The hunt for Alaric is on.
ELIZABETHTOWNE IRON WORKS
MARCH 25. 1792
A BRANDED JESUIT
On January 1, 1785, Amos Anderson was appointed Sheriff of the “Elizabethtowne Tract” in “East New Jersey” (now known as North New Jersey), a 105 square mile parcel of land that English colonists purchased from the Lenape Indians in 1664. It became the Southern part of Essex County with it’s “seat” in Elizabethtowne proper. It would break away and become the County of Union in 1857.
On March 25, 1792, Joachim Constantine, another Elizabethtowne resident – technically he lived in the “West Field” of Elizabethtowne that would later become the Township of Westfield – burst into the Sheriff’s Station at the corner of Broad Street and East Jersey Street and breathlessly screamed out the words “MURDER!!! MURDER!!! MURDER!!!” over and over until Sheriff Anderson calmed the man’s nerves and gave him some brandy. Joachim Constantine was a leather merchant and tanner in the Elizabethtowne Porte area and – through gasps of breath and gulps of brandy – blurted out in fragmented, accented English (he was a Greek immigrant) an astounding find. Sheriff Anderson recounted the macabre incident to another Sheriff and some extremely influential Swedish citizens down in Vineland, New Jersey, a few days later. Sheriff Anderson also wrote notes in his official Journal in accordance with his duties as Sheriff of Elizabethtowne Tract. It is preserved to this day in the Archive of Official Records of Essex County, New Jersey.
RECOLLECTIONS OF AMOS ANDERSON, SHERIFF OF ELIZABETHTOWNE TRACT IN EAST NEW JERSEY
MURDER HOMICIDE OF THE JESUIT PRIEST, JEAN-FRANCOIS MOULIN
MARCH 25, 1792
This is my recollection of the incident and who said what to me, augmented by my Journal notes.
“So I says to Constantine –
“What’s all this, then….” I try to soothe Constantine’s nerves but the Greek’s mind is too far gone.
“That Papist priest – the one at the Mission for Sailors – I find him………..at the Mayberry Iron Works……..I go to deliver leather belts for machines and I see him………HANGING!!!!! HE VAS HANGING!!!!! Come see…..Vee go……..Veee go NOW!!!!!!
I’ve got to see what’s going on there for myself…….old Constantine is in extremis, hugging the brandy bottle and glass. I leave the old man shaking at the Sheriff’s station and mount my horse. Now, the Mayberry Iron Works is a sprawling collection of old barns, shanties and “Bloomery” furnaces used to cast bog iron ingots that are shipped in from Mt. Holly down in West Jersey. “Ironmaster” Nelson Mayberry (everybody just calls him “May”) turns out more bog iron cast pots, raw iron bar stock and plate than any other foundry on the East Coast of America. All this is from an Elizabethporte operation that everybody who works there calls “The Fires of Hell”. And Mayberry did more than his fair share during the Revolutionary War to help General George Washington, too – he casted everything from cannon balls to iron fittings for the fledgling American Navy – and was decorated as a civilian Hero by Congress. He’s a true Patriot.
I ride my horse, BelleMarie, down East Jersey Street to the docks. It’s about a half-hour’s ride down a busy commercial thoroughfare that gradually becomes seedier and seedier until a man’s sense of smell is overwhelmed by smoke from factories, tanneries and blacksmiths, rank odours from slaughter houses and rotting animal carcases. Then there’s the fishing boats. It’s that pungent, expected stench of a thriving port taking on as much trade and commercial activity as it can steal from the even busier Manhattan and Brooklyn docks. Seafaring is big business on the East Coast; the Atlantic Ocean is gateway to the riches of the Orient and Europe.
As I hitch my horse, Nelson Mayberry walks up to me, covered in black soot, grease and a badly fitting leather apron. His grey hair stands straight up from all kinds of chemical residues, grime and charcoal slag and his face is a dirty roadmap of burns and scars from a lifetime of tending blast-furnaces. He owns this profitable forge business – but he’s a hands-on manager who oversees every step of iron working and toils twenty-hour days, six days a week. Whatever money he has, he’s earned it the hard way.
