INVADED (Blood from the Duke of Hearts) By Dennis John Ferado If any man examines his inner truth with both eyes wide open, and his inner eye wide open also,he will be overcome with terror at what he finds. From Niemandswasser--Robert Aickman. Dear Editor: As a freelance writer, I enjoy reporting on the supernatural, the occult, and the generally weird. Recently I was on vacation in Mexico City, the same vicinity where two (one maternal, one paternal) of my grandparents were born. It was the same week the festival, Dias de La Morta (Day of the Dead), was taking place. As a child I remember hearing my grandparents talk of the festival with great respect. Although I recall many of their stories which have impressed on my subconscious much awe and curiosity, they have always been, only stories. I became aware of this when I read the words in print for the first time in a local magazine: Dias de La Morta. I became excited and immediately made arrangements (not an easy thing to do during Festival time) to travel to a small town in southern Mexico and secured a room for myself for the week. But while I was in town attempting to gather enough information concerning the festival, I found the people brooding and tightlipped. Soon it became obvious, their thoughts were on their local priest who had been executed the previous morning of my arrival. His name was Padre Gustav Herozoga, whom some still believe is innocent of the crimes he was accused of. The stories confided in me, by the people, were told in sheer terror. For the past several years and for the circumference of some seventy-miles, from the small village from which I write to you, something was roaming the countryside and killing at will. These victims, both people, and animals alike, were not just murdered they were slaughtered. Someone was, literally, sucking the life out of them. In every case the brain had somehow been drained, vacuumed or sucked out through one of the ear cavities. Hard to assimilate? Beyond belief? You call me a madman? I agree, nonetheless, I give you only facts and personal experiences as told to me. Thats why Im sending along every photostat I could get my hands on. Moreover, I have included photographs of several of the murdered victims. Before you read what follows my letter, there are a few facts I must acquaint you with. From the information I’ve gathered the following story fell into place. A stranger appears in one of the hundreds of tiny villages that fleck this mountainous area. Then, within a few weeks someone either turns up murdered or disappears along with the mysterious stranger. Preceding the stranger’s visit by a month or so, Herozoga would have begun work in his new church--always located within forty to fifty miles of the murders. The stranger had no resemblance to Herozoga, so the Padre was beyond suspicion. Besides, Padre Herozoga stood erect and proud and was handsome in a rough way; and had an angelic voice. The stranger was stooped, with a gruffness to his speech; and he was ugly. He frequented the local cantinas spending freely and befriending all. Then, hed show up in another town before the stories would, and a similar scenario would unfold. The law seemed to pay it no mind, because mostly there is no law. And where there is a local law enforcement agency its usually out of their jurisdiction. The other stories I will save for a future issue of your magazine, and for your horror editor. It was difficult getting the information but through some excellent investigative reporting I discovered: in the past thirty-two years Herozoga had been assigned to seven different churches, all are separated by at least seventy-five to hundred miles, in every case there are tales of murder and horror, all the more, every victim died the same horrendous way. The dates of reported missing children and of the murders match the time period of Herozogas assignment at each church. The day preceding my departure of Mexico the town newspaper printed a story, and, the last words of Herozoga. I decided to extend my stay and followed Herozogas trail, backwards out of the last town,--------; then the second last, etc.,, for two months. Enclosed, you will find the article on the Padre, and its translation, verbatim. There is no doubt, if I were not of Mexican lineage I would not be reporting this story. The people trusted me. I’ve been a subscriber of your wonderfully informative magazine for over two years now. Although, you have printed a number of my poems I have yet to send you a story. I try to choose my markets carefully; this tale, I believe, is perfect for your publication. If you agree with me and have any suggestions, they are more than welcome. So, the article, as it appeared in the newspaper: Letter found in the cell of Padre Gustav Herozoga,-- bottom of editorial--page fifteen, following his execution for the murder of Pablo Jimenez, beloved local farmer. Many villagers in town believe that Padre Herozoga was responsible for scores of unsolved horrendous murders and dozens of missing children across our countryside. A jury