Scary Little Green Men (exert)

 

Scary Little Green Men:

 

South Africa is not a country to promote their conspiracy theories; some might say they don’t exist, no bigfoot, no Area 51, none of the traditional trimmings flooding the internet either but the truth to their secrets lay hidden in the confusion of misinformation. Where is the divide between a scary story of ghosts, witches and horrible monsters and government conspiracies, crypto zoology and scary little green men?

I hope to discover and define that because I believe Africa is the scariest place on earth and all that which lives off the map, dwells in the darkness, hides in the shadows, remains locked up in a secret facility and truly scares people has been concentrated to South Africa. Rest assured the country has its fair share of haunting, covens, zombies and supernatural phenomena but nobody wants to talk about the other side of the conspiracy coin. I’ll give it a go.

So this is Xmas (exert)

 

So this is Xmas:

For very human being on planet Earth December is the season of festivity that brings everyone together to celebrate in whichever manner they choose to observe the day we call Xmas; ergo my preferred spelling the multitudinous incarnations and historical plagiarism patchwork that assembles this holiday is agreeable as the one day every year people celebrate being people. With every passing year I appreciate more of the universal appeal, forego less of the ridiculous notion Christmas, when spelled this way is a curse and reminisce with memories good and bad of the Decembers past I have experienced.  

 

Christmas best serves the imaginations of children; my favourite festive holidays were those spent under a big tree rummaging through mountains of gift wrapped boxes while stuffing my face with candied assortments in the company of family. The excitement of it all fills the memories of a happy carefree youth. We had not a care in the world until the AA batteries in that cool new toy ran flat. Those are my most treasured Christmas memories that, admittedly I experienced again briefly in my young adult life but let’s keep them safely locked away in the memory chest for now.

 

Death came for Yule and took with him some good people. I recall several consecutive years when loved ones were lost and the spirit and cheer along with them, more than three in a row is a curse but let’s not dwell on superstitions because it’s Christmas time. 

 

Dear Santa

III

I hope this letter finds you in sober spirits as I write it on the eleventh hour on the eve of Christmas. My sincere pardon for my absence as a matter of a personal nature arose suddenly in the aftermath of that freak deluge. While I cannot excuse my non appearance for the festive season I can offer a most appropriate reason; why settle for just one celebration?

Krampus Yule or Christ Saturnalia, it matters not to the gift giver and receivers because tis the season and family celebrates everything in whichever capacity required. I do not wish to steal your thunder, Santa is important too but I would venture to suggest sharing the work load as proviso o

Previously suggested by our mutual friend Jack Skeli

Skellington. Leave people to believe what they will, everyone benefits from a shared load. Relax a little, things are under control post pandemic. Have another drink, check your list again and send all the surplus coal to Eskom – they need every piece…

In saying that I have a Xmas favour to ask of your merry elves and their gnomish bretheren; please leave the snowman’s penis where it rests.

Your Friend

J. west a aw r xcc cvbnvb mgh

 

It was the night before Christmas where before a type writer I sat observing my dearest wife prepare the meals ahead.

An interruption occurred when our resident teenager announce the bonfire BBQ was about to go out.

‘I’m using my good shit,’ my darling commented, ‘taking it all out for dinner tonight.’

I sipped on my gin with a festive of grin, watching the festivities unfold.

Smoked paprika added in error, extra seasoning just for good measure when the freshly ground pepper caught the sniff and the sneeze…

‘Another gin.’ I declared with much excitement filling the kitchen air. Pots boiling on the stove, objectives assigned to the children in tow. All were delighted; all were at peace, some even enjoying a social media reprieve. Spelling and grammar are in error, please excuse the antiquated machinery.

‘You bastard.’

 

  

Intentions (Exert)

 

Dearest Catherine

I trust this letter finds you in good standing. I write to you offering my deepest condolences upon hearing news of your beloved William’s passing, truly he was a magnificent Carassius auratus and a treasured member of your clan. Regrettably I am unable to attend William’s eulogy as my poor health prohibits any travel I may have planned. Fortuitous diagnosis from Papa Legba, remarkable practitioner of traditional medicine, is my Veisalgia is in remission however I am in mild discomfort thinking about the gin inventory that is beginning to run low, please send replenishments at your soonest convenience.

Further news I have none since our previous correspondence, thank you again for your thought provoking insights on the stimulatory contributions of Psilocybe cubensis. As per your request I am in discussion with the local herbalist to procure both Sativa and Indica seeds for your spice garden, I am told the finest and rarest strains are difficult to acquire in the civilized world.

Sincerest

William      

Escape Africa (15)

 

15. Wastelands:

‘There are two sides to every brain, a Left and a Right
that are not the same.’

‘Left is more sensible, functional and critical. Left
makes decision of control and rational.’

‘Right is chaotic, expressive and fun.’ ‘Right ignores
serious and prefers to have fun.’

‘Left is the adult mind trained to ensure living where
Right the child content with is ‘alive’?’

‘Two half tasked with keeping one whole remain in
conflict and disagreement when tasked with the same thing.’ The door slammed
suddenly shut with nobody present to witness it. Time stolen cannot be
reclaimed, time taken becomes due. Well here we are again, alone with the
universe having restored all that went unbalanced. A necessary balance kept
between the living and the dead. ‘Not unless you’ve lost your purpose in life
will you take your own life and enter into the hall of suicide.’ ‘I’m just here
to work then I’m gone.’ ‘As am I god but you still owe Hell a Nehalem soul.’

‘I’ll bring one soon enough.’ The feeling of darkened
existence came from the air Arthur breathed. The hall of suicides sucked all
that is living from the souls lining it’s never ending passage, every soul
within had willingly taken their own life and surrendered everything that is
the soul to the nothing of eternity. He was now one such soul, an empty shell
echoing despair, tragedy and sorrow. Souls of suicide are haunted by the sounds
of abandonment that resonate through the hollow vessels of the former life now
wasted in death. Arthur neither stirred nor spoke when he finally found him;
blank was his eternal punishment and penance. His eyes washed over Joseph, his
hand lifted and pointed westward, his mouth whispered breathless. ‘Follow.’  Slowly they travelled across the wastelands of
eternity to find the judgement. The immortals expecting their arrival showed
distaste. ‘A fallen reaper brings a soul of suicide before us expecting
judgement. Arthur you are banished from existence and cannot seek the judgement
of the immortals; why do you bring this soul before us?’

‘He is a soul facing punishment for suicide, that I do
not ask judgement for. He is still bound to earth by the knowledge he
possesses,’ ‘We have all knowledge, we are all knowledge, ask your question,’

‘There is a weapon stolen from earth brought to Hell that
I need find,’ ‘Your petty quest does not interest us.’ ‘My quest is my
redemption not my question.’ ‘Speak fallen reaper, ask your question,’

‘Can this suicide be justified if the act was done in
self preservation?’

‘The fallen reaper speaks true; no harm can come to this
soul until it again faces judgement. Go reaper, return this soul to earth.’ All
that remained of a decent man was about to die. One final memory recalled,
remembered and forgotten. He never resented anything because many time
throughout the experience he felt isolated. His mother praised him in piety,
her failed aspirations burdened onto the head of her son – he was never to
aspire and she showed no disappointment, none that ever noticed. His father was
ghost among the living. ‘There is no name for what I am, I have seen beyond
heaven and passed through places Hell doesn’t know exists. I have gone beyond
life and existed outside of death, beyond the universe and time. I have faced
my demons, faced other demons and known no victory from either encounter. I
have been everything and I have been nothing at all; touched by both the hand
of God and the barbs of beast unknown. You think magic exists in supernatural
forms yet you cannot fathom how real their magic is. What I have seen, what I
have done and that which I have had interactions with are a torment I wish upon
no man. There are noises in the in the dark made you do not want to fathom as
there are things contained within the living universe you dare not dream or
imagine. I am not of this world; I am of a place unknown and I hate my very
being for it. I won’t warn you nor encourage you nor will I bother to help. I
keep my visions and secrets locked away so they can rot someday in my grave
with me. I am a god walking among curious insects; do not tempt beyond yourself
as you may be taken somewhere you had never wished to go.’

 

I never went back to South Africa; I never found peace.
Ballrack walked into the darkness and I never saw him again. London is my home
now, the residence for my last days of life before I too enter into the
darkness. London is one of the ancients; I knew I would return to her, at the
end of my life. But time is enough for my retelling; I wish my ending were
happier, sometimes we are not destined to overcome and yet we manage to survive.
I, Nathaniel Bartholomew, am done.

Escape Africa (14)

 

14. Ballrack:

It’s difficult to understand a troll, so many modern
misconceptions through misrepresentation that people i.e. the human race would
literally shit themselves on first contact with real life troll. I met Ballrack
in the acceptable twenty first century method of social interaction; social
media. Believe it or not I was, for lack of decency, “trolling” various forums
when I struck some juicy click-bait material. One of those sensational links
that cock-tease your cursor to scroll through the internet garbage to reach the
disappointing story page of uninteresting celebrity nonsense.
Ballrack_the_troll was a screen name; everyone online lies about the real
character right?     

