And The Scales Fell From My Eyes

A Short Story Written by Thomas M. Malafarina

Genres: Aliens, Cosmic Horror, Existential, Horror, Lovecraftian Horror, Mad Science, Psychological, Psychological Thriller, Science Fiction

A renowned author claims a mysterious sequence of numbers — 11:11, 12:34 — are being sent to him by otherworldly “muses.” They gift him bestselling ideas...and then reveal a terrifying truth.

1

I might as well get this out of the way from the start. I’m not crazy, no matter what you think after reading this. The truth is, I’m a world-famous author. Many of my books have been adapted to screenplays and have become major motion pictures, royalties from which have made me wealthy.

In my early days, finding someone to publish my work was impossible. As a result, I collected a stack of rejection letters probably taller than the five-story tenement building where I rented a one-bedroom flea-bag apartment paid for by an assortment of part-time jobs.

It’s often been suggested I have an attitude problem, a sense of superiority. But how difficult is it to be superior to what we think of as the general public? In my opinion, most of the people out there are barely human.

The concept of what constitutes humanity is paramount to what I’ve learned and what truths I’ll reveal to you soon.

2

I think the best way to start this tale is to tell you about something that began happening to me in 2010. At first, it seemed innocent; then, it started occurring more frequently.

I had begun to see the number 1111 appear almost everywhere. I might notice it on a clock, my cell phone, a gas pump display, or even on road signs or my automobile trip odometer. Then I saw other progressing or repeating number combinations, such as 1234, 4321, 2121, 1212, 1122, and similar groupings.

At first, I thought it might be because we now live in an age where numbers are displayed more prominently and in more places than ever. I assumed it was all just coincidental.

I also noticed another equally strange phenomenon. When I passed by specific streetlights, they’d go out. Then they’d come on again. And it wasn’t always the same street lights. Combined with the repeating numbers I saw, it became bizarre.

I couldn’t understand why this was happening to me. I felt like someone was trying to get my attention. Regardless, I did my best to ignore it. However, it seemed the more I tried to ignore this phenomenon, the more these numbers would appear.

I searched the internet to see if anyone else was experiencing similar phenomena. I searched for the string “1111”, assuming I could always fine-tune my search later if I got too many hits. To my surprise, I found over fifty-nine million hits from my simple string. My initial investigation had been way too general, but before I had a chance to type a more focused search string, I saw a few links which seemed as though they might be exactly what I needed.

The first one I saw stated, “So you see 11:11 everywhere. What does that mean?” After reviewing a few more hyperlink descriptions, it became clear this was coming dangerously close to what I thought of as “new age wacko” philosophies.

Clicking on one of the links, I learned that many people were experiencing the same things I had seen. There was even a group that called themselves “The 11:11 Witnesses”.

I thought it might be a good idea to reach out to a few of the most popular of these websites. I devised a simple introductory note, and using a unique untraceable email address, I sent the email to five or more of the top sites. To my surprise, the replies began to arrive within a few minutes. Below are segments of one of the first replies I received.

“We call these 11:11 prompts. Someone is definitely attempting to contact you. We like to refer to these beings who send you these visual prompts as guardians, muses, and lesser angels.”

And to think, I was starting to wonder if maybe I was the crazy one. Reading this wacky reply made me feel much better about my own state of mind.

The email continued, “These beings are showing you the numbers to get your attention. You’re dealing with beings of an incredibly high level of intelligence. These creatures are singling you out because they have important information to share with you. These creatures are all good beings.”

Another email provided a list of things I could do now that I had been contacted. It explained:

“1. You are capable of establishing two-way contact with the 11:11 beings.

2. You are spiritually ready to obtain information from these brilliant beings.”

“3. Your best opportunity to contact them would be through intense meditation.”

3

Several days later, I received another email. It read, “Numeric codes help us to define our very existence. These codes aim to awaken the mind to a coming evolution of one’s consciousness. Seeing 11:11 is a wake-up call. If you open your mind, you’ll experience a sudden inner awakening, after which your reality will never be the same. The thing is, once you open the door, there’s no closing it. Once you see… you can never un-see. Your soul will quickly move from one level of experience to another until you completely understand everything you are being shown.”

“No matter what, you’ll still see the numbers and continue to receive the prompts. You can’t stop it because YOU aren’t doing it. Once the 11:11 beings have gotten your attention, they’ll continuously remind you of their presence. Street lights may go out or on when you pass by.”

“Wow!” I thought. That was exactly what had been happening to me.

He said, “When the 11:11 prompts appear, you should stop whatever you’re doing and open up your mind to let them in. The revelations you receive may not come in the form of mental concepts or direct ideas. Rather, they could be an enhanced state of existence whereby you’ll see everything as if with a pair of new all-seeing eyes. You’ve been chosen because you are ready to see.”

4

One day while I was driving and after seeing multiple sets of three and four-digit numbers, I thought, “What the hell; why not give it a try?” If these beings were trying to get my attention, why not see what they wanted? Surely trying it once wouldn’t hurt anything.

I felt foolish, but I took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and in the solitude of my car, I said, “Ok, whatever you are, angels, muses, guardians, here I am. I know you’ve got something you want to tell me. So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna open up my mind to you. I want you to show me whatever you want me to see.”

