Reeking Foulness(A short paranormal story out of Augsburg)
Part of the Cadaverous Planets
Reeking Foulness
(A short paranormal story out of Augsburg)
The bed was of rags and straw, the old man seemed to be an old soldier of some sort, perhaps from WWI, I guessed; he slumbered about his shanty, in Augsburg, West Germany, 1970. A year I will never forget, he looked as if he had lived a long life, a hard lived life, and now, in a word, a wake drunk, so I thought because of his behavior. He had a haggard look to his bone structure, charcoal and olive skin, huge shoulders, and tall, perhaps close to seven feet; an unsavory look, a villainous composure, eyes hard. Curiosity to him—so it seemed—was of a thing of the past, he paid little to no attention to me, or the people walking by, or standing about waiting for buses, taxis and so forth: ‘…an old warrior,’ I said to myself, indeed he must be; WWI, yes, what else.
It was1970, I was lost in the beautiful city of Augsburg, the streets I was not familiar with yet; I was assigned to Reese Compound, US Military stock, the 1/36 Artillery Unit, A Battery (I was twenty-two years old, a Private), and it was a weekend, and I was moseying about. Being lost in a city was not a big thing to me back then; I could simply jump in a taxi and be back at my unit in fifteen minutes any place in Augsburg.
By this time, standing nearby this shanty of sorts, it was early afternoon, Saturday to be exact. In my confusion of where I was at, I saw a small creek, in a park close by, with a bridge that crossed it. I wanted to cross it, but got interested in the old man; nonetheless, I ventured beyond the old man’s shanty to the park and onto the bridge, elbows on the bridge’s wooded railing, looking over towards the old man again, the old German war veteran, or so I supposed he was. He was doing something: intimately each time I looked, I just did not concentrate on what.
The old shanty had but three walls to it, the front open, not sure if he had sliding doors attached to the ceiling, but I was hoping he did, how else could he secure the place at night. In any case, I didn’t cross the bridge, I walked to the edge of the park, his shanty across the street, sat on a tree stump, and pondered his business, like a peeping tom, I suppose you could say. I watched him doing whatever he was doing; I simply could not get a clear picture of what he was doing. He mumbled to himself in some language, it didn’t sound like German to me, and it wasn’t English, or Spanish, I knew all three languages.
The old man’s cloths was like a scarecrows; perhaps he was 90-years old (a guess of course) not sure why I say ninety, but it just seemed so, wrinkled and all, but he was agile, and strong looking, he could have been younger or older. He then pulled these old looking rags out from behind a stove, a hole in the wall it seemed, where he kept them, and then he chopped them up, and I got a better look by standing up, and gazing over the edge of the street, and he nailed them to the wall as if to dry, and he had some already drying, and now the rages, that I thought were rages, were not rags, but some kind of substance, funny I thought. I was now more curious.
I noticed he was boiling something, it was that substance, because he pulled some of them out, and chopped them also up, and a few he swallowed whole.
After about thirty more minutes, it got to me, what he was boiling on that small gas stove. My instinct or sentries said they were something eatable that was mysterious, so I walked across the street, looked closer and began to bethink —this was none of my business, or was it? Anyhow, my observations quickened as I approached, the old man’s eyes had a yellowish crust look to them, one I had never seen before.
There seemed to be no danger as I now stood in front of the shanty. Accordingly I began to look at the wall, what was in the boiling pan, the hole behind the table that held the little gas stove on top of it, in the corner, and on the table where he was doing the chopping, where there was blood. Then seizing the moment, I asked the old man if he knew what he was doing?
“Yes,” he echoed, as if the sound came from his feet; adding, “cooking leftover meat from the butcher shop across from my place.”
I looked closer, into the boiling water, on the wall, on the table, and what was hidden behind his coffee cup, perhaps not hidden, but laying there.
I held my mouth, for a moment closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I confirmed indeed I was seeing right. An unholy sense came upon me, and I said as nonchalantly as I could, “Sir, I hate to tell you, but you are cooking some species of bats.” (a species I had never seen before.)
He looked deep into my eyes, as if holding me in a trance, “I’m eating my food from my planet, it’s traditional, ice-bats…!” so he said, his eyes deep dark as the bats wings. I next took a moments rest, there on the floor behind him was a heap of bats, dead.
(—one thing never left my mind those ten months in Augsburg, which was the name of the butcher shop next to the old man’s shanty, “The Moiromma Special Cuts.” I would later on in life put two and two together, it was discovered (yet untold to the general public of earth) the adjacent solar system to Earth’s, that there was a peculiar plant, among the so called ‘Cadaverous Planets,’ called Moiromma, where legends of Tangor, Rognat, and Siren the Great were told, long told, long ago.)