Our troll friend was accidentally unearthed, literally,
during a recent anthropological excavation in Sub-Saharan Africa. Standing shy
of 20 ft Ballrack is a large southern hemisphere cave troll, he’s a few
thousand years old and unassuming in appearance. In truth our human perception
and representation of trolls physiologically is absolutely wrong. Ballrack is
at first glance a very tall looking man with proportionate features and not
discernible mutations, trolls are not the monstrous dim witted oafs illustrated
in children’s fairytales.  

Escape Africa (12)

 

12. Shadow People:

It began in my childhood, this haunting curse tethered to
my spirit, the moment they arrived. Shadow people as I later discovered,
clearly recalling two figures standing in the doorway of my parent’s bedroom
staring at a terrified child desperately burrowing deeper beneath the covers. I
remember to shapes silhouette from the light coming from the bathroom, one
adult and one child standing motionless. They did no harm to me, they did not
move; It was as if they stood silent watching me, a feeling I sense to this
present day whenever there are shadows in the darkness. I never saw them again,
at least not in that form or in that doorway or during my childhood years. I
did encounter shadow people again, as a presence unseen in the dark corner of a
room watching me as I slept or maybe disturbing me from sleep. Sometimes I felt
their presence during times of personal tragedy but I cannot conclude anything
more than I would on occasion feel a presence watching me from the dark corner
just beyond the corner of my glimpsing eye. They still make me feel unsafe but
never have they harmed me. There was a definite wind blown into my ear as if
someone had stood beside me, taken a deep breath and blown a short sharp gust
into my right ear. I almost crapped my pants. It was a mild sunny afternoon
just before the official arrival of spring time in my mid adolescent period, I
was at home studied, or what resembled it, for my year end exams. Deeply
focused on whatever the subject material was I was blank to everything around
me, including my cat performing a vocalized rub up against my leg and then a
more prominent demand for attention by leaping onto my study desk t sit dead
centre of my study sheets. A light head scratching appeased her felineness as I
shooed her along. I remember our first meeting. I was a boy of five, maybe six
years of age wrestling with sleepless nights in a new house my family had moved
into. My troubled sleep found comfort in the middle of the giant double bed in
my parent’s bedroom. Nestled between mom and dad I felt safe. One night I could
not settle into sleep, laying in bed between my parents the dim light from the
hallway shone through their open door. Standing in the doorway were two shadow
figures, one adult and one child; clear edged outlined shapes standing
motionless staring at me. I felt nothing, no fear nor dread to familiarity. I
saw them as they saw me and within that moment I quietly fell asleep. After
that night I occasionally saw shadows move across doorways in a brief glimpse
from the corner of my eye or I watched shadows move within shadows like an
effect of illusion. Sometimes in dark spaces I felt their presence in the
shadows surrounding me. I never attempted interaction, as I kid I was nervous
of them and I sensed they were following me. I saw them again in my teen years.
I woke one night from an uneasy haze of summer heat to see a single shadow
figure crouching on the floor beside my bed. I lay on my side facing the window
staring blanking at this shadow in full form crouching. It paused, turned as if
to look at me when again I saw it as it saw me then it was gone. I knew we had
acknowledged each other’s presence. At moment later the shadow stood upright on
the outside of my bedroom window before vanishing into the darkness. Thereafter
my viewing of these shadows was limited to the top corners of dark rooms,
either above doorways or window frames. A life, a gift buried nearly thirty
years ago when a young boy shut out the shadow people standing in the doorway
of his parent’s bedroom. An ability that curses the innocence of youth, hags
through troubled adolescence and robs adulthood of free will; this ability a
young boy learned how to ignore, to shut out and to switch off. Shutting out
the darkness and switching off the light, the curiosity so many plays with
lightly or foolishly. For a boy having made his mind a prison to keep it all
back, contained and controlled and frustrated; a boy’s demons clawing and
scratching to get out have left the deepest scars and a boy’s demons fighting
to get in and open all the closed doors. These moments are infrequent but
continuous throughout: the premonitions of déjà vu, the voices on air calling
out, that movement out the corner of your eye. He fought it all back, ignoring
the fierce pulling of his spirit by the universal forces of an existing
experience.

Escape Africa (13)

 

13. Nightmare Abroad:

I first travelled to London in June around the anniversary
of the Tube and Metro bombings. I was sharing accommodation in south London for
few weeks prior my return home. I came back to the flat after a long day over
touring around London town and surround when my route back passed one of the
train stations that had been bombed the previous year. Not using that line I
was walking by the station when the crowd stopped to take a moment of silence
to remember the attack. It was a bit weird I thought but I paid my respect and
carried on feeling I’d somehow been there longer than I had. I fell asleep that
night I started having nightmares about random things from back home and felt a
sense of urgency to go back home, I was leaving for home a week later. In the
dreams I felt like I was being pulled up, straight up and I may dreamt I was
floating but the sensation didn’t last long as a suddenly fell back down onto
the bed and woke up. I had literally fallen a short distance with enough force
to move the bed because the guy a shared the room with woke up to ask me why
I’d jumped into bed. Best I can tell I lifted off the bed, floating in midair
at least l little bit. It freaked me out and I never mentioned it until I
returned home. I was having coffee with my friend who had been working in
London the year before when the bombings occurred.  Told him what I experienced, he looks at me
and says it was strange because he’d experienced the same thing in London the
year before around the time he was returning home. Weird feeling, nightmares
and the floating sensation.  It’s a mind
bender that we experience the same thing a year apart in London, we stayed in
different accommodation in different parts of London.

Escape Africa (11)

 

11. The Bottom of the Vaal Dam:

There is something living at the bottom of the Vaal Dam,
I know what it might be. Something alive in the black murky depths near the
base of the dam wall, I may have seen it. Something waiting down there in the
depths of the Vaal where no one dares dive or boat or fish, I know something is
there because of what happened. The Vaal Marina moored a short distance from
the wall; it was the popular leisure point on the Vaal river system. It was
remote, sparsely developed and popular with the weekend tourists from the
Northern suburbs. They’d drive their expensive SUVs the hour out of suburbia
towing equally ridiculous motor boats to launch. The locals ran the bait, dive
and boat repair shops on the moor. I’m Dave, one of the local river rats. I
operate the dive tours for this crowd of drive through adrenaline junkies. I’m
the only idiot certified to dive the base of the wall as well as the only idiot
to volunteer as river search and rescue. Mostly I did apple bobs, fishing out
stranded rookie who panicked and dump their air tanks before ascension or some
drunken turd filing overboard and forgetting how to swim. Is paid for the
crappy little rust shanty I nailed together on a few square metres on the
water’s edge of paradise. Occasionally I’d dive recovery; a discard vehicle
quietly rusting in peace with the fishes or retrieval of the poor unfortunate
soul still cabled to the driver’s seat. Usually those claimed by the river were
taken by it, especially here at the dam but the floaters that surfaced were
pockmarked with teeth marks and missing a limb. ‘Mind if I join you for a beer?’

The worst pick up line ever. Here I was wasting another
perfectly good afternoon sitting my busted lawn chair with a cold six pack and
a head full of I don’t give a shit right now when she interrupted my sundowner
haze. Company is company and Dr P was easy on the eyes. Amanda Peterson was a
marine biological preserve something or other, the local disturber of the peace
and one hell of a diver. Not to mention easy on the eyes from all sides. ‘Where’s
the fire today Doc?’

I tossed her a cold beer, not caring to offer her a chair
as I only had the one. She wore her dive suit, which meant business with a side
of peace disturbance. ‘I need a partner, I’m diving the drop tomorrow,’ the
drop was the deepest part of the river bed on the furthest reach of the wall
believed to be littered with tunnels, bolt holes and under water caves
unsuccessfully chartered to date. The local fishermen called the drop dead
water and believed it was cursed. According the old Wally who ran the bait shop
a sewer gator lived there. I was diving the drop anyway to recover a floater
and cash was always good. ‘Sure, I’m fetching a floater first.’ I’ll be damned
if the old Wally wasn’t right. Three hours in the water recovered a chewed off
arm. ‘So where the hell is body? This one didn’t come with the current,’ It was
early Saturday morning, the boat our on the water was the SAPS crew. I
presented them with the arm, feeling the gaze of old Wally staring at us from
across the moor, the crazy sonofabitch was packing his boat for a morning session.
‘Here’s your floater, there’s nothing else down there. I’ll check the drop but
your arm there is still a missing person.’ I developed that sullen gut feeling
the old timer might be on to something as I pushed off from the boat to swim
down to meet the good doctor. I saw the missing chunks of flesh that were
ripped clear from the appendage, it was a bitter thought swirling around my
head, where is the rest of my floater?

Where indeed was the thought knowing at me as I
approached the faint dive lights. The Doc and I touch checked, gauged and
clocked. We weren’t the only ones.                

Escape Africa (9)

 

9. Old Fort Road:

There is a ghost lingering at the bottom of Old Fort Road

A highwayman, a traveler, a rogue

My pen is broken, my hand is frozen

When asked what he is I answered is human not enough?