“The victim’s in the Bloomery shed – follow me”, he says. Mayberry wastes no time on formalities. He knows me for years and wants to resolve this situation as soon as possible. He’s got ironworking contracts stacking up and money to make. He communicates by shouting to me as we weave our way through the ear-splitting din and grimey labyrinth of barns, sheds and lean-to contrivances that make up the Ironworks proper.
I get the guided tour. Mayberry enjoys talking about his business.
“A Bloomery is a high-heat melting furnace….it’s constantly fired with charcoal and surrounded by bellowes that force air into it to melt and anneal bog iron. It’s hotter than Sin in there – so prepare yourself………..the dead priest is in a pipe workshop that has its own Bloomery furnace. It’s full of tools, bucks and impliments to cast and forge specific pipe rolling stock and bar fabrication jobs that we get from ship builders and military contractors. It’s custom work – and it pays the bills in spades.”
I see a crude sign over a wooden door – “Pipe Bloomery and Raw Stock”. The noise is deafening and – when Mayberry opens the door inward – I’m hit by a blast of heat such as I’ve never experienced in my life. It truly is Hell. Flames belch out of a tilted cauldron of molten steel that’s hooked up to overhead chains. A colossal ring of charcoal fire encircled by immense rocks takes up most of the room – it’s the biggest, hottest open hearth furnace I’ve ever seen.
There’s a towering, hammered venting hood above the firepit, channeling black coal smoke through the roof to the sky above. Mountains of charcoal are everywhere. A huge bellowes is hooked to chains that lead outside – apparently apprentice Ironworkers shield themselves from this Hellscape by cranking the chains on windlasses beyond the walls. Enormous “gypsies” – notched rings that mesh with chain links – cradle the bellowes on each side of them. It’s an awesome, utilitarian Temple of Ironworking – something worthy of Hephaestus, the legendary Greek God of blacksmithing.
Directly ahead of us, hanging by ropes fixed to the roof beams is an upside down human body, each foot tied to a rope stretched to opposite roof trusses – pulling the legs apart in a “V” as the rest of the body points downward. It’s obviously the Preist. His black cassock is flipped down and drapes over his torso and head, almost touching the heavy wooden work table that’s directly underneath. Blood is draining down from the man’s ass, covering his exposed penis up front. The dead priest’s britches are cut off and draped to one side on his flipped cassock. It’s the most obscene presentation of a dead man I’ve ever seen………. a human “V” strung up in a blazing iron forge with his blood-covered privates hanging out for all the world to see.
Mayberry yells over all the metalworking cacophony in the place. Anvils are banging, sheet metal clanging, and sudden explosive drops of scrap iron and slag burst red-hot cinders everywhere.
“Looks like he was violated up his arse – you want I should cut him down so we can get a better look?”
I jump up on the table and saw at the ropes with a broad hunting knife I always wear on my belt. I yell back to Mayberry as I hack at the thick, greasy rope.
“Catch him as he comes loose, alright?”
The body soon flops on the top of the work table and we both take a preliminary look-see.
We both stare at the Priest’s bloody rectum in horror. Protruding out of it is the circumference of a two-inch diameter iron pipe which has obviously been swathed with grease to cram it up inside the man.
“You recognize that pipe?” I keep yelling at Mayberry so he can hear me over the noise. Mayberry yells back, leaning in closer to my ear.
“Yeah…….it’s standard, two foot long an’ two inch diameter pipe stock – most people use it for axle sleeves or union connectors that’re furnace-welded on to solid axle stock…….there’s some ’em stacked up over there…….it’s primarily a repair item……..ships and carriage shops keep it on hand………DAMN!…..AND WHO THE HELL STOKED THAT FURNACE SO HOT??? SWEET JESUS!!!”
I’m scratching my head, yelling my thoughts out loud.
“You mean to tell me that this priest’s got a two foot long greased iron pipe shoved up his ass?”
Mayberry yells his answer.