of our townspeople believed the same. They found him guilty and sentenced him to die; and he did yesterday morning. These killings around our town coincided with Herozogas arrival over a year and a half ago. Not once during his trial, did Padre Herozoga speak in his own defense. He refused lawyers and when questioned, muttered repeatedly, I am an innocent man. Gustav was born in New York City. His father, Fredrick Herozoga, came to Mexico with his son in nineteen--.........,immediately following the suicide of Gustavs mother. A hot July night, searching for a breeze to breathe, Gustav, his friend Jack and his mother were on the roof of Gustave’s building. Gustav told police his mother just walked to the end of the roof, and without saying a word she jumped. At the time Gustav was thirteen. His mother was from Mexico City and claimed pure Aztec blood on her mothers side. At the age of sixteen she crossed the U.S. border, illegally, in search of a dream. In El Paso, Texas she met a drifter, Frederick Herozoga. He took her to New York City and they settled down to live on the upper West side. He earned a living driving a taxi. The only thing known of Herozoga senior is, he was born American of European parents. “’In nineteen-....., Gustav joined the monastery, and at that point his father disappeared. Gustav would not answer any questions about him, nor have I been successful in locating records of him anywhere. (This paper makes no judgments in the Padre Herozoga case, we are simply printing the last words of a condemned man. He has a right to that, whether he was guilty or not. We will further add: It is this papers opinion that Padre Gustave Herozoga was a tortured soul, and obviously of a delusional mind) To whom it may be of interest. In less than two hours I will die by an act of legal murder, and my soul will be forced from my body. Although, Im an innocent man, I give up my life with joyful willingness. However, a subdued yearning swells in my breast for the telling of the truth. As a man of the cloth, a preacher of righteousness, a soldier of the church, and a leader of the spiritually crippled, I must deal in truths. I am a crutch for the lame, eyes for the blind, ears for the deaf; I am the conscience of the wicked. I am strong; and my faith is undaunted. The years of my youth in Brooklyn, tender years, up to and including my twelfth, were a grab-bag of mixed emotions. If you did not belong to a gang, you had no protection, so you walked the streets at your own risk. Our gang, of course, had a leader. Jack Fitzsimmons was his name, he was known as Duke. He carried a paratroopers knife and I’ll never forget, he was constantly picking dried blood from its crannies with a much smaller penknife. One time he left a hunting knife in the shattered spine of his older brother, then walked out of his apartment leaving his brother in a pool of blood. After it happened, Duke said to me, I eased my knife in slowly, and I could hear his bone crunching. If not for a neighbor who heard the fighting and called the police, his brother would have bled to death. Perhaps a better fate than a lifetime of confinement in a wheelchair. And he never told the police that it was his own brother who had stabbed him Duke had no fear and lacked a conscience; a dangerous combination. He would stab you if you looked at him crooked. Once after beating someone into unconsciousness he told me something in confidence. With an odd tilt to his head, he said, Each time I have a fight I get hungry. Its like theres a certain kind of nourishment I feel Im missing, and I crave it. But I have no idea what it is. I watched him plunge a Stiletto into the back of a boys shoulder, drag him into an abandoned gas station and leave him there. There was an evil in Duke I have never encountered anywhere, in all my life. He killed the owner of a candy store in a drive-by shooting--very popular back then--of another gangs hangout. The fear of Duke was all-enveloping to many people in my neighborhood; everyone trembled with the thought of upsetting him; we did whatever he told us to do. Few, if any, will believe my claim to innocents. Furthermore, none, have gone through what I have gone through for the past thirty-eight years. Back in Brooklyn, there were those who said I was responsible for my mothers death. It was not me; it was the monster--Duke! He sucked her brain from her head, through the orifice of her ear and then threw her off the roof. Her body was in such a mess, no one ever checked to see if her brain was intact. In those day they didn’t do much checking of anything. My story begins on a summer night in New York. The air hung heavy and thick like hot olive oil, on that suffocating evening in nineteen………, It was cloudy and not a star in sight. The night was black, the moon was new and Central park foreboding. We had a gang-fight that night with a gang from the Bronx. The fight had overflowed onto Fifth Avenue, then trickled down a few side streets into small groups of fighting teenagers. Three of us raced round the corner fleeing from the pops