Family told stories change with time

His generosity and charity differ

His gratitude and appreciation differ

His found freedom written with thought and with feeling

His love of the love but not of its evil

He wrote unto the unknown:

I can heal for those who may

I can steal for other who may not

I stand motionless as per the need

Eluding those blinded by greed

I am never enough, I am erosion and intrusion

I was cut in life to return as illusion

Come the night when the giant awakes to our world felled
apart by change of futures uncertain in age

Closed unto slumber is the post office door when brings
the howling night winds to mourn

Gone now the fear of being afraid and alone

Standing before the ghost of Old Fort Road

Escape Africa (10)

 

10. The Colonial:

There was this pub back in my hometown that many people
claim is haunted. I worked there as the bar keep for about a year so I should
know something, right?

From the beginning this place held a heavy vibe to it. It
wasn’t in the good part of town and it used to be an old house converted into a
pub. The layout consisted of three large open spaces with the old fireplace at
the centre. To the left of the fireplace, as you were facing it, was the long
bar counter and to the right were a pool table and few couches. The bar counter
ran the length of the building, front to back with the ends partially converted
to private areas. The kitchen and rest rooms where at the back of the house as
we would say, part of the original building. The backyard was an entertainment
area that opened onto the parking lot running side to front. Overall the place
was dimly lit and filled with shadows. The story goes the founder / owner of
the place died alone in the pub at night under, whether you choose to believe
it or not, suspicious circumstances. Apparently his spirit never left. That’s
what I heard, I don’t buy into the story but after hearing it the place turned
creepy as fuck. Patrons often asked if I saw something move or whatever was
rattling furniture in the shadows. Despite their drunken paranoia the pub got
even creepier when the people count decreased. Cold spots and sudden gusts of
air, lights going out, toilets flushing in the rest rooms at random, the usual
kind of stuff. Believe me when I say everyone had a story about the ghost. I
was repeatedly told about the top shelf of the bar and how things would be
thrown off to the floor or at an unsuspecting patron, how the televisions would
switch off by themselves, glasses would clink together and balls would drop
into the pool table on their own. Then there was whatever lived in the
fireplace. I worked the closing shift and locked up alone most nights; I would
hear balls drop in the pool table, glasses clink together on the shelf behind
me and televisions would either switch on or switch off on their own. I hated
being there alone. Weird shit, really weird shit started to happen when the
power failed. Alone in the dark I would hear bottles tap together as is someone
was touching them, I would see shadows move in the darkness and I would heard
things move around in the kitchen as if someone was busy in there. Power
failures meant two things; I closed early and there was something in the fireplace.
I felt a constant presence in the darkness, an uncomfortable feeling that made
the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I heard the wooden floor boards
creak in the entrance hall or saw something move passed a window. The more I
told people about my experiences, the more it freaked me out. One night the
power went out unexpected, the entire neighbourhood was in total darkness. I
set about closing up early when I realized the electric buzzer on the front
door failed; I called the boss to come in with the override for the gate. For
roughly twenty minutes I remained pinned to the front gate wanting to get the
hell out of there. I heard some of the scariest shit imaginable, like the pub
had come to life in the darkness. Footsteps across the wooden floor, chairs
moving out from the tables, glasses clinking and a game of pool played. As I
stood in the tiny circle of moonlight again I felt an uncomfortable presence
staring at me from beyond the shadows, watching me. From then on this presence
followed me around the pub. The incident that set in motion my resignation was
a cold winter night in the parking lot. I’d closed up and was starting my car
up to leave when something passed behind my car, that flash in the rear view
mirror caught my enough I misjudged the turn and connected with the tree line.
My bumper was caught up on the branches; I was stuck and need to call roadside
assistance. I cannot explain exactly what I saw next other than a massive black
form standing about ten feet from my car. It didn’t resemble anything but t was
there and it was watching me. That was the longest wait of my life. About a
week later the same black something appeared again inside the pub. This time
hovering over a small group of late night patrons seated at the corner of the
counter. The place was quiet when suddenly one of the women sitting there
looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘just like I dreamt it.’ She described this
dark cloud in great detail, what it was doing at the pub, which patrons it was
following around. I was freaked out enough to resign the next day, never go
back there alone and never in the dark. I haven’t been back home in years, as
far as I know the place is still there, maybe I’ll go back to check.

Escape Africa (7)

 

7. A Haunting in Hartebeespoort:

They never meant it to happen, sometimes shit goes wrong
when filming but, I still can’t believe what I was watching; the video is
surreal, Leon was my friend, his crew shouldn’t have left him alone. I
committed to memory the letter he’d written to me:

I’ve heard many South African ghost stories mostly
through friends or family of friends, stories told me of the strange
occurrences they experienced with some truth in their eyes and a bit of liquid
courage in their glasses.  I remain skeptical,
despite my recent experiences of the supernatural, of ghosts. I do not believe
in ghosts, I cannot prove through scientific reason these paranormal spirits
exist despite experiencing enough to know better. I’m not hunting ghosts, I’m chasing
the paranormal but when I heard what happened in Hartebeespoort I became
curious. There’s one house that stands empty frequently. The current owner of
the property does not reside there so the property remains empty, I’m not sure
if the owner wants to comment but the tenants I spoke to didn’t stay long once
the house exhibited paranormal activity, again not sure if the house is haunted
or if there are ghosts currently haunting it or whether any of the previous
occupants endured any haunting. Poltergeist activity spikes when structural
renovations are made to the property, so I was told. Historically speaking
person or persons deceased on the property may be the source of the potential
haunting. Neighbours account witnessing various paranormal activities; lights
flickering, windows and doors slamming, movement of shadows in the vacant home,
etc. I may be able to interview some of the locals but they seem, scared. The
guys are filming spots in Schoemanville, I’ll voice over in editing. They’re
getting a few establishing shots for our film. The father gets up from the sofa
where he laid, the empty bottle of Klipdrift rolls under the television stand.
The house is quiet, it’s sometime after 02:00. He walks to the kitchen and
picks up a carving knife. Moments later he’s staring at his wife from the foot
of their bed, she’s asleep. He lifts the knife above his head, repeatedly.
Nobody hears a sound. It’s a little after 03:00 when neighbours first hear the
sirens, a murder occurred. The unknown man remains missing. The investigation is
fractured but authorities don’t care. The madness suppressed any ability the
suspect possessed to subdue his anger. His poisonous nature cursed and scowled
everything in existence. The monsters of his past haunted the dead parts of his
mind where he could not or would not leave the wretched things to find peace.
By either dream or hallucination the few memories he cherished were
reconstructed into new stories evolving with each recollection. He recalled beating
the youths, beating on his wife, he recalled receiving beatings as a youth but
the memories confused him. Faces and voices were fading and words were
distorting, soon there would nothing – an absolute nothing. He became nothing. The
house stood abandoned, desolate and haunted. Years passed between the brief
occupations of unsuspecting families attempting to make this house their home.
Fresh paint would disappear from the walls, furniture would move violently and
anyone left alone long enough in the bedrooms would endure the screaming coming
from the shadows. The Bessemer family purchased the house, stayed there for a
single night before declaring the property permanently vacant before boarding
up the doors and windows and padlocking the front gate. I spoke to Yvonne
Bessemer who bought the neightbouring property and remained vigilant. Yvonne
call on the church then the community and later on spiritual mediums but the
house remained defiant.  A haunted
building North West of Johannesburg remains disheveled and abandoned, scarred
by the horrific acts of violence and death, the murdered family of Hartebeespoort
tainted the property. Yvonne granted us permission to enter the property and
stay the night. I’m hoping to encounter and record something.

I received that letter about a week before my farm was razed,
figured I’d investigate if I ever passed through the town. Not much to tell, I
must have missed all the excitement. Small towns bury the scandals and their
secrets so a stranger asking uncomfortable questions never goes down well. I
searched the old house, found Leon’s wrecked camera bag. He’s Dictaphone had
survived,    

 

‘Three of us entered the house; Danny, me and Johnny.
Danny set up several cameras inside the house; the bedroom where I would spend
the night, the passageway where people claim to have seen activity and the
bathroom where the murders allegedly occurred. I took an EMF meter and camera
to the bathroom to snap a few pictures, usual routine of dull and boring until
we checked the photos afterward. Johnny did his thing to record audio tracks;
he’d walk around the place asking if there were any spirits around hoping to
record an audible response, I could hear him going from room to room. Danny
changed out half a dozen memory cards in the few hours we recorded, we had a
lot of material to go through in post. As night fell we planned to leave Johnny
alone for the night, the shit head macho man got off on solo filming. He would
stay the night with his digital recorder, a camera and maybe a flashlight to
taunt whatever haunted the place into a response; can’t say it worked
effectively but sometimes the camera and recorder played back something weird sounds
or images and sometimes they just didn’t record. Usually I wasn’t fazed by
haunt, it never got out of control where I felt we were in danger but I
remember feeling a bad vibe when leaving the house that evening. We returned
early the next morning, we found everything as we left it but Johnny was gone.
I mean gone, we searched but found nothing. Danny immediately ran playback, all
the cameras saw Johnny walking around the house but the sound wasn’t playing.
No indication of where he went. We packed up our gear and planned to call the
cops when clear as a bell Danny and I heard glass shatter in the bathroom.’ I
heard the terror in his voice, that scratch of uncertainty that jumps from the
back of your throat the moment you realize the situation is no longer in your
control. I’d never known Leon to be afraid, not in his profession.