There was nothing, no great epiphany, no miraculous transference of amazing knowledge, nothing for a few moments. I laughed to myself – at myself actually – feeling foolish for even trying such an idiotic experiment. I was grateful no one else had heard me, or they might have called for the wacky wagon to haul me off to the funny farm.

After a few minutes, I began to daydream, and then the crux of an idea started to form in my mind. The idea took shape, and I realized I had the complete concept for a novel; beginning, middle, and end, everything. It came to me without a single bit of forethought. I instantly knew the idea was going to be a great one.

Over the next several months, I worked feverishly to convert this concept into written form, and as cliché, as it may sound, the resulting novel seemed to write itself. Then to my surprise and gratification, the book was picked up by a major publisher and became my first published work and an international bestseller.

It was all so crazy. But it was also very accurate. I had become an overnight sensation after years of constant rejection. My books seemed to fly off the shelves. Within no time, I became a well-known well-respected author. Then the various movie deals began rolling in.

After that came my next bestseller, my next, and the rest of them. Every book I wrote became a blockbuster, and the money kept pouring in faster than I could hope to spend it. And every one of those winning ideas resulted from my muses. I watched for the digital alerts and let the beings come inside my head to plant their ideas.

During the next several years, I watched for the signs, anything with repeating triple and quadruple numbers. I also began to rely on these beings to help me make critical decisions in my personal life. If offered a publishing contract or movie deal, I’d look around the room for some digital device and see what was displayed. If it read 11:11 or 12:34 or any previous strings that had brought good fortune, I’d accept the deal. If not, I wouldn’t.

I knew the beings were watching out for me and guiding me to help me make the right choices. But then something amazing happened. And it changed everything.

5

As I was driving home from a meeting with my publisher about yet another book and movie deal, I craved something I hadn’t had in a long time; a burger from a fast-food joint. Since my success, I assumed I had put all that garbage food behind me. I could afford the best, and I enjoyed the best. Yet here I was, waxing nostalgic and craving a crappy burger.

I pulled into the drive-up line and placed my order. Then I drove around to the first window to pay for my food. I looked up with my hand outstretched, prepared to give the cashier my money, but what I saw almost caused me to drop the cash. The girl at the window was a young overweight thing, perhaps in her early twenties. She had large bulging brown eyes and a weak, almost nonexistent chin under which two other large masses of wobbling flesh merged to form what I assumed was supposed to be her neck.

Her nose was turned upward with large round nostrils, and I couldn’t help but think how much she resembled a toad. I mean, looking up at her from just a few feet away, the resemblance was astonishing. It made me wonder for a moment, at what point do we stop being considered human.

She turned to me and said in a deep raspy voice, “That will be four dollars and seventy-nine cents, sir.” I was only half-listening to her, still staring in amazement at the quivering mass of pseudo-reptilian throat flesh giggling and dancing below her minimal chin. I was further surprised when the voice, which came from her wide oversized mouth, even sounded somewhat like a frog croaking.

I must have looked startled because she said, “Sorry about the voice, Sir. I have a mild case of laryngitis. My voice is the first thing to go whenever I get a cold. I end up sounding like a toad.” Then she chuckled deeply, which, although I suppose the laugh was meant to put me at ease, only increased my discomfort level because of its frog-like quality.

I smiled at her as politely as possible but knew I couldn’t stay there gawking at her any longer. I quickly handed her a ten-dollar bill and told her to keep the change as I began to pull up to the pickup window.

As I did, I glanced into my left side mirror and was stunned to see the froggy-looking cashier was still watching me from her window, giving me a strange wide-mouth reptilian grin. A moment later, I was sure I must have been imagining things because there was no way I really could have seen what I thought I’d seen. A long tongue slithered from her mouth, flitted through the air, snatched a fly in mid-flight, then snapped back inside along with its prize.

I slammed on my brakes just in time to avoid crashing into the car in line in front of me. I wondered what the hell was going on. Surely it had to be a trick of the midday sun reflecting off the window. No other explanation made any sense.

As I approached the pickup window, I kept glancing in my side mirror to see if the frog princes were still watching me. She must have retreated into her lair, likely to enjoy her flying morsel.

“Double cheese, large fries, and large Coke?” a nasal voice asked from my left, calling down from the pickup window.

I saw a tall, long-necked, rail-thin young man with a beak-like nose holding a paper bag in one thin-fingered hand and a paper cup in the other. He had tiny, beady-looking eyes, and his short spiky multi-colored hair stuck straight up around his head. Once again, I found myself staring, mouth agape, at the unusual individual standing before me. He looked exactly like a personified version of some species of bird.

It was all so strange. I glanced at the dashboard and saw the digital clock, which read 11:01 am. I knew exactly what that meant; it was a prompt. For some strange reason, these beings wanted me to learn something new. I put my cup in the cup holder in my center console and placed the bag on the seat next to me. I opted not to look up at what I thought of as the bird boy again.

I suddenly realized two things. First, I was no longer hungry, and second, my hands were trembling, unable to maintain a grip on the steering wheel. I decided it might be wise to pull over until I regained my composure. I sat in the customer parking space and put down all the windows while blasting the air-conditioned air straight at my face. I took several deep relaxing breaths.