of exploding zip-guns and the pings of lead bullets ricocheting off concrete and metal hubcaps. We ran by an alley (me, five steps behind the other two) which separated two massive, shadow-covered buildings. I saw Duke dash into that shadowed alley but someone from the other gang was in that alley. In a instant my life changed; unwilling, I entered another zone Duke was shot-gunned out of the alleys darkness in a red ball of fire, thunder and spraying blood. He flew into me. We spun around in a tangle of arms and legs and we slammed down onto the hood of a new Cadillac car, in a death-birth embrace. He on the bottom, trapping my hands between the hood of the car and the small of his back. He clutched two handfuls of hair behind my ears, and held my head so that we were eye-to-eye. We were separated by four inches, and in a raspy growl of dying breath he pleaded. Help me Gus! Please, dont let me die. As I watched his ice-blue eyes before me melt and begin to dim, I cried out with all my heart. ILL DO ANYTHING DUKE, I SWEAR! WHAT CAN I DO His eyes grew into large rippled walnuts and he sucked in so much air I thought his lungs would explode. His grip on my hair tightened as he bent my head back until my mouth was forced open. My spine was arched, we were belly-to-belly our chests were not touching but the force and speed of his heart beat vibrated through me. It was all I heard or felt. His strength astounded me. Suddenly, he pulled my head toward him, at the same time lifting his upper body to meet me halfway. He opened his mouth wide and wrapped his lips around my still-open-mouth. Again, we crashed down on my hands; our teeth smashing and lips splitting. He spoke in a dying whisper, yet in my mind, the words resounded like cracking ocean waves slamming sand. He sucked in the words: We are the hunters, the seed of Aldebaran. For all these years I had forgotten what he said that day until now, this hour before I am to be hanged. There was no breath left inside me. Instinctively, and in desperation, I gasped for all the air I could swallow. In that same instant, Duke exhaled his ghostly death rattle, sending an icy-wind along with a stream of his scalding blood down into my lungs; he held me so tight I could do nothing but accept. This paralyzed me, giving me the sensation of a complete loss of Soul. In the Bible, the body is called the House or The Temple in which the Soul resides. Now, I was two-souls-in-one-temple. Duke died with this last exhalation. I lie there ensnared, my arms locked around him, unable to move. Mouth-to-mouth, his hands a vise-grip on the back of my head, we stared; his eyes piercing mine. He came to live in my House, and unknowingly I had invited him. Someone who reads this must understand? Anyone, please! It was Duke who roamed the Mexican country side drinking, feeding and murdering. It was he who took of the women and children. I am an innocent, only a vehicle for the seed of Aldebaron FOOTNOTE: A short time ago, I received a telephone call from one of the policemen--whose palm I had creased, continuously, for information-- back in -----------, Mexico. He was recuperating in the prison hospital from his wounds. It seems he and two other officers were the ones to take Herozogas body down from the gallows to the mortician, situated deep in the bowels of the prison. They placed the body on a table. The mortician stood with the scalpel in hand. He leaned over Herozoga and appeared to be closing the eyes of the deceased, and as he did so, he spoke to the guards. He was a good man and a devoted priest. He married my youngest sister and baptized my two children. He was a friend to all members of my family. It makes me wish I could have done something to help him in his confusion. Just then the body sprung into a sitting position. Herozogas hands grabbed the mortician behind the ears, and by all appearances it seemed like they kissed. A great sigh issued from Herozogas mouth before he fell back, and lay still. The Mortician staggered backwards across his laboratory slamming into the wall and sliding down into a sitting position. The three policemen rushed to the aid of the Mortician. But he was on his feet instantaneously and before realization took hold the policeman had been sliced to pieces by the Morticians scalpel. After the autopsy report on the other two policeman the authorities discovered that their brains were missing. My friend is lucky to be among the living; although he will be a long time in rehabilitation, for his body and his mind. He is very happy to be alive. And, as of this writing, the Mortician has yet to be found. Copyright 2014 Dennis John Ferado My first book, “Time On Hand” recently published can be ordered on Amazon or Barnes & Noble or through my publisher soulasylumpoetry If anyone would like a signed copy please message me. Price is twenty dollars, shipping is included, anywhere in the USA. Book collects, 80 songs and poems, 2 short stories and 16 vintage photographs.
Posted on: Wed, 03 Dec 2014 03:11:56 +0000
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