Escape Africa (8)

 

8. I Become You:

I watched the water drain out the basin, its foamy slurry
of soap, dead skin and blood draining away to unknown. I knew this because he
knew this. Never wondering where that water went or did it ever reach the ocean
the splash of aftershave against my face wiped away the mere thought with the
light sting on my skin where tiny cuts were sought by the Old Spice. I felt
this because he felt this. My travel practices both odd and necessary as I
later discovered the impeccable grooming obsession I prided upon with near
forensic execution was to be my undoing. I felt it essential to leave no
discernible trace in an unfamiliar place because I had developed an irrational
concept of slowly washing away with each turn of a tap. I left no trace, a
ghost on the road moving from hotel to motel to air-bnb until I reached
Harrismith. The country lodge established as a self sustainable environment,
this was a problem. The water system recycled; from rain water storage to
wetland run-off, every drop of discard human DNA contained. I was screwed, he
was born. From the muddy earth of that wetland my Gollum crawled out of the
moonlit night. Fingers to hands, arms to torso this half human manifesting in
front of me assembled with my blood and skin and hair. I feared no one else
witnessed the rise of the monster, this other form Id dreamt into life and
washed away into existence. Standing outside my window was this other version
of me, only standing. In my panic I fled into the night, desperate to get away
from, from myself?

No matter where I travelled he would be there, absorbing
whatever I shed to discard down the drain to take full form. I feared shaving,
I feared showering, I feared washing my hands because I feared becoming less of
me and more of him. Thus my torment continued along my travels and in my
dreams. There he is speaking, whether speaking to me or not this wretched voice
from beyond the unknown consciousness repeated three words.

‘I become you.’

I would end it; I would take my own life face down in the
mud from where this thing sprung. I reached Harrismith on my return trip and
waited for nightfall. I knew my legs had been broken and I tasted mud on my
tongue. I was sure I jumped off the edge of something but now I couldn’t move,
shallow roots entangled my arms, reaching up from the deep earth to hold me down
while the bog itself swallowed me. Time passed as I slowly sank, the silence of
night confirmed to me I was awaiting death. I lifted my head back to keep clear
of the foul bog in vain, I watched him slowly walk towards me in complete and
identical appearance to me. He stopped, knelt down and gently pushed my face
into it. I heard him walk away; the darkness claimed me as my corpse vanished
beneath the bog.

Escape Africa (6)

 

6: Pinkie – Pinkie

I have never been afraid of anything. Even when my
friends told me the stories I laughed; the legend of the toilet bogeyman
sounded like a practical joke, a monster waiting behind the bathroom stall to
reach out and grab unsuspecting children when they entered sound ridiculous.
Soweto was as crazy as it got with urban legends. Everything was changing
around with excitement and apprehension; traditional culture collided with
modern lifestyle creating new age paranoia and silly urban legends. Pinkie-Pinkie
was the first to enter the social conscience. The toilet demon terrorizing school
children everywhere; victims claiming a pink monster would attack them in the
bathroom and try to eat them. The common description of Pinkie-Pinkie being a
short pink man with red or blue eyes, sharp yellow teeth and a hideous chuckle
but you could only see him in a mirror. The police reports turned the matter
serious when children started disappearing and the half eaten body of a school
girl was discovered near an abandoned junior school. I’m Nathaniel; a strange
man in town investigating strange crimes involving children, nothing strange
about that, every lead I followed connected back to the black shadow. The
missing girl Anna Maria last saw was named Inkhosi Samantha Gumede, a third
grader curious about urban legends in South Africa, an oddball chasing her
interest in the growing urban legend craze sweeping through her neighbourhood
of Soweto.  The more I read the more I
realized Pinkie-Pinkie embodied every bad thing happening in the world. I was
determined to debunk this one, the hysteria of Pinkie-Pinkie expanded to multiple
murders that seemed more like witchcraft than monstrous malice. Witchcraft is
the traditional culture lumbering along into the modern world but I never took
much notice of it, sitting in a dark room that smelled of burnt herbs while the
Sangoma through old chicken bones around a grass mat was silly to me. Many
weren’t so quick to dismiss the concept; Pinkie-Pinkie was somehow responsible
for countless children disappearing. New accounts of Pinkie-Pinkie spread, this
time survivors recalled seeing the pink man reflected in a mirror, running for
their lives then falling seriously ill shortly escape; the resurgence of
Pinkie-Pinkie gripped me more this time. I saw less of the superstition and
more of the truth. I went after Pinkie-Pinkie; I went in search of the monster.
Weeks passed before the dreams came. They were the same thing every night; a
dark shadow in a bathroom mirror, laughing at me, pointing at me. I’ll never
forget those horrible eyes, sometimes white, sometimes red glaring from above
yellow teeth.  I woke up sweating and
afraid, the more I dreamt the more I saw the dark shadow growing. Children were
disappearing, mangled remains were being discovered and tormenting me in sleep
was Pinkie-Pinkie.

 

‘Are you Nathaniel?’

 A young boy, a junior in my school I didn’t
know asked me. ‘I am,’ I knew not to ignore the unusual. This boy stood before
me with something to say judging by the mouth full of words he was holding in.

‘What is it?’

Impatiently pressing
him for answers but all that came out were garbled words pushing over each
other. He pointed to the East then turned to walk away. My presence of mind
returned; the words didn’t matter, I was at school and just east of me were the
school bathrooms. I walked up the courtyard ridge, the closer I got to the
buildings the fewer children I passed. Something was calling to me, the closer
I got the clearer I heard it, ‘Nathaniel,’ A tiny voice crawled out of the
bathroom, ‘Nathaniel,’ I heard it in my mind as I heard it in my ears, ‘NATHANIEL!’
The sound hit me as I stepped inside, a clear bolt coming from an empty space.
I passed the first stall, the door banged shut. ‘Nathaniel,’ each stall
repeated before shutting the door, I was approaching the last stall on the row.
‘NATHANIEL!!’ A voice so loud and so closed to my ear startled me enough I lost
all balance and tumbled forward to the floor. There it was, in reflection, as I
had dreamt it the dark evil shape staring at me with eyes that turned red then
white then read as it gnashed those terrible yellow teeth together. I stared
into the mirror, frozen to the floor by the sudden onset panic. ‘Nathaniel,’ my
name slithered out between that horrid grin as it approached me. I recalled my
dreams and true enough I saw the second shape moving. It charged forward to
attack. I rolled aside, bursting through the stall door. A struggle ensued between
the emerging figure of Pinkie-Pinkie, a short fat little man was pink skin and
long fingers and as I live and breathe. He looked at me, smiled slightly and
whispered, ‘Throw it.’ My hand reached into my pocket, clasped the small heavy
something and threw it as hard as I could at the mirror.

 

Crack, CRACK!

The last thing I remember was a scream. Awake in my bed,
the sheets soaked with dark sweat. My hands were bleeding, I’d cut my palms
open with my fingernails. The room was empty and cold, I felt the darkness was
gone, taking what it wanted from me.  A
month has gone by, the disappearances have stopped in Soweto and the legend of
Pinkie-Pinkie is laid to rest. I still carry around a small heavy something in
my pocket, just in case and I need to check a mirror twice in passing.  

Escape Africa (5)

 

5: Anna Maria

Legend has it there is a particular painting stored
somewhere in the Kruger House of Anna Maria, the first lady of South Africa Presidency.
Legend has it very few people know of this painting because, as legend has it,
the painting is believed to be cursed. The first recollection of this supposed
curse was in 1936 when the painting was stolen from Kruger House. A man named
John Gregory planned and executed the theft of what he believed to be another
more valuable painting, an early portrait of President Kruger, but confusing
the shipping crates Gregory grabbed the portrait of Anna Maria. Both portrait
and the body of John Gregory were discovered one week later in Gregory’s
office; the portrait unboxed staring down at the corpse of John Gregory who
died under mysterious circumstances. The painting returned to Kruger House to
storage until 1974 when the Anna Maria went on display. One evening when the
slightly intoxicated wife of a visiting Belgium diplomat passed an unflattering
comment stating the good lady held the composure of a vicious lion staring down
passing prey from between the bushveld grass; the diplomat’s wife would be
mauled by a pride of lions somewhere in the Kruger National Park one month
later. Thereafter the portrait of Anna Maria made extremely rare appearances,
never leaving Kruger House; Anna Maria refused to leave Kruger House for the
National Gallery. Later that year a mysterious fire closed Kruger House for
several months while restoration work was completed, his was her home and the
determined face of Anna Maria, a woman bearing stern features and an unsettling
stare returned to public view in the early 21t century remained in Kruger House
indefinitely. When Kruger House was declared a national heritage site and
opened to the public the unsettling gaze of Anna Maria followed you as you
crossed the portrait room, her piercing eyes studied you in passing. In the
centre of the room a small curious girl stood mesmerized as she stared at the
first lady, wide eyed and silent. Her curiosity intrigued by the portrait
rooted her motionless for hours in front of Anna Maria. Anna Maria herself
seemed uncomfortable by this new found interest; the girl vanished, still
missing. I could tell the painting was under the power of the dark shadow, a
cursed object holding a curse upon Kruger House. The girl’s disappearance
forced the closure of Kruger House. Anna Maria remained in place. I stood alone
in the dark of a dusty Kruger House thinking there’s more at work here, that
little girl disappearing was connected to something more insidious. Anna Maria
never saw me, but the dark shadow did.                                       

Escape Africa (3)

 

3: Spook Brug

There are so many accounts of a mysterious woman in white
across South Africa, I searched them all; Uniondale, Rustenburg, Port
Elizabeth. I wasn’t a true believer at first so let me start from the
beginning. People don’t impress me, never have, they live out dull lives
aspiring to achieve the most of nothing until their loneliness draws an
attraction to someone new and the shallow need of trivial comparison awakens.