“Mebbee longer……..the only way to tell is to pull it out……and I ain’t volunteering for that job. I say send for our Doctor. He’s up at the wharf today….. he usually does injury work here at the Ironworks every few days – good fella named Ainslee, Doctor Benjamin Ainslee – I’ll get one of my guys to scare him up.”
Mayberry pokes his head out of the shed and starts screaming orders to workers – then he pops back in.
“What say you an’ me share a jug in my business office whilst we wait on the Doc to show? I sure can use it….””
“Good idea” I yell, gesturing Mayberry to lead the way.
Two hours later me and Mayberry both hear Doctor Benjamin Ainslee’s findings. We’re a mite tipsy from Applejack – but it’s just as well. His medical conclusions are shocking – and provide fewer answers than new questions.
The Doc announces his conclusions in the Ironworks business office. He’s drenched in sweat and nearly collapsing from exhaustion. Doc’s performed his examination at the murder scene…….pouring over the dead priest with a Bloomery furnace blazing a few feet away. He’s a thin man to begin with and after this postmortum Ainslee looks thinner than ever. Ainslee studies his scribbled notes and then carefully unrolls two paper scrolls on a nearby table. He puts odds and ends on them – pieces of crockery and iron scraps – to weigh them down in place.
“FIRST – take a look at these…….NOW…….when you cut him down from the ropes that suspended him from the roof joists in that “V” upside-down position, the priest’s cassock was draped downward, covering his torso and head, right? You peeked underneath to see his face, but that’s it….right? I peeled off all his clothing and found THIS branded on the front of his chest – hardly what I expect of a Jesuit Priest……but, you know how perfidious these Papists are!”
Ainslee points to the first sketch. “It’s drawn to scale.”
It’s a Pentagram. Satan’s Medallion. A circle about a foot in diameter surrounding a five-pointed star. In the middle of the scar is a goat’s head with curled horns. Baphomet.
Ainslee continues. “This was burned into the priest’s flesh years ago – it has obviously healed in place as a permanent adornment on his body. Why did he do this? The story gets even stranger……”
The Doctor pauses to take a pull on the Applejack jug.
“The victim has no bruises or other marks on his body showing evidence of trauma – he wasn’t beat up – BUT he’d bitten clean through his own tongue from pain and looks like he swallowed it. A two-foot long, greased pipe was shoved up his rectum, clear through his fascia and bowels, causing much bleeding. Why? Because whoever did this wanted access to his deep innards to TORTURE him with red-hot burning rods of iron stock. I found three iron bars about three feet long discoloured with chunks of burned organ flesh from the Priest’s insides next to the furnace……..there’s chunks of blood and meat all over ’em……he was skewered.
This Preist was tortured in such a way that he wouldn’t show exterior injuries – but with MAXIMUM TERROR. He’d know that red-hot irons were igniting his insides and he’d have time to think about what was happening to him. This torture method was used by the Holy Inquisition in Spain to get accused heretics to confess that they worshiped Satan. And since the bodies showed no bruises, they could be displayed at a funeral in an open casket in front of their loved ones! The Catholic Church would deny abusing the victims……and feed their false sanctimony. Oh, Deceitful Whore of Babylon!!!
Depending on how many red-hot irons were rammed into that iron rectal pipe and how deep they bore into the victim’s guts, the process could be dragged out for hours to prolong suffering. The racket and isolation of an iron-works is perfect to hide his screams. I cut open the Priest’s gullet – his stomach, liver and intestines – even his lungs – are all scrambled, torn apart. They’re shredded and burned by blazing iron rods shoved into him from above as he was suspended. The red-hot iron stock seared and actually cauterized his insides so some bleeding was stanched. The pain, however, must’ve been horrifiic. He must have gone mad from the excruciating agony.
What did this man know that someone else wanted to find out? Why go to such extreme lengths to extract it from him? What information is so important that somebody will savage a man’s insides like this?
I don’t have any answers for ya’ – but here’s my last surprise…………”
Ainslee turns his attention to the second sketch.
