Witchcraft: The Modern Incarnation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Automobile exhaust....what's really in it?

Submitted: April 26, 2018

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Submitted: April 26, 2018



Sometimes, we don't recognize witchcraft when it's right in front of us staring in our face.

The way to write a science fiction short story when you don’t have any ideas on what to write about is to first generate ideas by researching modern military conflicts for hidden paranormal factors, such as MKULTRA, Manchurian Candidates, the military cover-up of the Roswell Incident, and code-name SCOOP from The Andromeda Strain.

Give your characters, especially your primary character, a creepy fetish or bizarre eccentricity, like sneaking around in back alleys at night with woman’s pantyhose over the face or an obsession for gazing through a telescope in moonlight in search of flying saucers. Of course you can thoroughly familiarize yourself with time travel, tele-transporters, cyborgs, and laser cannons, yet old world elements of the occult are paramount for reader-pleasing science fiction short story writing.

Verse yourself in the underlying psychological mechanisms that give cult leaders power over large groups of devout followers. Gain an understanding of the history and evolution of parapsychology. As you immerse yourself in the abnormal, you’ll experience the materialization of a spine-twisting science fiction short story as the engaging characters and vividly transporting plot emerge in your enchanted mind.

To clearly illustrate exactly what I’m saying, I have appended an exempli gratia in the form of the following:

Macabre, spectral - there had always been old legends of primeval fairies in the hornbeam, but when strange lights were seen hovering above the treetops that fateful night in late October, it was time to move away.

His assumed name is Ned Warbowski, yet the name given him at birth is Sergei Sokolov. His mother was pregnant with him when, with his father, she immigrated in ‘97 from war-torn Chechnya to the United States, settling in Seattle, Washington. The gray dreary temperate rainforest climate of the Pacific Northwest often reminded them of home, but in Seattle a person could live in predictable systematic tranquility the way a human being should. Unlike tragic Grozny where the booming explosions of bombs and the sharp crack of rifle fire amid the incessant insurgent and counter-insurgent militant fighting wrung nerves to the point of insanity, the suburban order of the West offered social stability in which one could build a new life.

Ned was a shy boy, so his mother, Yalena, schooled him at home. Even when he reached early adulthood, Ned, a/k/a Sergei Sokolov, was bashful and nervous in the presence of others. Ned was keenly interested in history, investigative journalism, economics, and the occult.

His parents had established a profitable 24-hour coin laundry business. Researching the evolution of coin laundries, Ned discovered that in the past they had been known as laundromats. This amused Ned in a nostalgic sentimental fashion. He developed a deeply-rooted, almost spiritual, connection to the laundromat owned and operated by his doting mother and father.

The only time Ned would venture out of the apartment he shared with his parents upstairs above the coin laundry was late at night when the streets were mostly deserted and the only patrons of the laundromat were few and quiet. For some mysterious reason, people who washed their clothes at night were somber and non-communicative. They kept to themselves, minded their own business. Ned liked that. He was oddly pleased with the gloomy nocturnal atmosphere of the laundromat. The monotonous hum of a washer sloshing and a dryer tumbling clothes put Ned in an eerie trance.

He sat before the whirring machines with his notebook computer typing bizarre plots into his word-processor. A police siren wailed balefully in the distance. Some foul mischief was afoot. Taboo haunted the night.

Ned was developing a radical disturbing conspiracy theory. Conspiratorial buzz was rife with shady talk of Chemtrails high in the sky and Pink Slime in ground meat sold to consumers, but Ned suspected a different source of mind-control substances being clandestinely dispersed into the global population. Society was plagued with underhanded dirty double-dealing. Corruption was rife. High-paid lobbyists on Capital Hill swept seedy truths under propaganda rugs so concerned citizens were deprived of total awareness of a competition-fueled ugliness that festered under their very noses.

Ned was deep into research specifically calculated to uncover an illicit link between automobile exhaust, industrial smoke stacks, and horrifying sudden outbreaks of brutal murderous violence in public places - animal pheromones sprayed into the air.

The inhuman atrocities of Sandy Hook, Ruby Ridge, the Beslan school siege, the notorious bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City, the publicly criticized standoff between FBI, Federal Marshals, and the desperate members of the Branch Davidian compound in Waco - Ned was irresistibly drawn to exposing cover-ups of secretly bankrolled evilly-shadowed cults surrounded in tabloid controversy involving mass suicide and sexual exploitation such as Heaven’s Gate, Children of God, Scientology, and the dreaded Moonies.

The witching hour had struck and Ned was virtually all alone downstairs in the all-night coin laundry. The only other people were a college couple who, while their dirty laundry churned clean, poured over textbooks in preparation for final exams, and a middle-aged woman with a thin chartreuse scarf covering her hair which was deep red in color and ludicrously bound up in a hodgepodge of big fat techno-plastic curlers. She sat before a coin-operated front-loading large-capacity clothes washing machine. Her petite nose was buried in a drugstore paperback.

It was bliss for Ned. The clicks and ticks of his fingers striking the keypad were muffled by the rolling rumbling laundry mechanisms. The soothing aroma of detergent and fabric softener, the fuzzy soft glow of indirect low-level lighting, the gaudy flashing neon sign on the front showcase window, the dense impenetrable darkness that loomed over the dim streetlamps of the empty streets and sidewalks - Ned’s mind reeled, vividly alive, as his keenly observant intellect unearthed buried connections between apparently widely disparate facts. Something alien was here on Earth; something unseen. Ned knew he was getting close to putting a face on the mysterious entity that shrouded itself behind the turbulent scenes of everyday human affairs.

Hormones - it had to be based on hormones. The insidious subliminal attack was far too effective not to involve what are in essence highly addictive mind-altering chemical substances manufactured inside the human body. Drugs - dopamine, serotonin, neurotransmitters, steroids, estrogen, testosterone, adrenaline - the endocrine system is a drug dealer cunningly concealed like a possessing demon inside each person’s anatomy. The sinister drug dealer could, from the vexing stimulus of emotional reaction, immediately secrete powerful narcotics directly into the bloodstream - the victim completely unaware of the diabolical psychotropic assault.

Ned had observed that there was an alarming majority (not all, but a majority) of people who often quipped in egotistical apex-predator ignorance about animals fighting and threatening to acquire a mate, or secure access to territory necessary for mating, nesting, or food and water supply, and even to establish themselves in a social hierarchy the way wolves do in a pack, but did these haughty people not realize that they themselves were programmed with a similar bestial instinct for violence?

An instinct for violence which does not necessarily serve a need for survival infects the human animal like a virulent contagion of unknown origin and intent. Such a terrifying instinct can be monstrously exploited by an entity or agency that is profoundly aware of the deadly dangerous connection between emotional reaction, endocrine drugs, and violence.

As his lithe nimble fingers flew deftly over the alphanumeric keys of his luminous laptop, a startling picture of the cloaked syndicate was beginning to emerge in Ned’s research file - a paranormal junta manipulating mass media aimed at triggering uncontrolled emotional reactions for the explicit hidden agenda of drugging an unwitting public with the self-destructive narcotic of violence.

© Copyright 2019 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

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