‘What scares you?’ The question caught me off guard
because it wasn’t what I consider an appropriate casual office conversation
question. My colleagues insistent to the third coffee break with their peculiar
questioning.  I’d arrived in Heidelberg,
the one near Johannesburg, and had the job less than a week when this topic of
discussion flew too close to the personal “shit I’m not going to share with
people I barely know” mark. I knew nothing of the town tucked away in a valley,
the people were friendly if a bit odd then I was not there by chance, it was my
business ad I held no desire to disclose it with anyone.

‘I’m not really sure,’ being the first response to come
to mind, ‘why do you ask?’

I could deflect their enthusiastic curiosity, there was
excitement bubbling on their faces, hiding some mischief to their enquiries. My
vague response was handed a piece of paper, I was left to my own devices, my
peers dispersed with refrained sniggering. Tucking the note into my pocket I
returned to my office, shrugging off this strange encounter as some weak
attempt at hazing the new employee to welcome them to the firm, the idea passed
as soon as I reached my desk. Days passed before I returned any thought to the piece
of paper crammed into my pocket. I revisited the notion when the crumpled piece
of paper felt out onto the counter while I was rummaging for loose change while
paying at the grocery store. The cashier seemed curious enough to slide it back
to me with one finger.

‘Thanks.’ I mutter sheepishly, the cashier seemed
embarrassed in front of a stranger yet seeing the paper I felt slightly
compelled to read it. The note made no sense to me, two words:

SPOOK BRUG

I had no idea what it meant.

‘That bridge it haunted,’ the tentative voice of the
cashier spoke suddenly, ‘Some say a young girl jumped to her death,’ her eyes
searching mine, ‘Others say she fell while avoiding a speeding car,’

I thanked her, not knowing what to make of this surprise
information. A quick Google search showed me where this bridge was, well screw
it maybe I need to explore my surroundings. That afternoon I went for a drive. My
Google read turned up something called “Blue Diamond and Spook Brug”.

The two definitive versions of the tale told of a young
girl perishing on the Spook Brug either jumping to her death or falling to her
death sometime back in the mid to late 40s. Her ghost first appeared when a
couple driving through was scared shitless by their car radio switching on to
play a popular song of the early 50s called Blue Diamond Blues. The girl
appeared walking along, they stopped to offer her a ride but she was gone over
the edge, fell or jumped depending. The couple investigated nothing there.
Similar stories repeat the pattern of events. Spook Brug is supposed to be
haunted but I doubted if this trip was designed to scare me.

‘Shit, I must have missed a turn somewhere;’ I’d enjoyed
the serenity of the drive I took my eye off the GPS and now I couldn’t find the
road back. I crossed several bridges several times, followed the dirt track back
but I could not find the damn road I drove down from the main road. Half an
hour passed and I had been driving in circles. No matter which way I turned I
arrived back at the same crossroad, I’d turn onto back roads that lead straight
back to either side of the same damn place. Frustrated and lost I pulled over
to search for the road back to town, as if it had suddenly disappeared leaving
me stranded on route to the Spook Brug. I hadn’t seen or passed anything for
some time so I figured keep true and carry on until I find some sense of
direction, dead slow, hoping to scan the horizon for something to guide me out
but there was nothing beyond the shroud of approaching nightfall. I reached a
bridge; I didn’t like the idea of being stranded on a ghost bridge at night but
then I was out there by my own volition. About half way across I caught
something in my rear view mirror, a person walking up the siding of the bridge.
I reversed back to meet them, rolled down my window and sure enough standing
next to my car was a pale looking pedestrian prodding up a thumb.

‘Get in.’ I offered and the poor girl obliged. My
overwhelming enthusiasm to engage in conversation with another person was brief
as my passenger offered the same silent reply to all of my enquiries. I don’t
think she was ignoring me on purpose; maybe she was out of it if her dress
sense was any indication. She stared straight ahead as we neared the end of the
bridge. Desperate for direction I asked her where she was going, hoping for
some kind of response but she remained silent and motionless in the passenger
seat beside me. Then things took a turn for the weird, she reached forward to
turn on the radio, which only picked up static but suddenly started playing Blue
Diamond Blues. I reached down to switch the radio off but a cold hand gently
stopped mine.

‘I like this song,’ her soft voice said. I felt her
staring at the trinket hung from my rearview mirror, the necklace my sweet
Kirsty wore, a pendant of blue gems. Her cold hand slowly moving toward the
pendant, ‘Blue diamond,’ she smiled.

My fidgeting with her frigid fingers gently grasping the
hanging chain drew my eyes from the road ahead for a moment when a sudden
bright white light filled the car. I reacted, thinking it’s the high beams of
an oncoming truck, I severed, the car spun off to the side which was weird
because I was barely travelling at any speed. I stopped in the middle of the
road, the light was gone and so was my passenger. I looked out to see her
standing on the edge of the bridge, quietly slipping over the edge. I freaked
out, thinking she’d jumped I ran to the edge of the bridge but saw nothing
through the rolling fog. I heard my car radio playing; went back, climbed in
and tried starting it again but the engine would not turn over yet the damn
radio was playing. I reached down to switch the radio off, it turned back on
and it still played the same song.

‘Damnit what the hell is going on?’

Blood curdling screams suddenly filled the interior space;
the screams were coming from inside my car. I jumped from the car to roll a
short distance; I could have sworn I saw that girl sitting in the back seat
holding her hands up to her face screaming in blind terror. Silence followed as
if nothing had happened; there was nobody sitting in the back of my car, there
was no bright light or screaming; I was alone on the Spook Brug. I climbed back
into my car, checked the back seat then slumped back in relief. I turned the
key, it started first time. Feeling a sudden chill come over me I saw the road
back to town. I never mentioned what happened to anyone, especially not the
jerks I was working with, they would laugh it off but the more I thought about
it the more I knew this was no joke. The illusion of my workspace environment
became evident as my social interactions were reduced by the sudden onset of
panic. I distanced myself from colleagues and quietly completed my work. My
panic was resurging more since I discovered I lost Kirsty’s necklace on the
Spook Brug but I dared not venture back to look for it. Its absence saddened
me, sentiment, the more I thought of it the more I longed for its return. Again
things got weird when I received a call at the office from an outside number. I
lifted the receiver to hear static at first then the faint sound of Blue
Diamond Blues making its way through handset. I dropped the phone and patched a
return call through the switchboard but the line was dead. The next time I
received my Blue Diamond Blues call was directly after I thought about my lost
necklace and briefly longed for it. This couldn’t continue. I had to muster up
my courage and go back to Spook Brug. I left the office last one Friday and
headed for the highway that would take me out to the bridge. Fierce rain fell
as I drove along but I remained determined to do something about Blue Diamond
Blues. I slowed for the storm as the rain intensified and reduced visibility.
There was nowhere to stop so I pushed on cautiously, thinking about the longing
and sadness that possessed me when the sudden onset of static from my radio drew
my attention away from the road; Blue Diamond Blues. I panicked enough to hit
the brakes and veered off the road. After a few bumps into the veld I stopped
the car, everything went quiet. The rain unleashed passing sheets of water over
me. Blue Diamond Blues played to the end and my radio went dead. I looked up to
see something hanging from my rearview mirror, it was Kirsty’s necklace. I had
swerved off the highway, stopping directly under Spook Brug in time to avoid a furious
torrential downpour that washed out the road ahead. I noticed other vehicles
were pulled over. We all sat there shielded from the flash flooding under the
Spook Brug. I sat staring at Kirsty’s necklace long enough not to notice the
blue light pull up behind me. An officer tapped on my window.

‘Hell of a storm,’ the officer’s face obscured by his
thick black rain coat. I assured him I was fine, he nodded politely and moved
onto the next car.

