The Truth From John Dyer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The lone survivor of a tragedy has spun a yarn so fantastic and unbelievable that he has been labeled clinically insane. He has to be crazy, doesn't he? His story is too frightening for anyone to consider but, what if he's telling the truth?

Submitted: April 09, 2019

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Submitted: April 09, 2019




The Truth From John Dyer

Unknown Date

Rancor State Hospital, Delaware


I am not sure you will believe me and that's fine since I am, to you, merely the unfortunate madman behind the glass within my protective cell. It may be a waste of my time to try to explain or even get you to believe the gravity of why I was placed here, not of my own volition, but against my will. I was not given a fair trial, no attorney represented my best interests, no acts of violence or incoherent ravings landed me in the place that I am now forced to call home. I was dragged here, protesting for my freedom, stripped of my dignity, chastened for one simply offense: I told the truth.

Not only did I tell the truth, I refused to admit that I was withholding evidence, as the authorities wished me to. They wished for me to paint a pretty picture for them, instead of uttering any authenticity, a rationalization that could be easily be stomached and placed inside a neat, smooth package for digestion. That is not what they received, however. I refused to relinquish my testimony no matter how difficult it was for them to accept. In short, I stuck to my story. I am not being stubborn or righteously objective on this crucial point. I did not risk my freedom out of stupidity by refusing to change my story. I am persistent in my version of what actually occurred because it is one hundred percent accurate and I refuse to say anything otherwise. The truth, in this case, is too important to my fellow human beings.

Of course, if you were to inquire about me to my custodians, they would tell you that I am crazy, that I spun a fraudulent yarn to cover up for all of the deaths that were found at 224 Wood Briar Lane, but their version of the events which occurred there is, in itself, the true falsehood. How very trite a problem for me to be believed if you think about it. If I weren't on the inside of the glass, but instead standing beside you before the enclosure, you wouldn't be so hasty to dismiss my claim.

Perhaps the truth was too grand for the authorities to grasp or accept. Fear is a deep motivator for irrational or partisan reaction in people. Nevertheless, my story must be told for all of our sakes. The tide of darkness which erupted at 224 Wood Briar Lane was just one single incident which left a single witness behind to describe what had actually happened there. In truth, there are many more unexplained massacres happening all over the world, in metropolises, small towns and suburbs alike, past and present.

Since I am not allowed to speak to any visitors, or at least to this point, after countless years of my imprisonment, I have never received a guest, I am forced to draw the offensive thing I saw that night on the immediate wall facing the glass window at the entrance to my dwelling.

I know that the vile and hateful material I use for my depictions is daunting, but I don't have much of an alternative save the very blood in my veins. At first, I did try to use blood to paint my recollection of the monster, but I was quickly detained from continuing any further portrayals using my blood as ink since, in my captors narrow view, I was injuring myself. They placed me in a straitjacket for a week to prevent any further self inflicted “harm”.

After that, I collected the offal from within the single facility I relieve myself with. I know this is a ghastly and repulsive practice, but what choice do I have? The truth must be seen, notwithstanding. Any passerby, any visitor who peeks into my cell can see the truth, now that I draw it upon the immediate wall daily.

Of course, to the poor janitor who cleans my cell on regular intervals, I am not a friend, but I continue in my activity anyway because as I have previously stated, the truth must be known. Consequences be damned.

You think me mad? You think only an unstable individual would use his own excrement to draw an asinine illustration of a creature upon the wall of his own cell and that such an affront is deserving of my imprisonment? Then you are a fool, my friend.

Let me relate to you, the horrific circumstance which occurred at 224 Wood Briar that night. After which, if there is no other recourse for you to take, other than thinking that I am exactly where I belong, then I will drop the subject. Be forewarned, accepting such a tale means the acknowledgment of something far greater than any of us. Something that is more vast than the endless cosmos itself, since the very avenue of its passing lies practically on our collective doorsteps.

My name is John Dyer. I was a Constable of the 2nd Precinct in Dover, Delaware. I don't how old I am now, any more than I know what year this is, but you must believe me while I recite the strange and incredible events which transpired. You must believe me, otherwise saddling myself with this burden and making such a dire effort to keep the memory so fresh in my mind will be for naught. I would like nothing better than to enter a mental state of denial and forget everything that happened, slowly regaining control over my faculties, but for the sake of humanity, I cannot.

The night started out like any other.

Macready and I were at the bar, drinking our best Irish. We were about four shots deep apiece when Gracie let out a shriek from the storage room. Being in a mood for trouble, Macready and I rushed over to see what the problem was. If only we had minded our own business. What I would give to take back that very instance in time, knowing what I know now. I could have saved myself this nightmare state that I now find myself and perhaps, I could have spared many people an untimely, horrific and brutal death.