Behind me, I heard strange grunting and what almost sounded like barking sounds. I looked into my rear-view mirror to see a group of three teenage boys leaving the inside of the restaurant, dressed in low-slung baggy pants and sneakers, oversized baggy tee shirts, and wide-brimmed caps.

The boy in the middle was bigger than the other two in height and girth. He seemed to look more like a gorilla to me than a human. I looked at his friend to his left and saw that he resembled a hyena with a huge nose and large, protruding teeth. His neck was long, with his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His face was adorned with patches and tufts of hair, an apparent attempt at a beard, yet did little to dissuade the hyena impression.

The third boy looked like some lizard to me, having large bulging eyes similar to the cashier’s and a sinister untrustworthy look of a predator about him. All three boys looked like a pack of wild predatory animals on the prowl. Then, to my amazement, they ceased looking human for a brief moment and became the very creatures I’d imagined them to resemble. An instant later, they reverted to their humanoid forms. The transition had been so brief I wasn’t sure it had happened.

I looked down at the clock on my dashboard, which read 11:11 am. Ten minutes had passed since I left the cashier’s window. Suddenly I felt heat rising from my body, and my flesh tingled. That feeling became all-encompassing, and I could do nothing to stop it as I watched the world around me fade to black.

6

I felt like I was leaving my body behind and floating away. I looked down and saw my unconscious, hopefully not dead body, in the car below me as I drifted slowly upward.

I suddenly felt myself being pulled away from that spot at an unimaginable speed. I assumed it had to be somewhere far away by the rate I was traveling. Everything around me was indistinguishable as landscapes flew by in a blur.

Then I suddenly realized that perhaps I wasn’t only being drawn away in terms of distance but also in space and, yes, even time.

Just as abruptly as my journey had begun, it ended. After a few moments, I realized I was standing alone on a long sandy beach at nightfall. The air was thick with humidity, and perspiration droplets were forming on the surface of my flesh.

The sun was setting out over the vast expanse of an ocean. I smelled the salty scent of the water and heard the distant high-pitched calling of ocean birds. The beach seemed to go on for miles with no other soul in sight.

Running parallel to the coastline was a vast tropical forest expanding as far as I could see. Behind the dense jungle barrier, large unfamiliar mountains rose high above the foliage, reaching far into the darkened sky, filled with thousands of bright twinkling stars.

I began slowly walking toward the jungle, leaving the beach behind me. As I reached the edge of the dense foliage, I saw a well-worn path snaking deep into the wilderness. I stepped onto the trail and suddenly heard the trees come alive with the calls and cries of animals.

I heard another sound, which seemed to be the mournful cry of some sad and pathetic creature coming from deep inside the jungle, sending chills pulsating throughout my body.

Yet, I continued to walk deeper into the jungle as if unable to control my body’s movements. It was surrealistic, and for a moment, I wondered if I might be dreaming. I passed through the jungle along the winding path without being accosted and eventually exited the massive wall of tall trees to find myself at the base of the extensive mountain range.

In the distance, at the base of the nearest mountain, I saw a large opening to what appeared to be a cave. I would have missed this had it not been for the eerie fluorescent blue glow emanating from inside, causing the opening to look like a giant pale blue eye against the blackness of the mountain face.

I walked toward the opening having no more idea why than I had when I walked through the jungle. Behind me, I could hear that unidentifiable mournful cry, which a chorus of similar cries had now joined. I felt as if they were trying to warn me against going inside the cave.

However, I knew nothing would stop me as I was drawn into the cave. Strangely, the glowing blue light seemed to calm me in a way I couldn’t begin to explain. Yet the closer I got to the iridescent opening, the louder the warning cries from deep in the jungle became.

I turned and saw hundreds of pairs of silvery red eyes glimmering in the blackness. I took a deep breath and passed through the cavernous entrance.

7

Upon entering the cavern, I was bathed in a wash of blinding blue-white light. I felt a tingling sensation on the surface of my skin as if my flesh was being somehow electrostatically cleansed of all germs and offensive particulates. I felt cleaner than I had ever been in my life. Even the inside of my mouth and my teeth felt cleansed. It was as if I had just returned from having them professionally cleaned at a dentist, only even more so.

Looking downward, I realized I was naked. I had no idea where my clothing had gone or how I had ended up in this state. Oddly, I was neither embarrassed nor concerned; it seemed like this was the only appropriate way for me to be presented in such a place.

I had an understanding that this primitive jungle habitat was a place that existed millions of years earlier, just before the dawn of mankind. This was part of the knowledge the 11:11 beings wanted to pass on to me.

I stepped forward out of the brightest of the light. I took in everything as if time itself had ceased to exist. Like the biblical convert, Saul had expressed his own experience on the road to Damascus, the scales likewise fell from my eyes, and I could see everything anew, and I understood the truth.

The inside of the cave appeared to be a laboratory or hospital; however, more organic. In front of me was what seemed to be an operating table, but not made of stainless steel or covered in a white sheet as expected. It appeared to be constructed of something flesh-like in nature.