Written: 4-19-2007
Reeking Foulness
(A short paranormal story out of Augsburg)
The bed was of rags and straw, the old man seemed to be an old soldier of some sort, perhaps from WWI, I guessed; he slumbered about his shanty, in Augsburg, West Germany, 1970. A year I will never forget, he looked as if he had lived a long life, a hard lived life, and now, in a word, a wake drunk, so I thought because of his behavior. He had a haggard look to his bone structure, charcoal and olive skin, huge shoulders, and tall, perhaps close to seven feet; an unsavory look, a villainous composure, eyes hard. Curiosity to him—so it seemed—was of a thing of the past, he paid little to no attention to me, or the people walking by, or standing about waiting for buses, taxis and so forth: ‘…an old warrior,’ I said to myself, indeed he must be; WWI, yes, what else.
It was1970, I was lost in the beautiful city of Augsburg, the streets I was not familiar with yet; I was assigned to Reese Compound, US Military stock, the 1/36 Artillery Unit, A Battery (I was twenty-two years old, a Private), and it was a weekend, and I was moseying about. Being lost in a city was not a big thing to me back then; I could simply jump in a taxi and be back at my unit in fifteen minutes any place in Augsburg.
By this time, standing nearby this shanty of sorts, it was early afternoon, Saturday to be exact. In my confusion of where I was at, I saw a small creek, in a park close by, with a bridge that crossed it. I wanted to cross it, but got interested in the old man; nonetheless, I ventured beyond the old man’s shanty to the park and onto the bridge, elbows on the bridge’s wooded railing, looking over towards the old man again, the old German war veteran, or so I supposed he was. He was doing something: intimately each time I looked, I just did not concentrate on what.
The old shanty had but three walls to it, the front open, not sure if he had sliding doors attached to the ceiling, but I was hoping he did, how else could he secure the place at night. In any case, I didn’t cross the bridge, I walked to the edge of the park, his shanty across the street, sat on a tree stump, and pondered his business, like a peeping tom, I suppose you could say. I watched him doing whatever he was doing; I simply could not get a clear picture of what he was doing. He mumbled to himself in some language, it didn’t sound like German to me, and it wasn’t English, or Spanish, I knew all three languages.
The old man’s cloths was like a scarecrows; perhaps he was 90-years old (a guess of course) not sure why I say ninety, but it just seemed so, wrinkled and all, but he was agile, and strong looking, he could have been younger or older. He then pulled these old looking rags out from behind a stove, a hole in the wall it seemed, where he kept them, and then he chopped them up, and I got a better look by standing up, and gazing over the edge of the street, and he nailed them to the wall as if to dry, and he had some already drying, and now the rages, that I thought were rages, were not rags, but some kind of substance, funny I thought. I was now more curious.
I noticed he was boiling something, it was that substance, because he pulled some of them out, and chopped them also up, and a few he swallowed whole.
After about thirty more minutes, it got to me, what he was boiling on that small gas stove. My instinct or sentries said they were something eatable that was mysterious, so I walked across the street, looked closer and began to bethink —this was none of my business, or was it? Anyhow, my observations quickened as I approached, the old man’s eyes had a yellowish crust look to them, one I had never seen before.
There seemed to be no danger as I now stood in front of the shanty. Accordingly I began to look at the wall, what was in the boiling pan, the hole behind the table that held the little gas stove on top of it, in the corner, and on the table where he was doing the chopping, where there was blood. Then seizing the moment, I asked the old man if he knew what he was doing?
“Yes,” he echoed, as if the sound came from his feet; adding, “cooking leftover meat from the butcher shop across from my place.”
I looked closer, into the boiling water, on the wall, on the table, and what was hidden behind his coffee cup, perhaps not hidden, but laying there.
I held my mouth, for a moment closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I confirmed indeed I was seeing right. An unholy sense came upon me, and I said as nonchalantly as I could, “Sir, I hate to tell you, but you are cooking some species of bats.” (a species I had never seen before.)
He looked deep into my eyes, as if holding me in a trance, “I’m eating my food from my planet, it’s traditional, ice-bats…!” so he said, his eyes deep dark as the bats wings. I next took a moments rest, there on the floor behind him was a heap of bats, dead.
(—one thing never left my mind those ten months in Augsburg, which was the name of the butcher shop next to the old man’s shanty, “The Moiromma Special Cuts.” I would later on in life put two and two together, it was discovered (yet untold to the general public of earth) the adjacent solar system to Earth’s, that there was a peculiar plant, among the so called ‘Cadaverous Planets,’ called Moiromma, where legends of Tangor, Rognat, and Siren the Great were told, long told, long ago.)
Written: 4-19-2007
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:15 PM
1 Comments:
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