“These words were freshly cut into his back:
DE SVERIGE BRODERSKAP AR PA JAKT ALARIC ”
Doctor Ainslee is anxious to get going – but he’s got a final caveat.
“Note, Sheriff, the accent marks over the words; the AR has two dots – what the Germans call an umlout on top and the PA has a small circle over the A. But this isn’t German. I’m guessing this is a Scandinavian message of some sort. I’ve got to head back to my surgery offices now….I’ve got other patients to see. Looks like you got yourself a Murder investigation here, Sheriff!”
Ainslee collects his medical tools and briskly walks away before we can ask any more questions.
Mayberry offers the Applejack jug to me again. “Appears you need it more than me………..”
I take a long pull and scratch at my beard stubble. I go silent for a moment, then start to think out loud like I do when I’m piecing things together.
“Somebody gets this Jesuit Priest………who’s got a Satan brand on his chest…………hangs him upside down…………shoves a greased iron pipe up his ass………and them rams red-hot pokers inside his guts until he confesses secrets………..IF THAT DON’T BEAT ALL……..
You know, May, I heard-tell this Priest was involved in that business up in Springfieldtowne when Doc Cooper up there buried thirty people who died from the Syphillis. Cooper told me that Kneiphauser’s Mortuary Parlor was some kind of Witche’s Coven – and that they’d had weird Black Mass sex orgies up in there…..he says the old lady Kneiphauser was infecting everybody with the Pox ‘an her husband got rid of her, shipping her off to this Priest here.
Doc Cooper spoke to some domestic servant girl who they paid with coin. Said she was scared outta’ her wits. That’s where he learned old lady Kneiphauser was sent off to this Jesuit “at the Mission in Elizabethporte” – and that some kid was with her. There was talk of a young Nephew from France that lived with ’em….a strange kid with skin the color of lard that never went out during the day and always wore dark glasses. Said the kid’s name started with a “A” – maybe Albrecht or some such. HEY – maybe the word that was cut into the Priest’s back…..”Alaric”………is that a name? Maybe there’s some connection here…….
I rode up there to file a Health Report on the Pox outbreak because it was in my District – but the Funeral Director husband, Friedrich Kneiphauser, was gone. Whole place was deserted…..gone to seed. Some said he’d gone back to France where he was from. Looks like this here tortured Priest was mixed up in Witche Covens and Satan worship. He had the accursed Pentagram branded onto his chest………. Why would the husband Friedrich pass off his poxey wife to this Jesuit Priest unless there is some connection? AND – WHERE’S THE KID? What do you make of that message carved on the Priest’s back?”
Mayberry just shakes his head. But he offers good advice. He says:
“Well, I tell you one thing – sure as I’m sittin’ here thems words are Swedish…….I deal a lot with Swedes down in South Jersey – what we used to call West Jersey . The Cumberland tract across from Delaware used to be called “New Sweden” until the Dutch and the English took it over. I’ve contracted a small Barkentine heading down to Little Egg Harbor tomorrow to pick up ingots of Bog Iron them Piney folks make from Pine Barrens swamp water……..from Little Egg it’s only a day’s horse ride to Vineland in the Cumberland tract – where all the Swedes live. Thousands of ’em. Nice people, too – salt of the Earth. Got their own society down there,……..they even speak their mother tongue amongst themselves. Hard workers. Proud Americans.
I know the Sheriff there – a real, honest to God, war hero name ‘a Gunnar Ekholm. He was in General Washington’s boat crossing the Delaware at the Battle of Trenton – and helped kick the Brits ass at Monmouth. Real Indian fighter, too. Tough as nails. He’s the man you want to see about that Swedish writin’ and why somebody would carve it into a Jesuit Priest mixed up with witches. If this is Murder – and I’m sure it is – you’ve gotta’ big job ahead of you, Sheriff. Go see Ekholm. They calls ’em The Swede. If you’re interested in takin’ a little trip tomorrow, be at the dock at dawn. We leave with the tide.”