Gracie was an elderly waitress at the bar. Her fast tongue, sharp wit and disparaging commentary did little to dissuade patrons from visiting the bar but, in fact, drew more people in. Gracie was a classic sassy waitress that everyone loved. Once you got to know her, she would expose her true persona, which was a caring one. Gracie had a heart of gold. Her saucy personality was enlightening.

The bar at 224 Wood Briar Lane was a favorite hang out of mine. When I think about how that memorable place burned to the ground and that nothing could be salvaged, my limbs feel like they are made of lead and I feel a hollow, regretful stab in my heart. All of my friends and acquaintances from that bar are all gone now, killed on the night in question.

My apologies, I'm getting ahead of myself. My emotions are still, after all these years, too bare and painful to ignore so readily. I will strive to delineate from my accurate recollection no more.

Macready and I rushed to Gracie's aid, expecting to find someone from the bar to be in the storage room, harassing her or something of that nature. Perhaps a bat had flown inside from the cool night air or perhaps vermin had spooked her. To our surprise, we found Gracie staring at one of the walls within the storage room. I poked my head in, to see what she was looking at, while Macready was guiding her out of the small room, for her safety.

For the life of me, at that time, I had no idea what I was looking at. There was a jagged tear in the wall that stretched from about eye level to about a foot from the floor. The astonishing thing, is that the crack was not in the plaster, paint or drywall of the wall, but in the air just in front of the wall. When I say it was a tear, I mean it in the most logical way to convey to you what I was perceiving at that moment. I don't expect you to understand, because you weren't there to witness it. You were unable to see the odd energy that seemed to be pouring out of it in clouds, bright blue and flashing with sparkling radiance. Your absence from the scene has robbed you of the bizarre humming noise, like an angry swarm of mechanical bees, that was coming from the odd rupture. You cannot begin to contemplate the way there seemed to be an endless depth to the bright tear, as if it were a narrow opening to a whole other world.

I have never seen anything like that tear in reality before, nor have I seen anything remotely like it since. When I think of the odds of that portal opening within that particular bar, my mind spins out of control with regret. If only it had opened somewhere else, or at some other time.

The tear in the fabric of reality looked like a phosphoric jagged lightning bolt that was around five feet in height. Cerulean energized fumes, of some unknown transference, billowed forth from the bottom edge of the crack, only to quickly dissipate like steam, giving off no odor. From deep within the tear came a droning of an odd deep hollow humming sound, mechanical and rhythmic, metallic like working machinery, but organic as well, like from the inside a hive of wasps or bees.

Stepping closer to the tear, I risked to peer inside it, akin to peeping through a thin crack in a wooden fence. Beyond the crack, I could see nothing except a vastness of dark space, as if I was gazing into the cosmos itself. There were star-like dots of energy, spread out over the dark veil of expanse, but they were not stars, more like distant points of entry to this massive area of which I was perceiving. It was another world, another dimension that I was peering in at, for no place like this existing anywhere on our planet. I knew that I was viewing something so unique, so rare that I might never see anything like it again.

I stepped back away from the tear, thinking about the possibility of exploring that other world if the crack were to get a little larger. What might I find within the adumbration of this other vast landscape? What sort of life forms could possibly be found within? After I had relinquished my position of looking deeply within the tear, Macready took over. After a few seconds of looking in at the vast expanse, all my friend could exclaim about what he was looking at, was as simple as he used to be. Macready exclaimed, “Well, kiss my ass!”

As Macready backed away from the fissure, he and I both stared at the flashing portal before us, I suddenly remembered that I had a camera in the glove box of my car, “Holy fuck sticks!” I shouted excitedly to Macready, “My camera! I should take pictures of this!” To which Macready nodded enthusiastically.

Poor Macready. He was a slow fellow, not mentally incapacitated by ill breeding or too much booze, but by his own choice. He never finished school, never learned to read or write. The menial jobs he did, to make ends meet, were numerous and he perform his obligations without complaint. He lived with his elderly mother and spent most of his income drinking and dining out with me.

Now, you may be thinking, why would an educated police officer hang out with the likes of poor Macready? Well, I'd known the man for nearly my entire life, had gone to school with him and still kept in touch after he dropped out halfway through elementary school. We shared similar interests and had the same dark sense of humor. He wasn't dumb, he just refused to learn, don't ask me why. Whenever I inquired about the subject, he would just smile and say something like, “Why do I have to read when I can just listen to the radio? I don't need to know how to read words in order to watch TV.”