When I looked closely at its surface, it seemed alive and even appeared to pulsate. Somehow I understood this thing was not a sentient being, although it was active in the same sense as a plant or tree is alive. This was some living, fleshy tissue that could be molded into whatever shape required. These skin-like tables were not anchored to the cavern floor but seemed to hover just a few inches above the ground.

Next to the table was a cart made of the same flesh-like tissue. It held a variety of operating tools, such as forceps, clamps, and scalpels, as well as an assortment of syringes. These implements were made of some yellowish-white material resembling bone.

Behind the operating table were cages constructed of similar fleshy material, while the round elements forming the bars of the cells were made of the same bone-like composite as the tools. The cavern periphery was lined with dozens of cages. Likewise, similar operating tables stretched out as far as I could see.

Every cage contained an animal of some type, likely retrieved from the surrounding jungle. There were birds, lizards, monkeys, gorillas, cougars, tigers, and many others.

However, I discovered the cages weren’t the only things occupied; the operating tables contained animals, or perhaps they were something else. I looked again at the closest table and saw what resembled a chimpanzee strapped to the undulating surface of the table. Upon closer examination, I’d have had to say it only partially looked like a chimpanzee. It looked more like some sort of ape/human hybrid.

There appeared to be countless tubes sticking out from the creature’s body, leading to a square fleshy box mounted on top of one of the nearby utility carts. The lines appeared to be made of a plant-like translucent substance. The creature turned its eyes toward me as a restraining device held its head securely in place. I was caught off guard by the level of intelligence I saw in the creature’s pleading eyes.

Flowing through the translucent tubes was a variety of brightly colored luminescent liquids ranging from red to blue to yellow and green. I realized the strange tubes were some sort of living organism reminiscent of some worm-like things, and the fluid was being forced through them by the tubular microorganisms’ pulsating actions. At the ends of the tubes where they attached to the creature’s flesh, the line spread out like a series of webbed fingers buried under the creature’s skin.

I looked over at the next table, and a similar scenario was playing out, but this time it was with a large bird-like creature whose feathers had been completely removed, leaving it a barren fleshy carcass. It, too, looked at me with a surrounding level of understanding.

I looked out over the vast expanse of the laboratory seeing dozens of these tables all occupied with strange creatures in various stages being fed by these horrible biological machines. I suspected that if I were to walk deeper into the darker recesses of the cave, they would light up and reveal similar tables. I understood there were likely hundreds, if not thousands, of these inhumane experiments in this horror cavern.

8

A moment later, I felt as though someone was watching me. I turned to see several dozen creatures entering the illuminated section of the cave through a darkened side passageway. They glowed with the same effervescence permeating the cave. These creatures were well over seven feet tall and extremely thin. They were reminiscent of those creatures known as “Grays” depicted in the numerous alien and space invader movies, except these were much taller.

Their arms and legs were long, awkward-looking, and spindly. Likewise, their necks were twice as long as a typical human’s, and they miraculously managed to hold up heads that were large and bulbous in nature. Their eyes were two enormous black oval orbs tilted slightly upward at an angle. Their faces had two small holes where I suspected their noses should have been, and their mouths seemed small slits from this distance.

They began to fan out in various directions within the cave without speaking, yet their motions seemed choreographed. I realized they were not walking but floating a few inches above the ground. They systematically moved from table to table, taking samples, adjusting tubes, and apparently monitoring the status of the strange mutated creatures on the tables. They appeared to be ignoring me or simply felt I was of no consequence to them.

I suddenly felt a presence behind me and turned to stare into one of the creature’s flat, noseless face and large, soulless eyes. Its glowing skin was extremely smooth in appearance. The creature looked down at me with an expression I took for curiosity.

Its lip-less slit of a mouth never opened, yet I could still hear its thoughts as if it were speaking to me. It wasn’t communicating with me with words as it was projecting images, emotions, and in some cases, entire concepts into my mind at a speed I had never imagined.

What I saw was the very origins of mankind itself. I was looking into the face of what our ancient ancestors must have thought of as gods. These other-worldly creatures were taking animals and infusing them with their genetic material to create an entirely new species; homo-sapiens, mankind, us.b

It was an extraterrestrial version of the old movie “The Island Of Dr. Moreau.” These beings were creating the human race from animals.

Then suddenly, everything began to make sense to me regarding what I had seen in the parking lot of the fast-food place. I knew why the 11:11 beings had caused me to see the frog cashier and the other person as a bird. Then there were the three boys, each with unique animal-like appearances. I had been given the gift of sight beyond sight, the ability to see the human species for what it was as it had originally existed.

It all became clear. I remembered how often I had met people and immediately noticed how much they resembled animals. It also helped explain why cartoonists such as Walt Disney had successfully personified their cartoon animals to resemble humans. Perhaps the 11:11 beings had given them insight into the reality I now understood.

I had looked into the faces of our creators. I had been given the most secret and perhaps most sacred of all knowledge; the very origin of mankind. This also helped me better understand aggression and why it seems so hard to tame our inner animal.

In nature, there are predators and prey. Likewise, within humankind, there are aggressors, and there are victims. I suddenly had a vision appear inside my mind. It was the image of my face, as it exists in its human form. Then as I watched, the image began to morph into something resembling a cross between a human and a panther or perhaps a cougar. Whatever the exact nature of the beast was, it was most definitely a member of the big game cat family. These beings told me I had descended from one of these creatures; a predatory cat.