Escape Africa (4)

 

4: Black Dog

I’ve driven the same stretch of long straight road of the
N1 highway for a long time. That desolate stretch of road reached out into
infinity across the entire country. The Karoo is a killer when you least expect,
the desert is treacherous even to experienced, 
the road is littered with dead things baking in the dry Karoo heat,
chunks of rubber torn off after many grueling miles intertwined with the
fragile landscape. I’ve racked up the miles as a seasoned trucker and I’ve seen
a fair share of weird shit out there. Trucking was good business; long hauling
heavy payloads paid big money back in the day, time is money on the open road
so risks were necessary. The red eye run can be fatal let me tell you, one mistake
and snap, you’re done. Tired eyes waiting for the black dog to come up and bite
you, not me, trust my instinct, play it cautious, none of those stupid rookie
mistakes. I’ve caught a lot of wildlife in my headlights, BAM, without stopping
to check. I don’t mean to but you can’t stop a rig every time some innocent
forest critter stumbles onto the road.

Lately strange stuff is coming from Beaufort West. Guys
at the truck stops and weigh-in stations all saying the same thing about a big
black dog spotted outside of town running across the road in front of their
rigs. They hit the brakes hard thinking they’d hit the damn thing but upon
inspection; nothing boiled brakes and ruined tyres. Crappy stories, everyone
hits road kill.

‘Sounds like bullshit to me.’  I said to the weigh-in station inspector as I
climbed up into my cab but the old man was convinced of his story, the Black
Dog. I laughed it off, superstition; everyone knows the legend of a phantom
black dog claiming rigs and claiming lives when greedy men pushed too hard and
too far for too long. A truck mangling phantom sounds like crap to me but the
old man persisted.

‘I’m telling you son they all swear it’s the Black Dog, bright
yellow eyes and everything.’

Nope, there was no convincing me. I waved the notion off,
started my truck and pulled out the station but didn’t go further than few
clicks.

‘Goddamnit,’ discovering two of my rear axle tyres were
running flat on slow punctures, I had to make a choice. Change them out and lose
maybe two hours or over inflate them hope I reach Beaufort West. Screw it, I
thought, I’ve done more mileage on a lot worse. I hit the road at sunset and
ran through the night, the damn Black Dog story rattled around in my melon
since I left the weigh-in station. The trip was quiet, radio quiet and I don’t
appreciate radio silence. Apart from spots of rain, I maybe passed one other
vehicle or a hitchhiker; not too sure about the hitchhiker. The radio silence
unnerved me, dead air means your really are alone in the middle of nothing. I
hit a bump in the road and the radio crackled some static, a moment later it
felt like wheels locked up on my trailer axle. Damn air brake was failing under
the strain; I was dragging two flats and needed to pull over. The coupling hose
was sheared off. I dropped the remaining coupling to free tow the trailer the
rest of the way, a quick fix when you don’t have spares and an unnecessary
risk. I was a couple hours from Beaufort West, I could repair the coupling
there. I hit the road again. It was close to 03h00 when I passed the last road
marker:

Beaufort West 20km

Grateful I was nearly there, weary from long run on
softening tyres and oblivious to my recently reduced braking ability. Pushing
through the fatigue I quickly lost focus, getting agitated while resisting the
urge to rush it. Something flashed in my headlights, something moved into the
road in front of me. ‘Sonofabitch,’ I yelled out, hitting the brakes hard
enough to blow out the two flat tyres and start my trailer sliding. My brakes
were useless, the trailer jack knifed. I jerked at the wheel, stood on the
brakes with both feet trying to force the huge beast to stop when a thump from
behind alerted me the trailer hitch snapped free sending my overloaded trailer
spinning into a nearby ditch. I met the opposite ditch and came to a stop. I
waited for a moment in silence filling but the faint howl somewhere out in the
night was unmistakable. I climbed down a short time later with the smell of tyre
smoke and boiling brakes filling my head. My truck was fine but my trailer was
wrecked and the load was gone. The silence returned; there wasn’t another soul
to be seen; then that faint howling returned, somewhere in the night, echoing
in my ears, disorientating me. I heard noises close, noises far and claws
scratching on the tarmac behind me. I turned around, slowly, to come face to
face with an enormous yellow eyed black dog. The black beast stared at me,
waiting for my fear to overpower my logic and respond. I reached for knife on
my belt, I wanted to kill this miserable creature but the knife fumbled from my
fingers and fell to the ground; the black beast charged passed me, knocking me
off balance. I quickly reached down but my knife was gone. I looked up again
and the dog was gone too.

It took nearly an hour to find that damn knife, I not
stupid when it comes to survival because it’s them or me. Blade firmly in hand
I shouted obscenities into the darkness, fear quickly turns to anger during
conflict, I wasn’t giving this monster any advantage. ‘I’ll hunt you down and
castrate you, you mangy bitch.’ I searched the immediate area but couldn’t find
those shining yellow eyes; the Black Dog was gone, quietly slipping away in the
darkness. I screamed out aloud before giving up on the hunt. Dawn was a couple
of hours away and I needed to call someone for cleanup. I pulled myself up into
the cab and tried the radio, it was dead. I peered out through the windshield
but only saw darkness. Walking would be pointless as I was at least fifteen
clicks from town. I was trapped by the night and alone in the dark when the
howling returned. I pulled my knife on instinct and leapt from the truck. I
must have momentarily lost my senses as I set off running down the highway
slashing and stabbing at absolutely nothing. 
When I returned to my truck I was done.  I climbed back into the cab to meet immediate
dread of two giant shining yellow eyes sitting in the passenger seat, staring
at me, growling at me. I swear that monster was two inches from tearing my face
off, its grinding teeth and musty breath assaulting my skin. I closed my eyes,
content that I was about to punch out, when glass shattered. Splinters of rock
salt, safety glass and buck shot scratched cross my face, pity it didn’t scar.
I fell backward, letting the windshield crumbled onto my back. Another shot,
then another then quiet. A sharp bumping against the front grill brought me
back to focus, ‘Hey buddy, are you ok?’

Dawn approached and a local farmer saw the wreck. He come
to investigate and came upon what were nearly my final moments when he unloaded
several rounds from his shotgun. He didn’t kill anything as there was nothing
dead on the seat beside me, only a black shadow like stain in the upholstery.  

Escape Africa (2)

 

2: Vlei Monster

I remember the blood smeared across my face like someone
had slapped me square in the forehead with a side slab of rump. My head
remained fuzzy, eyes blurry from the crimson stained sweat trickling down my
brow. I was walking along the side of a dirt road crunching the loose gravel
beneath my feet. Smythe Road; somewhere near to the Blesbokspruit, the stagnant
water smell was getting stronger with every labored step I took.

‘Where the hell is that rancid smell coming from?’  I shouted. That permanent odour of dead
things lying in motionless water rotted just beyond the thick overgrowth, dense
silent foliage of a lifeless water system. I could sense there was at least one
unnatural thing creeping in those bushes on the opposite bank, or at least
smell it. I couldn’t see much more than a pair of reddish eyes darting between
the thinner gaps of the tree line as if whatever it was across the way was mirroring
my movements in anticipation of something.  

‘Dirk!’ I called out into the darkness; we separated
about half an hour back so I guess I was looking for him instead on looking for
the monster. He’d told me stories of this monster in the Vlei, the terrifying
beast that prowled the waters of the Blesbokspruit grabbing anything passing by
the dense vegetation. The Vlei remained a dead section of the Blesbokspruit
water system which ran west to east from the Wetland Reserve to the East Lakes
but my mind was struggling to remember the rest of Dirk’s nature time lecture because
of the rancid smell eating its way into my air supply. It was intensifying so I
figured I must have passed one of the old mine dumps that pumped run-off water
into the Vlei, abandoned now, probably a bolt hold for monster snacks. I started
moving upstream when I heard Dirk scream for his miserable life a short
distance ahead of me. I couldn’t see a damn thing in the dark but I damn sure
heard the thrashing through the reed grass and low hanging tree on the opposite
bank to me; made me think Dirk found the monster and they stood facing off in
the dark; Dirk found it alright, probably pissed it off. The sounds were
fierce, still I followed the sounds reluctantly, my reluctance quickly turned
to panic when a low hanging branch snapped and fell to the ground about three feet
behind me as something rushed overhead. I bolted like a jack rabbit, following
the tree line in search of a clearing; to hell with Dirk if I couldn’t save my
own skin first. I couldn’t see a damn thing, just heard the ferocity chasing
me; I turned once to meet those glowing red eyes coming for me. Spotting a
narrow gap ahead I hoped there was some kind of bridge to cross as I took a
giant leap of faith but my foot caught a fallen tree branch, and i hit the
ground face down, rolled a few times over and plummeted into the thick mud all
while the rustling of trees grew closer; this thing was snapping at my ankles. I
scrambled to my feet and took a desperately short leap into the narrow,
striking the muddy bank opposite with a sullen thud, I struggled to catch my
breath reaching for anything to grab hold, but I was sliding back into the
wretched stinking water. A final scream from Dirk; screw it, I pulled grabbed
hold of some exposed tree roots and with whatever force both my arms had left
in them launched myself onto the dry bank. I dived forward but was struck down
mid air like I had been clothes lined. The impact against the dry ground knocked
me clear of my senses. I remember being dragged away before I blacked out, Dirk
screaming for the last time ringing in my ears.