A week prior –
“WEST” NEW JERSEY (NOW KNOWN AS “SOUTH” NEW JERSEY)
Vineland Township, Cumberland Tract of Camden County
formerly,
NYE SVERIGE (New Sweden, 1638 – 1655)
March 20, 1792
SEND IN THE SWEDE
By the time of the American Revolution, there were thousands of Swedish and Dutch people living on both sides of the Delaware Valley. Why did they all come to North America?
In 1638, The King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus, decided to establish a Swedish Colony in North America. Since 1610, intrepid Swedish traders had been visiting the lower reaches of (what is now) the Delaware River and fanning out through present day Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey and Pennsylvania in search of animal pelts and other items they could barter from the local Lenape Indians. In 1638, Fort Christina – named after King Gustavus Adolphus’ wife, Queen Christina – became the first true settlement in “Nye Sverige” (New Sweden). It was established under the aegis of the Swedish East Indian Company and is the site of present day Wilmington, DE. New Sweden was at the confluence of the Delaware, Brandywine and Christina Rivers, and was strategically located to become a prime commercial hub for sea trade to all the major ports of Europe.
This was unacceptible to the Dutch East Indian Company, who, in 1651 established Fort Casimir (present day New Castle, Delaware) which – much to the chagrin of the Swedes – was a mere seven miles as the crow flies from Swedish Fort Christina. Peter Stuyvesant, a favorite of the Dutch East India Company and destined to become the Governor General of New Amsterdam (soon to become New York), oversaw the building of Fort Casimir to check the Swedish progress in the new world. Once Stuyvesant and most of his men left, the Swedes attacked Fort Casimir and made it their own.
In 1655 Peter Stuyvesant returned with a capable Dutch fighting force and re-took Fort Casimir, then took Fort Christina, effectively ending the official Swedish presence in North America. The Swedish lands were subsumed under the banner of “Neu Netherland” and the Dutch East India Company until it all became English territory in 1664 when the “Second Anglo-Dutch War” was concluded. Thousands of Dutch and Swedish settlers remained throughout the lower Delaware River area. By then Swedish farmers had established flourishing New Jersey settlements in Vineland, Gloucester County and its surrounding area.
Swedes thrive in New Jersey. They are used to hard work and farming from dusk ’till dawn. They are physically hearty. And they distinguish themselves during the Revolutionary War.
One such “Jersey Vinelander” is an eighteen year old Swede named Gunnar Ekholm. He’s at George Washington’s side on that freezing Christmas night when they rout the Hessians at the Battle of Trenton. He’s later awarded a commendation for bravery at the Battle of Monmouth and carries a Stars and Stripes flag to victory against British General Cornwallis at Yorktowne. He’s a strapping, good looking youth who dresses in buckskins and has rock-hard muscles. He has an instinctive ability with a tomahawk that his comrades say comes from his “Viking Blood”. Gunnar Ekholm is also proficient with a blade and always carries on his belt a “Cuttoe” – an intimidating fourteen inch long damascus-steel butcher knife that would later become legendary when it is hefted by another Frontiersman named Jim Bowie. He can throw this “Cuttoe” with uncanny accuracy – almost as accurately as he can shoot. The French term “Couteau de Chasse” means “short hunting swords” for the long blades carried by only the most die-hard woodsmen in Europe. In America the name is shortened to “Cuttoe” and many Americans trust their lives to them. It’s the ultimate fall-back weapon – as Gunnar demonstrates throughout the War.
Most guys call Ekholm by his first name, “Gunnar” – but when there’s a particularly dangerous mission that needs handling, Washington’s staff officers more often than not just smile and say: “send in the Swede”.
He’s a natural warrior. In another life he’d have probably been a Viking “Berserker” – first off the longboat, bare-chested and screaming with an axe in each hand, cutting and hacking his way through waves of Anglo-Saxons and Goths. One officer raves to General Washington that when Gunnars’ platoon is raided by an Iroquois band in the mountains of Western Virginia, he fights like “whirling dervish” – axe in left hand and “Cuttoe” knife in his right – shredding Indian braves into heaps of “meat pulp”.