I now understood why man tended to behave as violently as he did. These 11:11 beings apparently could create a new race of creatures in their own image, but they couldn’t successfully remove the savage animal essence from us. They assumed millions of years of evolution might take care of this, but they were mistaken. Religion couldn’t do it, nor could man’s laws or even the threat of execution stop the violent animal within man.

But the question, which still remained, was why had I been chosen to learn this? It must be my writing skills. They expected me to write their story and pass it on to the rest of the world.

In my earlier contact with these beings, they had provided me with stories, which resulted in my wealth and fame. They had deliberately offered me the resources to put me in a position where I could do exactly what they wanted. I could use my notoriety to spread their word, to be, in essence, a disciple of their doctrine. And that was exactly what I planned to do. But then, somehow, I got sidetracked. I began to succumb to my inner beast, my true self. And that’s when things started to go horribly wrong.

9

I woke up the next morning to the sound of someone banging on my front door. I tried ignoring the knocking, but it persisted. I stumbled out of bed, tired and miserable. I glanced over at the clock on the nightstand and saw it was 11:01

 Apparently, the 11:11 beings had something else for me to learn, but whatever that might be, it would have to wait until I got rid of whoever was beating down my front door.

I had been sleeping late because I was recovering from a major binge the previous night. No one could blame me; after all I had been through and everything I had learned. As angry as a hibernating bear poked with a stick, I approached the door.

I yanked open the door and suddenly stopped in surprise. Standing on my doorstep was a slight, rail-thin man. He had a large long muzzle of a nose and an equally long, thin neck. He carried a suitcase with him and appeared to be a door-to-door salesman.

He wore black shoes, brown pants, a white shirt, and a red bowtie. My first thought was to tell him to go away and slam the door in his face, but something I couldn’t quite identify told me not to be so brash but instead to wait and see what transpired. I recalled the 11:01 sighting in my bedroom. Perhaps the beings wanted me to see this thing through for a bit.

Before I could ask him what he wanted, the little man announced he was selling an “organic vegetarian food delivery service plan.” On the pocket of his shirt was a logo consisting of a cluster of carrots and the name “Naturally Natural Organic Vegetable Service.”

I’ve always hated vegetables. I’m a carnivore and having learned what I had learned the previous day, all of this meat-eating suddenly made perfect sense. Why would I care about anything but meat if I were descended from panthers, jaguars, lions, or cougars?

I was suddenly, almost uncontrollably hungry for fresh meat, not just for fresh or rare meat but raw meat dripping with blood. I’ve always enjoyed my steak on the rare side but never anything too much in the realm of, say, steak tartare.

But suddenly, I felt a longing for raw, completely uncooked meat. I looked down at the little man, and my senses heightened to a level I had never anticipated. I wasn’t only looking at this man, but I was looking through him and sensing his presence in new ways.

I could smell his slightly mint-tinged breath and his body cologne with a slight trace of perspiration, even several feet away. The scent of him was making my mouth water. I could hear the man’s blood pulsating as it coursed through his veins, and unbelievably, I could smell and almost taste it. These sensations were driving me absolutely mad with hunger.

It took every ounce of willpower to keep me from bending down, tearing off his large nose, and swallowing it whole. I stared at him for a moment in utter amazement, afraid to move, fearful of what I might do if I did move.

The man’s ears were large, pointing upward, and his big eyes were spaced widely apart. He had a pencil-thin mustache, which stood out like whiskers on both sides of his lip, and he displayed some sort of nervous tick, which made the tip of his nose occasionally twitch when he spoke. At first, I thought it was no wonder he represented an organic vegetable service; he looked more like a timid little bunny rabbit than a man. Then as I watched, his countenance began to transform before my eyes. His face became that of a rabbit, and the man’s visage was gone. Then a moment later, the man’s face returned.

I looked at the digital clock on my living room video recorder and realized it was 11:11am. I instantly knew what I had to do. I understood the reasons for the cravings and these heightened senses. I needed to accept my true self; I was born a predator and a hunter.

I stepped away from the door and invited the little unsuspecting creature into my home. I told him to sit on the sofa while I went and got myself a cup of coffee. Since he said he hated coffee, I told him I would bring him a cold bottle of water. He looked displeased, but I really didn’t care. Bunny Man’s fragile sensitivities were the least of my concerns. Yes, that was how I began to think of him as Bunny Man.

After returning with my coffee and the water bottle, I sat down. He said he’d like to show me the products he had to offer. It was quite disturbing watching his face change back and forth from human to rabbit, but I knew that soon, none of that would matter. I was starving! As he reached to place his water on the coffee table, I took a large plastic bag I had hidden behind my back and pulled it down over his rabbit head.

The little creature began to kick, scream, and struggle, but he was prey, and I was the predator. After a few minutes, his bunny eyes began to bug out as the last of his oxygen ran out, and he died. This filled me with an incredible sense of euphoria. I looked at the clock, and it read 11:22am. – exactly eleven minutes from when this prey entered my den until he was dead. Not bad for my first kill.