What the hell is this thing? Wendigo? A Shifter? Swamp
man?

My senses came racing back; I lay on the ground in
complete darkness feeling the compacted grit beneath my hands. I couldn’t see
it I was definitely aware those glowing red eyes were focused on me. I fumbled
around the ground in search of a weapon when my hand touched a rock; just then
the red eyes lunged at me and I swung as hard as I could. I struck something
with enough force it threw me back and knocked me out again. The last thing I
heard was a howling cry of pain, more blood then black. I remembered Dirk
telling me the legend of the Vlei monster on our drive in. He spoke of an old
Sangoma cursing the Blesbokspruit forcing all life from the water as it turned
putrid from the poisons of man. The locals blamed the mining companies and ran
them out of the area. The Vlei became a place of death that fed on death so
much it attracted a resident evil spirit to manifest as a monster. Gradually the
Vlei filled with bodies sunk deep into the mud as the flowing water passed
quietly overhead. Rain woke me, I was outside and it was almost dawn. The rain
intensified and the muddy bank beneath me starting to give way, I didn’t plan
another dip in the stink water so I pushed back to find solid ground at the
base of a large tree trunk. I was alone, in the silence with only the falling
rain for company. My pain was strongest in the throbbing at the back of my
head, my hands were cut up a bit but I was still in one piece. I remembered the
rock I grabbed in the darkness; I swung it at something that was built like a
brick shithouse, I struck a solid mass as hard as I could and I went reeling
back. I looked around, judging by the broken branches and deep claw marks in
the tree trunks around me there was one hell of a brawl here, I was lucky and I
was alive. The rain washed away more blood but it wasn’t mine, I must have hit
something that bleeds. I set about searching the immediate area, I found Dirk; his
oversized right arm dangled from the tree nearby, left there to be found by one
who knew where to look. The missing rock bothered me, so did finding what remained
of Dirk; I figured it was a fair trade, blood for blood. Red Eyes and I fought to
a draw, double knockout; the mangled limb was my title belt. I waited another 30
minutes before heading back. Slightly bloodied, dirty and carrying Dirk’s
severed arm I went to find the authorities. I gave a piss poor account to the local
police, the security response team and the local journalist looking for quick
filler to run in the late edition print; and to an anonymous individual from
the government wearing a cheap black suit but all he wanted to know was what Dirk
and I were doing on the Vlei in the middle of the night. Honestly I didn’t know
how to answer him, lied through my teeth to avoid jail time. The man in the
black suit thanked me by name, expressed his condolences for Dirk and relieved
me of Dirk’s severed arm. Funny thing about it was I never told him my name. Dirk
was the first of us to go, taken by the dark shadow.

Escape Africa (1)

 

1: In Conversation with Nathaniel Bartholomew

It hadn’t rained in months judging by the deep dry
surface cracks in the valley floor; scars showing through the parched earth and
there was no sight of rain in the foreseeable future. The sun baked the dry
cold ground while the wind spread its iced breath eating away any loose soil
particulates. The land was dying without the seasonal rain; rain eventually
came with the winter weather but it didn’t matter much now. There was something
else in the soil, something evil. Even with the rain nothing would grow. I
buried myself inside false goodness; rising above whatever misery couldn’t
suppress my indeterminate will for living, starving from grief as the earth
starved. The birds chirping overhead brought little relief to a momentary pause
in the falling of rain, even momentary flashes of sunlight piercing through a
gloomy quiet day could not break through my dread; I cannot escape the
grotesque imagery flickering across the blank pane of my mind. Roaring engines
far away, a wayward traveler calling me, bloodlust in my heart wanting more.  Perhaps I should introduce myself. Nathaniel
Bartholomew the last of my kind and I have something to tell you. It wasn’t a
dream of fire and blood and death; it was the land I occupied burning around
me. I escaped the house in time and was spared from the flames engulfing my
homestead; this fire was deliberate enough to drive me from my home and into
the darkness because something else wanted it. A force of greed coveted the
ground beneath me and took it, every trace of life that only scorched earth
remained. A shadow covered it. I could not return home for fear of the dark
shadow, it took everything and left me with nothing. Soon my neighbours befell
the Nathaniel misfortune as the shadow expanded, taking more every time. We
fought and failed and were left with little choice; fight the darkness and die
or we could leave. Cowards chose to flee; I being one of them to commit this
shameful act but one cannot fight anything with less than nothing. In hindsight
death favoured the fortunate because the dark shadow is a curse nobody can run
from. We fled but it followed, always there watching over us ready to take from
us. Nobody could out run it, some stayed far enough ahead, others stood waiting
for it to take them, as far as I know there aren’t many of us left hence I
introduce myself as the last of my kind, at least I haven’t seen anyone I knew.
You might be thinking I’m the luckiest unlucky man alive, having stayed far
ahead of the dark shadow but don’t trust your thoughts on that. It hasn’t
caught up to me yet though it has come close a few times. Each day if I’m lucky
to crawl into the nearest establishment permitted to serve me an alcoholic
beverage I place my sorry skin at the bar and there I find someone not too
tainted maybe to tell my stories to, and I have many to share but then you show
up tailing me for a story, not sure what to do with that compliment or
complaint, I don’t know. I also don’t know what your interest is in all the
things I have to tell but I don’t really care to know, so Goddamnit you’re
going to get what you came looking for.  You
want a story; well then once upon a goddamn time…

I do know how this will end, I’ve been running to the end
of the earth hoping I fall off before the dark shadow gets me and I’ve been
running a long time. My motivations may seem strange but you best get one thought
settled up front in your mind; the monsters are real. After my third attempt to
put the dark shadow behind failed I turned it all over in my mind; was the dark
shadow hunting me down and using monsters to get the job done. Monsters, as I
live and breathe there are monsters everywhere and they want to get you. It
started as I recall when I reached the outskirts of Johannesburg, somewhere
east of the city. I called on someone to help me survive, he helped and I
survived. Survive, he certainly did not. The dark shadow uses monsters like you
and I use anything needed. When I met up with Dirk he was stalking something in
a wetland, said he figured out “how” to get at the dark shadow, said he’d found
one of them and we were going monster hunting. I thought Dirk was two kegs shy
of crazy; he was and should have known better. 
                 

Hello to the future

 For consideration of the future human civilization with time travel capability:

I make no assumptions of life, communication or what remains of life post twenty first century. All that is written here and stored online hopefully survives the passing of time because; we wrecked the planet by the dawn of the twenty first century, the millennial generation completely stopped thinking and then tried to cancel everything. Assuming what survived is valued and important I stress what is considered digital junk. Social media, apart from YouTube I suspect a lot of mindless content was turned into the digital library of Google envisioned. Social media holds no greater significance than a single fly buzzing in circles around an empty space. Our knowledge base was unloaded and overloaded but relevant in history. Y2K was the mark, thereafter we simply reapplied all that had been discovered in the relatively short period of modernization of human history. Through art and through science we laid plans and through religion and socio-economic rabble we fucked those plans. Search your records for Covid; arguably the tipping point for the onset of our downward spiral as a species. This macabre retelling is not as utterly depressing or soul crushingly negative as it reads. There were the heroes of our time, few and far between I might add with their great legacy valiantly broadcasting out to the edges of the known universe. Again I hope we didn’t annihilate the planet into space dust before Elon Musk eventually colonized Mars. It is my greatest fear that social de-evolution rendered all language redundant and post future people communicate in non linear format, if so 101101. I’m certain mankind has not reached the quantum singularity, that’s impossible, but if you have I hope you are similar with moral principles of The Matrix franchise; I am long since dead but the theory of transcending human consciousness from a limited biological form into an eternal mechanical form was popular in my time. This is not a history capsule, I’m not retelling a story in reminisce. My belief is far into the future people will figure out the time travel conundrum we could not, the closest we came was the Robert Zemekis theory and the James Cameron theory; these are fictional working modules designed for cinematic entertainment purposes and neither theory held any scientific merit; they were theories in film. However each theory suggests time scale alteration that could offset future events when manipulated in the past depending on your understanding of linear time function. The accepted consensus is mass manipulation of the space/time continuum is irrelevant but single manipulation thereof can gradually adjust a singular focus of the space/time continuum. For example: A future descendant of mine returns to the past to encounter me whereby they confirm with me the practical possibility of time travel. That event may alter the time period of its occurrence upon my timeline but it will not affect any of moments of significance I am to experience in my lifetime; I shall pursue the same pathway of decision making and experience the same outcome based on the uncertainty principles. Too many calculated variables to factor in. However should I be removed my own time period at a crucial moment of inference then the pathway will skew slightly until such a time it self-corrects; I could zig instead of zag but ultimately the outcome of fate will not change. On a personal side note please go back to stop the Game of Thrones mania, I hate that stupid theme song.       