Poor simple Macready. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him immensely.

I made a mad dash through the crowd that was now forming to catch a glimpse of the spectacular phenomenon that was happening inside the small storage room. Patrons and employees alike were pushing, standing on their toes and craning their necks to try and see the magnificent tear in reality.

In retrospect, I am now aware that my intention of retrieving the camera is probably what saved my life. Had I stayed in the storeroom with my friend, Macready, I would not be here to divulge the truth to you or repeatedly to my captors.

I made it about halfway through the bar when the screaming started. The first awful cry that rang out was from my close friend, Macready. I don't know what happened to my simple chum, in what horrible way that he was killed. I didn't see it, but since I saw what had happened to the other patrons a few moments later, I can venture a dismal guess.

Upon hearing the distressed screams coming from my closest friend, I stopped going after the camera and began to head back toward the storage room, full of concern. I called out to Macready, hoping he would answer me from the back of the bar, desperate to hear him tell me that he was all right. Instead, more terrified screams began to peal, filling the entire bar with a cacophony of awful anguished cries. They weren't just screams of terror either. The most grotesque and awful sounds were emitted from the victims, as though they were being torn asunder, dismembered or disemboweled.

At that point, I halted in my tracks. Upon hearing the unmistakable sounds of death and mutilation, I hate to admit it now, but I froze, paralyzed with a profound fear. Despite my good friend Macready possibly being in dire need of my assistance, I could not bring myself to take another step toward the storeroom.

The swinging door that lead to the back of the bar suddenly burst open toward me. A small cluster of men and women ran toward me in a panic, screaming bloody murder. Their eyes were wide, mouths stretched open in terror, running without any care, panicked beyond all reason.

Something large moved swiftly behind the crowd and I was horrified to see a ghastly monstrosity burst from the back of the bar and seize a man that was trying to escape. The creature looked like a massive dark blue centipede with long sharp ant-like mandibles and large black eyes that encompassed nearly both the entire sides of its head. It had horrible spiny long arms on its upper body, like those of a praying mantis, that the creature used to stab, hack and grip its prey. As the graceful, but horrifying thing moved, its segmented chitinous body buzzed with a metallic sound. The hapless man within its grip was cut down with one bite from the lethal mandibles and one swipe of the terrible claw.

The creature moved much faster than the people trying to escape. One by one it was catching them and dispatching them with a methodical and brutal swiftness that left me gaping in disbelief. So swiftly was the frightful monster killing the fleeing mob, that the air was rich with the steely aroma of blood and the overhead lighting assumed a pink hue.

I was rooted on the spot, unable to run, but also unable to pull my eyes away from the carnage the creature was rendering. After it killed five more fleeing patrons, the creature turned toward me as I stood as transfixed as a headstone. Its massive merciless black eyes seemed to focus on me and, with its signature buzzing sound, the creature made a dash in my direction.

The monster was coming at me with a speed that truly shocked me. Even if I ran with all my might, it would easily run me down and hack me to pieces. So I stood my ground, not as an act of bravery, or out of defiance, but because I had, at that point, completely surrendered myself to my aggressor's obvious superiority. Since I was going to die anyway, I didn't bother trying to flee.

I closed my eyes as the monstrosity bore down on me, knowing that I only had seconds to live. In my mind, I thought about how unfair it was that I was going to be cut down in my prime. I was tempted to berate my maker, whether it be God, Allah, Vishnu or fate. I reconsidered my initial angst and decided to make piece with my maker instead. I asked for forgiveness of all my wrongdoings and expected consideration for my virtues. I also prayed for a quick and painless death.

The buzzing in my ears became louder as my killer swiftly drew close.

I then thought about my childhood, all of my regrets, my trespasses, my missed opportunities, cheered myself for the good decisions that I made over the years, and was disappointed about the bad ones. I thought of my folks, who I would never see again. I thought about my younger sister, who I had allowed to drift away from me and become estranged. My thinking shifted to my lost loves, the women who had got away. I remembered some women that I had mistreated and had ruined a good relationship over due to my foolish behavior. I also thought of the women that had broken my heart. All of these thoughts and reflections fired through my mind at a rapid speed. In short, my life flashed before my eyes, even though I had them both squeezed tightly shut.

The metallic buzzing was so loud now, that it drowned out all other sounds and ruined my thinking.

I felt a whoosh of air. The monster was practically on top of me.

My body tensed up, awaiting the agony to come.

The awful, metallic buzzing sounded like a hundred metal rattles all being shook at once. At the same time, the metallic modulation undulated so universally that it resembled the noise of thousands of angry bees, swarming and diving, ready to kill. I felt tears streaming down my face. Despite being a thirty five year old man without any children, I had convinced myself that I was ready to die.