Then I dragged the little man down into my basement. It was large but almost empty except for a few items I had placed there over the previous months. When I purchased the things and made modifications to the basement, I had no real idea why I was doing so. It had just seemed like a good idea. Apparently, the 11:11 people guided me in this direction even back then. I had installed a large stainless steel two-door freezer, an indoor slop sink, and an eight-by-three-foot stainless steel table. Nearby there was a smaller stainless steel cart with various electric carpentry tools. I had brought down a box of large freezer bags and a permanent marker.

I had no idea how difficult it would be to dismember a corpse using a hacksaw. I realized it would probably be much better to use the circular saw I had purchased, as it would be a more efficient way of removing appendages, although the splatter resulting from the high-speed blade was a lot messier. When I was finished, I had a hose ready to wash down the area. Fortunately, I had chosen to use a high gloss paint, which cleaned up very easily.

I realized my first order of business had to be satisfying my rising blood lust. I immediately tore off a few sections of the creature’s flesh and muscle and then ate them raw. This single act created a sensation that could only be described as somewhere beyond ecstasy.

When I regained control of my emotions, I used the freezer bags I had brought down to conveniently store the remaining body parts and meat sections for freezing. I labeled them with things like “Bunny Man Hand” or “Bunny Man Foot” and so on, along with the day’s date. One must always keep freshness in mind when freezing meat.

Now I’m sure a lot of you probably think there must be something wrong with me for me to commit what society might see as not only a heinous crime but a taboo act, but you are sadly mistaken. I was not then, nor am I now insane. On the contrary, I saw my true self and embraced my origins. Once the scales were removed from my eyes, I saw the truth. And the fact was not insanity; it was simply reality.

10

“Bunny Man” may have been my first but not my last. Several days later, having grown tired of the taste of rabbit, I decided to once again go on the hunt for some other inferior species. As it worked out, I discovered I had a craving for fowl.

I waited until dark, then drove down to the seedier part of town to find the appropriate solution to my longing. I drove past the corners where prostitutes were known to pedal their wears and discovered the streetwalkers were out early that evening.

That night, a wide assortment of human animals occupied the street corners, including simians, rabbits, reptiles, and many others. I drove around the corner hoping for something much more delectable, and there she was, standing under the fading amber glow of a failing streetlight, a plump, meaty harlot who resembled an overstuffed Cornish game hen. My mouth immediately began to salivate.

I pulled over to the curb. The tramp waddled over to the door as I looked down at the digital clock, which read 9:09 pm. Yes. Two nines, this must be the one. I opened the door, and she flopped clumsily inside, wheezing as she struggled to get comfortable. She closed the door, and I immediately punched her in the face slamming her head against the side window and knocking her out cold.

I drove home, carefully obeying all the speed limits and traffic signs. The last thing I needed was some cop to pull me over with a deliciously plump unconscious game hen hooker in my car.

Easing up my driveway, I slid my car into the darkness of the garage, then closed the door quickly behind me. It took all my strength to drag the unconscious hen out of the car and over to the basement steps. As I arrived, she started waking up and muttering a string of barely audible obscenities at me. With one good, strategically placed kick, the corpulent capon flew down the stairs, flipping head over heels and landing on the concrete floor with a sharp crack as her pudgy neck snapped, killing her instantly.

For the record, she was absolutely delicious once she had been washed and then properly sliced and diced. I had no idea I had missed such amazing delicacies for so long. The 11:11 beings had opened my eyes to a reality no human could appreciate.

For the next several months, I entertained every one of my gastronomic cravings. I hunted, killed, and devoured so many creatures that I lost track of exactly how many. I was the king of my jungle. I wanted this feeling to last forever.

11

As is often the case in life, all good things must end. In hindsight, had I done what I originally believed the beings had wanted me to do and written a book about what they had taught me of the origins of humanity, perhaps they would have found a way to protect me? I can’t help but wonder if my getting hung up on the hunt and the taste of the flesh of lesser creatures somehow angered these 11:11 beings. Maybe they allowed things to go bad for me to punish me. I suppose I may never know.

It had been almost a year since my encounter with the 11:11 beings. One day when I was once again sleeping late as all good big game hunting cats do after a successful kill, a loud and demanding knock came on my front door. Still not completely awake, I stumbled to the front door, angry and practically growling. I yanked it open harshly, determined to tear the throat out of whoever had disturbed my rest.

I stood in both shocked amazement and confusion, looking up at the two huge burly-looking dog-faced police officers who were waiting on the other side of the door. One bore an amazing resemblance to a British bulldog, while the other looked more like a bloodhound. Behind them were several others. One resembled a large ape, and another looked like a bear. The bloodhound-looking cop held out a piece of paper in his paw/hand, thrusting it forward and telling me it was a warrant for my arrest for murder.

Murder? What was this idiot talking about? I hadn’t murdered anyone. Murder was a crime reserved for one human being killing another. Didn’t they realize what a ridiculous accusation this was? Their stupid human laws didn’t apply to me or to my kind. Couldn’t they see that? I hadn’t murdered anyone; all I did was hunt for my food as any good stalking cat would. That was well within the accepted laws of nature.