 

Happy to help

 1. Start the healing

2. Positive reenforcement

3. Learn, create, support

4. Distanced from the negative

5. Remember, accept, compromise, grow

6. Disagreement is healthy

7. Read more, learn more, share more

Nightmare (Spatchcock)

 

I
dreamed that on a fight filled night again my being would die of fright

Before
me stood two evil men with weapons drawn for bad intent

 

And
I could not defend no weapons were at hand

 

I
sought retreat and arms to gain but none were ready nor to gain

I
hope this dream won't come again

 

I've
had enough,

I
won't go back,

None
can make me,

None
can take me

Through (Spatchcock)

 

I've
had enough,

I
won't go back,

None
can make me,

None
can take me

 

I
am a dirty canvas of living, missing all the great work dreams and passions
illustrate

Instead
of love floods I drown in hate

For
misery to end I wait

 

I've
had enough,

I
won't go back,

None
can make me,

None
can take me

 

At
last I reached my end of broken and here I'm left with every nothing spoken

No
nice words spoken, no nice words in kind

I
fear it may be the final time I won't cross the finish line

My
head, my body, my spirit, my soul

All
incomplete, torn from toll

I
do not wait to die, I choose to.

 

I've
had enough,

I
won't go back,

None
can make me,

None
can take me

Smothered in cheese sauce and left for dead (exert)

---

Dark are the streets’ nights making your prison as cold
as white light

Blinding the reasons forcing you to walk through the spit

Spit out the fires and your personal treason

Forced bullshit is where you will lie

Smothered in cheese sauce and left to die

---

Nightmare journal 2021

01/10

Today starts a countdown better than Xmas, Halloween. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, unlike the other holidays observed through a calendar year Halloween is the multi-faceted holiday with a multitudinous spectrum by which we can celebrate; unlike the aristocratic traditions of Xmas and Valentine’s Day where one must observe the strictest exclusivity of practice because we only acknowledge sexual promiscuity and child birth respectively. Unlike Halloween which prides itself in celebrating all things dead across damn near every cultural demographic. Get ready for costumes, candies and horror movies coinciding with real time murders, church burning and a celebrity cameo by Satan. Sharing is scaring.

02/10      

Old school themes trump shitty modern memes. Nothing builds the anticipation better than freak weather patterns; a sudden hail storm ripping through the spring foliage is quintessentially offset the afternoon sun quietly melting away the evidence. It is a most incontinent, murder…

The last few years of modern Halloween adaptations stirred the nostalgia within, we long of the weird classics of old. Go retro and be the weird.

03/10

Jamming with the greatest air guitarist in the world \m/

04/10

The fuel of nightmares. Turns out reality based horror is coming into its own. We're no longer afraid of the boogeymen, the masked slashers or the demonic novelties from our childhood. Suburban nightmares of the digital age include enraged tantrums, screaming dynamics and controlled torture between the four walls of our humble abodes. Is that neighbouring couple arguing again or has one of them final snapped and unleashed a murderous rage?

Kids killing to the dim illumination of online apps, 'OMG the WiFi went down so I totally killed mom and Brad blah, blah...

The torture is digital, the opinions are lethal and nobody wants to stream the ordinary nightmare of disturbia. Bring back the killer clowns, somebody needs to slash their way through the millennial bunch.    

05/10

The calm before the storm…

06/10

Mother Abigail Freemantle : I've been living right here in Hemmingford Home, Nebraska, all my life. You come see me, Nick. You and all your friends. You got to hurry, though.

[Nick turns and Abigail looks up as the sky darkens and lightning flashes] 

Mother Abigail Freemantle : There's a storm coming! HIS storm!

Been through two summer thunderstorms and we haven’t reached harvest yet. Trapped inside hell house with a bunch of rain soaked dogs, a few loud as fuck children praying for the power not to go out, dammit…

Fun fact about The Stand: I own a copy of the book, not the TV series box set.

Reliving the nightmares of my youth – math homework; I flunked it once and wouldn’t you know twenty something years later I get to flunk it all over again, the horror is real and its name is Algebra.

07/10

Nostalgia in a traffic jam – Depeche Cure

I often wonder what sounds from earth, travelling through the infinite universe travel the furthest and the clearest and if perhaps intelligent life forms with a cognitive ability to perceive the beauty of music in sound appreciate British rock from the 80s. I like to think the melodic tones of Robert Smith, Dave Gahan, Ian Curtis and Siouxsie Sioux have prevented the untimely demise of our planet by little green mean from ahem!     

Alas for every lonely astronaut drifting somewhere out there in space:

Jamming good with Weird and Gilly
And the Spiders from Mars
He played it left hand
But made it too far
Became the special man
Then we were Ziggy's band

The truth is out there

08/10

Darkness brings a failing electrical service provider; when the purge comes I get to enjoy the mood lighting...

09/10

Agro by night, passive aggressive by day. Children are beastly either ways

Tis the plight of parenthood.

10/10

When asked what is the scariest thing you've ever seen I reply, reality.

Our humanity is the reluctant protagonist in the horror of reality. All things considered being alive is a nightmare.

11/10

I skipped leg day at the crematorium, sorry.

12/10

Retirement home for blind guide dogs. As random as a stray bullet but inspired by my imaginary terrorist crisis. Conversations, for me, are similar to hostage negotiations. I need to speak so people hear me, ha ha it's not easy. The skill is understanding and trying to estimate what the other mind is thinking in order to anticipate. Bang, window pane cracks as the sniper makes another head shot. You need to think outside the box before anyone notices the box, hence the retirement home for blind guide dogs. The imagery is random to point of quizzical confusion; you're picturing what a retirement home for blind guide dogs looks like, some are trying to imagine a blind guide dog and still those at the back of the class really want to ask what the hell does one do with a blind guide dog. You're so distracted by this curious concept you didn't notice the SWAT team breach, bang and clear you onto the floor and into restraints. It works better than a superglue sandwich...

13/10

Happy Wednesday 13

14/10

Having mastered the art of observation I am neither envious nor repelled by the post modern living people practice; I envy not that which is pretend. I do enjoy the creep factor my staring generates, people become uncomfortably nervous by an unassuming gaze, modern living expects us to talk constantly, sharing unequivocally self perceived precious pearls of wisdom superimposed over the unending junks of verbal shit smeared all over the internet. I pity these carbon copy, still-in-package collectibles; that’s exactly what they represent inside the global Petri dish. The subconscious ticks are the true tells; fidgeting with the wedding band to advertise unavailability and promote promiscuity simultaneously    

15/10 – 20/10

I fear reality most. I do not venture out into the chaos of the world without apprehension and caution because any moment can truly be your last. Snap, the lights go out and we’re part of the relative unknown. What I fear more to returning to my reality; we all escape and we all return, I endorse the most horrid thing known to the human mind is the real world. Often I compare my days to the Divine Comedy; I think Dante wrote that from simple observation. Fiction fails on delivering that gut punch of fear straight to our tenders to knocks us down so the monstrous villain came get us; fear doesn’t work like that. Fear thrives off uncertainty and pop culture comes with spoiler alerts so why do fear the bad guys when I know how the sag ends?

Life don’t work like that; we all fear uncertainty and how it ravishes our emotions. Very few pop culture icons can accurately retell the feeling of fear; true fear you see in the eyes of others, fear of the realization you lost self control for a moment, fear you have fallen and may never get off from the bottom again. Fiction is there to entertain with the ridiculous blood and guts slasher scenes, the laughable poor quality if CGI and the predictability of commercial story-lines. Reality has no credits to roll, you don’t walk out the cinema once the house lights come back on but your harbour that thought as far back in your mind as you can that someday your monsters might return, someday you will relive the waking nightmare, someday you will see your fear in the eyes of others and you will know there is no escaping.    

21/10

Browsing for supplies, glad to see the conservative Bible thumping minority has decided, with passive aggressive reluctance, to tolerate Halloween. I walked into a store advertising themed merch and OMG they had in stock. We party like 666 AD, most of the quests have died from consumption or the plague which leaves us with quiet evenings entertaining the children and eating snack food. Honestly haven’t been a costume party in years, cosplay is not Halloween and I don’t do cosplay, but who knows with covid next year’s big theme might be infected zombies wearing surgical masks.

22/10 – 26/10

This was a hard one but we all walk through life in the company of death. We said goodbye to one of our furry familia who took that solo walk with the one in black. It was illness, a pre existing condition that turned terminal will a sudden onset of seizures. It was four painful nights. Farewell Jock, lest we forget.

A tearful farewell said I, the advocate for tradition, decided to keep with tradition. Whiskey and Chumbawamba; my version of remembering the dead includes Tubthumping, we all walk through life, we all walk alone with death and hopefully we all party hard together again in the hereafter.  

27/10 – 31/10

It’s a curse. It’s a curse because of what you lose, either by sacrifice or by the upper hand. Shall I start by saying you can either be right or you can be happy; whoever coined that phrase lied.

They will come for you, they always do. They will come to take everything from you and they will leave you with a bitter choice; neither choice favours you.