Another officer reports that Gunnar “cuts through Indians like a scythe” and writes that on one particular occasion, Gunnar tracked an escaped Iroquois brave up and down mountains and through an ice storm until he caught up the Indian and cut his throat. This is wartime necessity. It’s vital that the British remain ignorant of the Continental Army’s scouting missions. If Indians get word to British garrisons temporarily in control of Fort Duquesne (modern day Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania), Washington’s hopes for a Colonial guerilla war up the Ohio River will be thwarted.
In the Appalachian Mountains Gunnar Ekholm also fights shoulder-to-shoulder with many of Marquis de Lafayette’s troops – who come to call him Le Demon, because he fights like one. He learns their language and, by the end of hostilities, speaks reasonably conversational French.
Gunnar’s hand-to-hand fighting skills are exemplary – but his powers of pursuasion are also remarkable; when Washington needs information from a certain particularly stubborn Hessian Officer, Gunnar’s “Cuttoe” changes the German’s mind right quick. By the time British General Cornwallis surrenders to General Washington at Yorktowne, Gunnar Ekholm is a Colonel – the most senior field-grade military officer rank. He leaves the Continental Army a decorated hero, his discharge papers personally signed by a grateful American Commander in Chief and soon-to-be President, who also writes him a glowing letter of recomendation.
Colonel Ekholm loses no time leveraging his military contacts, reputation and local celebrity status to get an “official” New Jersey government subdivision – Camden County – to designate him “Sheriff and Peace Officer in such lands encompassing Cumberland Tract, formerly New Sweden”. Camden has a tenuous jurisdiction over the territory and it’s only too glad to concede to Sheriff Ekholm the “Constabulary Duties” they find too difficut to provide because of the distances involved. “Sheriff” Ekholm returns to Vineland and sets up a base of operations. He moves into his family cabin – all of his family has since passed on – and engages itinerant dirt farmers to raise cash crops. His lands border the local Swedish Episcopal Church and he develops a fond relationship with its Minister, Holger Wetterstedt.
Then, on March 20, 1792, Gunnar Ekholm’s life changes forever. He tells his Minister his story that very night and later writes it all down at the cleric’s insistence.
To all to whom these Presents shall come, Greetings:
STATEMENT OF GUNNAR EKHOLM, SHERIFF OF CUMBERLAND TRACT, CAMDEN COUNTY, NEW JERSEY
Bye My Oathe:
“We are a farming community of God-Fearing Swedish folk. My life is quiet in Vineland, New Jersey – until this night. A shadowy visitor came to my cabin. My home is too far off the main road for any random or chance tourists. My dog Gerda alerts me. Through a window I glimpse a trespasser moving about my barn……slowly approaching my cabin’s front porch. The night is pitch black – with only a sliver of moon light – but the stranger has no problem making his way through the darkness. Most people in the area know I’m Sheriff; they don’t attempt any such furtive night-time movements on my property without announcing themselves. And there’s been two local deaths recently, both under suspicious circumstances. Everybody is on alert. I double-check the bolt on my cabin door and try to put aside my dinner, waiting and listening.
After a few minutes there’s a loud nock on my door……..my Indian-fighter instincts kick in. I move my pistol within reach. My faithful “Cuttoe” is affixed to my belt. I call out –
“YES – IDENTIFY YOURSELF…….WHO IS IT?”
A gravelly voice responds – and whoever’s there starts rattling my door latch.
“I’m lost…..I’m a traveler from Pennsylvania…..I’ve lost my way. Please let me in so I can warm myself by your fire…..”
I’m not convinced.
“Why did you pick my house to warm yourself at? I suggest you keep walking until you find yourself back in Pennsylvania. I don’t run an Inn and I don’t take in boarders. Good night to you, Sir.”
Then, silence. I strain my ears and slowly get up from my chair, grabbing my pistol. My eyes move from the front door to the window a few feet to its left. If trouble comes, these are the places it’s coming from………….
Up until that point My sheep dog, Gerda, hasn’t made a sound – but she now lets out a low growl. Her warning of danger.
