone to scout filming locations in the infamous abandoned town.
His friends, Robert Moses and Cyril Martinez, arrived later that night. When they couldn’t find Simon, they called the local police to report him missing. A spokeswoman for the state police confirmed that law enforcement suspects no foul play and that the police believe Simon is still alive. Some cops—who asked to remain anonymous—speculated this may be a stunt by the boy. Simon often spoke of the urban legend of a murderous cult hiding in the state forest.
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In the summer of 2017, John Garcia and I made the dangerous trek to Toronto to film “Virgins Never Die.” This short film was based on a longer screenplay we had spent several years (up to that point) developing. We hoped this short film would interest a producer or distributor in our script. This never materialized, but I’m still pleased with how the short turned out. Of course, I don’t claim any credit; as a first-time director, I felt overwhelmed by everything I had to manage. The most I can say for myself is that I didn’t get in the way of the cast and crew, who were more competent than myself.
“Virgins Never Die” started as a comedy where a vigilante unknowingly dates a murderer. Over time, the focus shifted to the vigilante’s life outside their romance. But I’ll avoid going into too much detail on the script, as this narrative trailer only draws from the first act.
Special thanks to the following people:
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If you’re reading this post, you probably know me. But here’s a brief outline of who I am for those perverts who enjoy reading a random stranger’s blog.
I am a thirty-one-year-old man who lives near Boston, Massachusetts. I am a substitute teacher by day and an aspiring writer by night. Emphasis on “aspiring.” Sadly, despite a decade of effort, success continues to elude me. This isn’t meant to imply I’m a complete failure. My career has a few highlights, including:
The list above is the sum and substance of my “professional” work, the only pieces I’ve created that brought in money. In 2022, my creative output stopped because I developed chronic writer’s block. I spent two years attempting to overcome this and another year resigned to fate. But recently, something has stirred in the mental region where creative impulses originate. I think the time has come to resume my work.
I’ve decided to start a blog for three reasons:
I decided to create this blog almost a year ago. However, I didn’t want to launch it until I knew what to use it for. At first, I planned to focus on a single subject. Yet none of the topics I considered passed muster, so I rejected the idea altogether. Instead, this site is my archive of everything I write that isn’t published elsewhere.
Posts here will broadly fall into three genres: “misfits,” “elaborations,” and “rambles.”
Perhaps you’re asking yourself, “Why should I read this blog?” I don’t have an answer to this question. Who knows what desires lurk within the hearts of men? That secret is known only by you, and whatever God(s) you worship. Still, you’ve read this introduction: a long, boring post justifying this site. You might as well stick around and see what else is here.
I plan to upload my career highlights shortly after launching this website. First is my 2017 short film, “Virgins Never Die.” Following this are my published stories, “The Townies” and “How Magic Came to the Cunning Folk.” If I’m feeling frisky, these will come with a brief introduction and maybe even some annotations. After that, I have no solid plans. We’ll see where the winds of fate take me.
I invite you to leave a comment below introducing yourself. I’ve never had the most active social life, and my circle of friends has dwindled. To be blunt, I want to make new friends, and poaching a few of my readers for this purpose seems like a great way to start. So let me know who you are and why you’re here. Whether you’re an old acquaintance or a stranger doesn’t matter.
The Rattling Skeleton 