The air swished by me and the buzzing faded as the creature moved past me.

I opened my eyes in utter disbelief.

Had I been spared? Had God answered my prayers and decided to give me another chance at life? I was in total shock and would have been elated if not for the carnage still being carried out around me.

I could see out the front door of the tavern. In the parking lot, the monster was still killing people. I didn't know it then, but I found out later, that no one else survived that night. Even people who attempted to jump into their vehicles and race out of the parking lot were caught, jerked out of their conveyances and butchered.

After all the screams had died out, the creature returned to the bar. Its long, centipede-like body buzzed slowly through the doorway. There, it paused for a few moments.

I was still motionless, holding my breath and hoping that the monster was still disinterested in me. While the creature was stationary, I finally got a real good look at it.

Truly, the monster was built to kill. Its body was shiny and hard, no weak spots showing anywhere on its armor-like exoskeleton. The mandibles were razor sharp and served as shears, capable of dismemberment with one bite. The preying mantis arms were spiked for gripping but at the very ends was a long sharp claw, like twin swords, capable of slashing and stabbing.

It's large black eyes were the most frightening thing about it though, at least to me. They were compound, jet black and reflected light like the eyes of a cat. Worse, they were devoid of any emotion, impassive to all the death that it had just dealt. The creature was almost a machine, but I had no doubt that a beating heart and an operational brain were somewhere within it's chitinous body.

The body was huge, as big around as the spin of a washing machine and it stretched out to about fifty feet. Snake-like, it's movements were jerky, the head constantly moving, as it endless searching for prey.

A heard a low groan to my left and managed to tear my eyes away from the creature long enough to look over at the source. A young woman was on her back, splayed out on the floor, covered with blood and beer. Apparently, she had been knocked out during the stampede of people trying to escape. At the worse possible time, she was coming to.

I looked back at the murderous creature. The thing hadn't moved and did not seem to notice the recovering woman yet. Maybe, God willing, both of us would be spared a violent death.

The young woman stirred slightly and sat up, holding her head.

At her slight movements, the monster turned toward her. It's cold impassive eyes seemed to focus on her.

It was at that moment I realized. The reason I had been spared was because I wasn't moving. The creature's sight was probably movement-based. Anything that didn't move would be invisible to it, or at least I hoped.

I whispered to the moaning woman desperately, daring not to even turn my head toward her, “Hey! Don't move a muscle! It won't see you if you stay still! Stop moving!”

The young woman didn't seem to hear me even though I was only a few yards from her. She was still groggy, her senses dulled from being knocked unconscious. She groaned again and curled her knees up to her chest, rubbing her head with both of her hands. She was young, pretty and I was desperate to save her if I could.

I gently shifted my gaze toward the monster, but it was already moving. The loud buzzing of the creature's segmented body, finally broke the spell over the young woman. She looked over and saw it coming, letting out a short scream before being horribly slaughtered right where she sat.

I wept for her quietly. I was mere inches from the shiny multiple legs of the beast. Luckily, the abhorrent beast didn't track it's prey by sound or I would have been cut down as well.

The creature seemed to be satisfied after brutally dispatching the poor woman. Slowly, it glided back toward the rear of the bar, the blood of its many victims dripping from its head and arms.

I wasn't brave enough to follow it.

I saw a bright flash of light coming from the rear of the bar, which was probably the portal in the storage room closing. I can't be sure, however, as my terror still prevented me from moving a muscle.

I remained frozen in place for some time. I was too afraid to move for fear that the creature was still lurking around somewhere in the bar. Smoke began billowing from the back of the tavern and I saw the yellow glow of a fire in the kitchen. Only then was I able to leave. I went outside to keep from being burned to death.

When the Fire Department and Police showed up, I was unable to move or speak. I didn't protest as they applied an IV for fluids, fitted my face with an oxygen mask and lifted me onto a gurney rushing me to the nearest hospital for physical and mental evaluation.

After a few days, I was finally able to speak about what I witnessed. I told them everything, right down to the last detail of the monster. Whether it was the psychologists, the doctors, the nurses or law enforcement questioning me, my story never changed. Although they wrote down everything I told them, they didn't seem to believe me because they would come back, always asking the same foolish questions all over again.

Their inquires were, “Mr. Dyer, do you recall what you saw the night of the murders at 224 Wood Briar Lane?” or “Mr. Dyer, wasn't it a tiger that escaped from a local zoo that slaughtered all those people in the parking lot?” or “Mr. Dyer, how much alcohol had you consumed when you allegedly saw the 'portal' inside the storage room?” and, my favorite, “Mr. Dyer, why did you start the fire at 224 Wood Briar Lane?”