Breaking out of my shocked stupor, I started to protest, but before I could get a word out, I found my hands being roughly pulled behind my back and could feel the cold of steel and the pinch of handcuffs locking around my wrists. Didn’t these inferior beasts know whom they were dealing with?

Then I realized they likely didn’t. I suspected there wasn’t a single reader among the herd of them. But surely they had seen my movies. Then again, I recalled how most people paid little attention to the credits and knew nothing about who had written the screenplays for the film, no matter how successful.

“This is all some sort of big unfortunate misunderstanding,” I said but was quickly stopped from speaking by a large horse-faced officer who came up from my left and proceeded to read me my Miranda rights while another officer, a big hairy ape, looked on angrily.

Within a few minutes, a small army of cops poured into my home, tearing the place apart. An officer dragged me out to a waiting police cruiser and then unceremoniously dumped me into the back seat, slamming the door tightly behind me. If I could have slipped out of my cuffs, I would have started killing them one by one. Although I’m certain I would have been killed in the struggle, I might have at least had the opportunity to take some of them with me. In hindsight, perhaps death would have been a better alternative than what eventually happened.

The police found my special food preparation and storage area in the basement, my butchering table, and all my cutting tools. As it turned out, they were all apparently quite upset by the discovery. Several officers, young pups by their looks, dared to rush out of the house and vomit on my precisely manicured front lawn.

Later they drove me to a local precinct and dropped me off at a small interrogation room, where I sat alone for several hours. After that, detectives came into the room, and the questions began. I refused to answer a single one until I first had an opportunity to consult with my attorney. I didn’t know any criminal lawyers, but I figured I could have my publisher contact someone from his legal department and have him find me the best mouthpiece money could buy. But no matter how I protested, my words fell on deaf ears. It didn’t seem to matter to the officers, who refused to allow me to call anyone. What the hell was going on? Wasn’t I still in America?

Shocked and dismayed, I learned that my case had been handed over to a court-appointed attorney just moments before my arraignment. This whole thing had gone beyond the point of ridiculous. I repeatedly protested that I could afford the very best and demanded to hire the most successful defense attorney in town.

However, they would have none of that. Moreover, the really bizarre part of the story is that every person of authority I encountered insisted that I was destitute and couldn’t afford a lawyer. Hence, the reason for the court-appointed attorney. Were they insane? How could everyone keep insisting that I was penniless? I was starting to wonder if the 11:11 people might have transported me to another planet or parallel dimension.

During my subsequent arraignment, I tried to explain my dissatisfaction with my legal representation to the judge, a delicious-looking owl-like female creature who I would have gladly made my next meal. The judge told me that if I was unhappy with my current representation, she would find me another, but I had to accept one sooner or later. She, too, insisted I had no money to pay my own lawyer. I had to wonder what sort of conspiracy was being concocted against me.

Then after some time, I figured it all out; a conspiracy was exactly what had occurred. Someone or, more likely multiple people, probably the same people who were now prosecuting me, had seized this opportunity to somehow hijack my bank accounts and, as such, had stolen all of my money. That owl-faced bitch of a judge was probably in on it as well; maybe a few of the cops and other law enforcement types. That was the only explanation for why someone as wealthy as myself could suddenly find himself in such a financial quandary. They had all conspired to steal my fortune.

I quickly turned and whispered my theory to my court-appointed weasely-looking attorney, who didn’t seem to take my complaints seriously. In fact, he seemed to be leaning back away from me as if I was producing a foul smell or something. I was aghast. Was this really the person appointed to look out for my well-being? It was obvious he had no interest in helping me whatsoever. I realized that he might even have been involved in the whole conspiracy.

Then instead of assisting me in getting bail or even speaking up on my behalf, he insisted that I have a session in front of a court psychiatrist who, by the way, I now also believe was part of the plot to discredit me and steal my money. Initially, I trusted the good doctor even though he looked a bit like a fox with his long pointed snout and small eyes. However, he did little to help my cause; in fact, this doctor had the audacity to label me as a delusional, psychotic, schizophrenic, homicidal maniac. 

It did little to appease him, even after telling him all about the 11:11 beings and how they told me about my proper place in life. I then gave him a detailed explanation about the origins of mankind and how I was not a murderer but was simply hunting for my food which my race has been doing since the dawn of time. I mean, how much simpler could I have explained things to him? He, too, seemed to back away from me every time I spoke. Now that I think about it, everyone I met acted the same way. It was crazy the way they were treating me. Yet, like the others, this doctor had the nerve to look at me as if I was the one who was insane.

If there was anything even slightly good the doctor did for me, it was to have me declared incompetent to stand trial. I suppose, as ludicrous as that may sound, it did at least keep me from both going on trial for murder and from being thrown in prison.

I doubt I would have lasted very long among the general population. I might be fine one-on-one, but I wouldn’t have survived in a cluster of several dozen creatures or more. Instead, they put me somewhere else. I’m not exactly sure where I am now, but I know I’m alone in my small room and have had no contact with others except for my co-writer and weekly sessions with another psychiatrist.

The food isn’t too bad, and they don’t seem to mind when I skip most vegetables. They’ve even been nice enough to serve my meat rare, not as raw as I would prefer, but it’s acceptable. I have no close relatives I might contact to assist me, even if I could get the people in charge of this place to give me access to a telephone, which they won’t. I continually ask to speak to my publisher, but they insist I have none. This is all very frustrating at times.