I cock my pistol.
Suddenly there’s a a deafening crash. An implosive force reverberates throughout the small structure as my front door bursts inward. Splinters of wood fly from the cracked doorframe as the door is ripped off it’s hinges and is slammed against the floorboards. Gerda starts barking and edging closer towards the chaos.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the pitch black darkness behind is a tall menacing figure, a man – a powerful man – in a long, hooded cloak glaring at me with blood-red eyes. He lunges straight at me – his big claw-like hands outstretched in front of him and and his mouth gaping wide open, revealing hideously pointed teeth.
All of my fighting experiences flash before my eyes and my wartime rage takes over. In one, fluid movement I fire my pistol at the intruder – scoring a hit dead center mass. The dark stranger wavers but then regains its footing, staggering forward. Whatever this is, one lead bullet isn’t going to stop it.
Now, know this – I built this cabin with my bare hands and incorporated into it certain tricks in case of Indian attack. One trick is six “Indian floor” voids that give way under a man’s full weight, plunging an invader’s leg into my root cellar underneath – hopefully breaking it in the process. If you know where the trick boards are, you can walk the cabin floors all day – but if you don’t, you got six chances of dropping through and fracturing your leg.
I know that by bobbing and weaving backwards and sideways I can force this devil to follow me as he attacks – and God willing – make that one wrong step that will plunge its leg into the cellar below. I start bucking and weaving down low like an Indian fighter – my hand firmly gripping my “Cuttoe” butcher knife…..I’m now playing with this fiend, edging him closer to the trap.
An instant later I hear a loud CRACK – like another gunshot – when a floor board collapses under the things’ weight. It’s leg penetrates deep through the floor – whilst the things’ forward body momentum grabs and leverages its limb as if in a vise. The intruder is completely knocked off it’s stride. I’m sure some of that CRACK is leg bone snapping………the invader lets out an ungodly howl of pain and starts frantically clawing at the floor to regain its footing.
I leap at my opportunity. I throw my full weight against the thing, hoping to break it’s leg completely off inside the floor trap – while simultaneously drawing my butcher knife and sweeping a broad slash across its throat. The force of my body impacting the intruder adds cutting velocity to my knife and it cuts deep, striking bone and almost completely decapitates the thing. It takes me a few seconds to realize I’ve landed on top of a nearly headless body – but what really sickens me is what is pouring out of the the neck viscera and windpipe of the body. It isn’t blood. It’s smells sickeningly sour…..and coppery.
Viscous green slime with a bluish tint is spewing all over the place as the thing’s heart slowly stops pumping. It’s partially severed head lays off to its side – the mouth is open, still twitching. Large, pointed incisors extend out out of its grimacing lips. Its glowing red eyes become duller and duller. Finally, they go solid black.
I lean against my wooden table and collect myself, petting my sheep dog Gerda to calm her down. I throw more logs in the fireplace – I need more light to figure out what the Hell just happened to me. For some reason I can’t explain, I kneel down and finish decapitating the head. I sense that I must separate the thing’s head from its body. I grab its greasy hair and toss the head into the darkness outside. I remember the old Swedish legends. I know it is the right thing to do.
I reload my pistol – all I have is lead shot. I shove it into my belt and sheathe my knife. I whistle for Gerda. It’s time to to see Minister Wetterstedt. Hopefully, he can shed some light on this evening’s events. I have a strange, uncomfortable worry in my head………..that if this thing that just attacked me is what old-time Swedes discuss in hushed, quiet voices outside the earshot of the children………then……..an evil danger is upon us.”
Signed and Witnessed this 20th Day of March, in the Year of Our Lord, 1792
GUNNAR EKHOLM, SHERIFF OF THE CUMBERLAND TRACTE, CAMDEN COUNTY, NEW JERSEY
Witness: Holger Wetterstedt, Minister, Swedish Methodist Church of Vineland, New Jersey
Copyright, Jon Croft 2023
joncroft52@yahoo.com
Graphic courtesy of Wikipedia