Apparently, they found my shoe print in the kitchen and assumed that it was I that knocked the gas line loose from the oven and caused the fire. It wasn't a massive creature, chasing people all over the bar, that could have sent the oven tumbling and broke the gas line. No. It was me. Because of one shoe print they found in the burnt grease.

The only wounds found, were those left on the victims out in the parking lot which was only four people. Everyone else was burned so severely that the cause of their deaths could not be determined. So, according to the authorities, I set fire to the place, burning everyone alive and those that managed to escape the blaze were killed by an escaped tiger in the parking lot. Does that sound as foolish to you as it does to me? I really hope it does.

I guess the absurdity of their conclusion was more painless than the truth.

As a result of their investigation, I was found guilty of arson and seventeen counts of manslaughter in the third degree. My lawyer fought to have me held too mentally incompetent to stand trial and won. I was sentenced to a life in a high security psychiatric hospital and have been here ever since.

My days consist of counseling, group therapy, constant monitoring and no freedom. I am considered a danger to myself and others, so I am isolated from the other inmates. I am served three tasteless meals a day and am expected to show signs of progress everyday under threat of severe medication or being completely incapacitated through a straitjacket or being strapped to my bed.

I try my best to please them, not because I have secretly accepted that I'm crazy, but because I refuse to be rendered stupid by medications or to be prevented from drawing the centipede-mantis creature that murdered all those people. The message must be given, the alarm must be sounded and the populace has to be warned. If it could happen at 224 Wood Briar Lane, it could happen anywhere. Now, do you understand?

You have been armed with the knowledge of these creatures, so what will you do? Will you go about your life as if nothing is wrong, choosing to completely ignore what happened to me, what I witnessed and continue living in ignorant bliss? What will you do if one of these portals open in your neighborhood? Where will you go? How will you protect yourself and your family?

If you think the story ends here, well then I am very sorry to disappoint you. You see, I figured out where the portal was linked to. It was a bridge from another dimension that allowed the monster from that world into ours. I've seen it in my dreams, both the portal and the creature. There are various levels within the dimension of dream, like a stack of pancakes, with several massive sets of stairs leading down to the next level. The deeper someone goes, the worse it gets and I have no idea just how many levels there are.

On the surface, the dream world looks much like our own, only a shadowed, unkempt and decaying version of it. The same buildings, the same landmarks and regions all exist within the dream world like it does here on the surface except that they are misplaced and constantly changing in their disarray. You might see the town police station where it belongs in one visit but, during another tour, you might find it standing proudly in the middle of a park. The dream world is constantly changing but it is also regionally entrenched.

When someone dreams, I believe their consciousness leaves their body and travels to the first level, the surface, if you will, within the dream world. They encounter memories, past acquaintances and different areas that they have never seen before or, maybe they are familiar with, while dreaming. Then, their consciousness travels back to their body upon awakening.

Dreams are not merely imaginative bouts of sensations that occur within the mind during sleep. They are a part of our imagination spurred on by an entire different realm of existence. I believe this is why most dreams are usually dark. I think that the light switches and other technological devices in dreams don't always work because of the decayed realm they are actually located in.

I am convinced that it is within the dream world that the centipede-like monster, and others like it, dwell. It is through our interaction with these creatures that change some of our dreams into nightmares. I believe that if I can somehow learn to control my consciousness while dreaming, I can seek out these vile creatures and kill them before they can hurt anyone else. After all, I am now capable of becoming nearly invincible in my dreams and able to perform all sorts of impossible feats.

Perhaps, through this shadowed realm of dream, I can travel into the depths and hunt these monsters down so that they can never travel to our world again. I have been practicing everyday. Every nap, every bout of sleep that I enter, I practice controlling myself while dreaming. I am getting better at it as the days go on. Soon, it will be effortless for me. The medications my custodians sometimes slip me, to calm me down, seem to help. I think that the more medicated I am, the deeper I can sleep and the more capable I am within the dream.

My only concern is interference. Since I have no privacy here, I can be awaken in the middle of the night for observation, or at any time for that matter. This foils my plot to hunt the creatures down. I have to be able to enter deep sleep and maintain it without interruption. I must escape from this prison of concrete, false concerns and lab coats. Perhaps, since the monster was able to travel from dream to our world, I can do the same, except visa versa. Maybe someday, after I have mastered dream travel, I can move my entire body through the dimension of dream and travel outside this prison to my freedom.

God knows, I have plenty of time to practice.

© Copyright 2019 Cthulu45. All rights reserved.

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