A few months ago, they told me about some unknown writer who wanted to interview me and write a book or novella about my story. I figured I had nothing to lose. At least I might have the opportunity to bring some attention not only to my own plight but it would also be an opportunity to get the 11:11 people’s message out there. I was even hoping that if they saw me doing something to spread their word, they might find some way to help me and get me out of this strange place.

Well, now you all know what I know. I hope my coauthor has been able to tell my story and explain the injustice perpetrated against me. He has promised to allow me to see the final product and edit it as I see fit. However, as long as I’m locked in here, there’s little I can do to prevent him from treating me badly in print if he should choose to do so. I suppose I’m as much at his mercy as I am with my captors. This is not the life someone descended from such noble beasts should endure. Unfortunately, it’s the only life I now have.

Coauthor’s Epilogue

This is Anthony T. D’Angelo, the so-called coauthor of this account. My purpose for this epilogue is to clarify a few things for you. I felt it necessary to understand the truth behind the story you’ve just read. First, let me state that there is no coauthor arrangement between myself and the unnamed subject of this account. I am the sole author of this work.

The anonymous narrator of this story is a real person; however, he wasn’t involved in the actual writing of this piece. When I set out to write it, I intended to make it sound as if it had come directly from the subject, so I chose to write it in the first person. Had I allowed the subject to write or even co-write the work, you would have never been able to follow the storyline because there would have been none, at least not one you could have even attempted to understand. You see, he tends to ramble and speak in a non-linear and illogical fashion, which only he can comprehend; at least, I think he can.

Creating this work required me to sift through the jumbles of information he dictated throughout several months’ worth of interviews. Next, I had to try to make sense of it all before turning it into a story that most normal, sane people would understand. 

As I mentioned, in this narrative, I was writing as if I were the subject of the story, and as such, I had this character tell you some untrue things that, in his mind, were completely real. This also helped with the evolution of the story.

I took extensive notes while he sat across the room from me, flapping his gums relentlessly, waving his arms maniacally, and spewing out one insane monologue after another, consisting of nothing more than rambling streams of consciousness. If I could make it sound like the narrator was normal, intelligent, and sane, it might make the account’s ending even more powerful.

This project was something I just chose to do because it seemed viable, at least initially. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. After spending time with him, I felt no shower in the world could make me clean again. That sort of emotional filth never seems to wash off.

The subject of this story isn’t a famous author, nor is he rich. The man is destitute, practically homeless, and most definitely insane. Although he has indeed written mountains of manuscripts, they are all rubbish, consisting of typical rambling, incoherent half-thoughts. It’s no wonder he has never managed to get even one of his works published. His stacks of rejection slips actually do rival his piles of unpublished manuscripts.

If I told you his name, you might recognize it, however not so much for his being famous as for his being infamous. You may recall it from national news stories several years ago, or you might not. As was typical, his sort of notoriety tends to be short-lived and quickly forgotten. You likely may recognize and recall his misdeeds, but his name will fade into oblivion, which is perfectly fine with me. I’ve chosen not to identify him because, in my opinion, although his story is quite interesting in a sick and twisted way, he doesn’t deserve any additional notoriety for his sordid crimes.

As I said earlier, he is quite mad and resides at the Danesville home for the criminally insane in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, where he will likely spend the remainder of his miserable life.

When I heard about his murderous and cannibalistic spree, I followed his arrest and internment news in the local media. After his commitment to the mental institution, I decided he might be an interesting subject for a book or at least a novella. It took several years and hundreds of phone calls, letters, and emails to various officials before arranging to meet with him. You might wonder why I would go to such trouble. The bottom line was I felt someone needed to attempt to comprehend and present what this lunatic was thinking, what motivated him to do what he had done. The result of that endeavor was the story you’ve just read.

Think about it for a moment. This character was a failed writer who couldn’t get anything published. He spent his entire life living in poverty. To cope with his failure and the waste of his whole life, I suspect he began to fantasize about a life he never had.

He was a squatter living in an abandoned factory building in one of the worst parts of the city. His only possessions were the boxes of his unpublished books and stories; and, of course, his rejection slips.

However, he did have a combination torture chamber butcher shop in one of the basement levels of the abandoned factory, but it wasn’t as clean or well-equipped as he had fantasized. Imagine a dirt floor, cement block basement with no electricity, water, windows, or ventilation. Now imagine months and months’ worth of splattered blood, rotting human remains, severed limbs, and sections of raw meat, all in various stages of decomposition.

I’ve spared you quite a bit of the gore in this story, which was the reality of his crimes. I aimed to provide an overview of a few accounts of his heinous acts. There were actually so many murders, one more unspeakable than the next. 

Someday when details of the horrifying murders are documented, there will be enough stories of madness and cannibalism to fill a thousand-page novel. I suspect I’ll just leave that work to someone else when that day comes.

So the next time you look at the digital clock on your microwave oven, you notice the numbers 11:11 or 4:44 or maybe even 12:34. Who knows? Perhaps someone is trying to get your attention. I most certainly hope to God they aren’t.