The Cannibal Within (2 page)

‘They like the taste of fresh human flesh,’ whispered the stranger. ‘In particular, they like the soft, white, hairless bodies of young girls.’

xviii Mark Mirabello
***

Working from memory, I have reproduced the particulars of the stranger’s manuscript in book form. For emotional effect, I have described her own experiences in the first person singular.

The document itself, which possessed no apparent structure, was a series of notes, declarations, and expressions of terror. Like the Enochian texts of John Dee and Edward Kelly—or the journals of Leonardo da Vinci—most of it was written in ‘mirror writing.’

Skeptics will denounce her document as a clever fraud—the product of a scholar, forger, genius—but I make no attempt to evaluate or challenge the woman’s claims. In this work, I simply present the fantastic and revolting details.

The substance of her story—that we share the planet with a higher species—a species that can manifest in any form it chooses—has been told by others. John Keel, a noted researcher of the paranormal, calls such entities ‘Ultraterrestrials.’ Earlier ages, he claims, called them demons, fairies, or trolls—satyrs, centaurs, or gorgons....

The woman’s version, however, is especially powerful. Her ‘Unknown Superiors’—her ‘transhumans’—breed us like cattle and hunt us like rabbits. With unashamed ruthlessness, they treat humans the way humans treat animals.

Such a story, I believe, deserves to be told.

Chapter I The Gaunt Stranger’s Story: ‘How They Raped Me And Ate My Friend Alive’

‘I am loath to believe any news that seems probable. Since men are predisposed to believe such news, it is easy to find those who will invent it; whereas the improbable or the unexpected will not be so easily made up.’

Francesco Guicciardini (1483-1540)
‘When anyone invokes the Devil with intentional ceremonies the Devil comes, and is seen.’
Eliphas Levi (1810-1875)
U

nlike most humans, I would survive my encounter with the master species. Although brutalized by their insatiable sexual perversions, I would somehow

endure.

My best friend, however, was not so fortunate. Since she was young and overweight—the kind of fleshy, juicy meat the transhumans relish—she was eaten alive.
Discussing my experience and my friend’s death is difficult— I shudder when I remember the crimes those godlike beasts inflicted on us—but the facts must be revealed. The truth, after all, is a laxative for the soul.

Even if it is the unforgettable experience of terror....

Love, Hate, Sorcery
Our horror began—somewhat ironically—on Friday, October 13, 1972. Still a teenager at the time, I was spending the night with my best friend, a girl nicknamed Maddalena. Her home was near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, a small town on the Ohio River.

Both Maddalena and I were plain, unattractive, and unhappy girls. Bland and nondescript in appearance—the products of dysfunctional homes—we were the type that society cruelly predestines for spinsterhood.

I was small, slim, and angular—with a tiny waist and featureless chest. Shy and introverted—a bashful virgin—I always wore my red hair scraped back into a bun. Everyone said I resembled a thin-lipped librarian.

I never knew my parents—my grandmother raised me—but I had vague recollections of a perverted old man—someone who was always drunk and full of lust—and that man may have been my father. Although grandmother claimed he never actually molested me, sometimes—during thunderstorms—he haunted my imagination. I can never see his face in my mind—that memory has been lost—but I can remember his awful kisses—and I can remember feeling something cold and flabby against my body.

Maddalena, my dear friend, was somewhat different from me. Overweight and freckled—with large moles on her body—she was vocal and extroverted. A sickly girl who spent a great deal of time in hospitals, as long as I can remember she had suffered from the aggressions of cancer.

Maddalena had more family than I—she was raised by her natural mother—but her home life was not satisfying. Her mother—a practicing nudist who liked to wear only a black girdle and latex thigh boots around the house—was a loud and adulterous woman who had never actually married.

‘Fornication is no sin!’ her mother used to say, when asked about Maddalena’s illegitimate birth. ‘Jehovah God impregnated the Virgin Mary, and He didn’t marry her.’

***

All the boys in Point Pleasant ignored Maddalena and me— we were ‘frigid virgin bitches,’ they joked, who were ‘saving ourselves for aliens’—but we did not care. We hated boys— mean, cruel, and shallow boys, arrogant with their young, pink, little penises—so we did not care.

Besides, Maddalena and I had each other. Day and night, we were inseparable.

Other girls claimed we were lesbians, and perhaps we were. Maddalena and I were not physically intimate, but I did have fantasies about her. In my dreams I kissed her in a playful and amorous way, and then we made love in the open—in the fresh air—the way wild animals do.
Some would say my feelings were sick, but they were not. My fantasies—although hot with repressed desire—were born of love. They were beautiful, goddesslike, and natural.

You see, Maddalena was special, for with her I felt comfortable. We shared secrets, we dreamed dreams, and, most of all, we read books together. In particular, we studied ancient and obscure works—sinister volumes about legends, sorceries, and beings from other worlds.

We were especially interested in occultism—we poured over stolen texts on Satanism, chaos magick, and the dark litanies of dangerous gods—and in time our interest became an obsession.

Of course, our devotion to the forbidden arts may have been dangerous—H.P. Lovecraft referred to certain ‘unnatural pryings into the unthinkable’—but we felt invulnerable.

In our fantasies, we were virgins and witches—the most magickal forms of woman.

Wormwood And Satanism
Around 2:00 AM, not being interested in sleep, Maddalena and I went into the dark forest behind her home to drink absinthe. A green liqueur based on wormwood—the narcotic drug given to the crucified Christ in
Matthew
27:34—absinthe was our favorite drug.

We knew drugs were wicked and evil—a plunge into horror— but we did not care. Naively believing in the chemical nature of memory and consciousness, we thought taking drugs would expand the radius of our minds.

‘Maddalena,’ I said, as I poured to the cold earth a libation to demons. ‘Let’s summon Satan tonight. ‘Called `the god of this world’ in II
Corinthians
4:4, he should be accessible to us.’

‘An audience with `His Satanic Majesty’ would be interesting’ declared Maddalena, with a mischievous grin. ‘But to invoke the `arch-fiend’—or even one of his angels—we need an aborted human fetus. You know, `a victim too young to scream.’’

‘But we must try,’ I insisted. ‘On this night—a night perfect for magick—we must indulge in sin. Beautiful sin, ardent and naked!’

‘Well,’ said Maddalena, who was an expert on all things occult, ‘perhaps we could make a substitution. A severed head—twisted from a living animal—may work instead.’

‘Do you really think so?’ I asked.
‘The `entrails of murdered children’ are best,’ affirmed Maddalena, ‘but we can try.’.
***

Maddalena ran back to her bedroom to gather occult paraphernalia for our intended sorcery. As a mistress of the ‘Black Arts’, Maddalena had purchased and stolen a number of forbidden things over the years.

In a special leather bag—made from the skin of a black cat— she kept her ‘weapons of hell.’ Items in the bag—most of which were purchased from clandestine sources—included relics from a disturbed grave, dirt swept from a prison, powdered brain from an insane man, dried semen from a corpse (a discharge caused by rigor mortis), a hand-carved crystal (four inches in diameter), a small quantity of asafetida (a substance more popularly known as ‘devil’s dung’), sodomapples (an inedible fruit from the desert), and a variety of evil talismans.

In a second bag—this one made from pig leather—she kept her ‘poisons of heaven.’ Items in this second bag—loot stolen from Roman Catholic and Coptic churches—included three desecrated communion hosts, a degraded crucifix, ‘stygian muck’ from Ash Wednesday celebrations, the severed foreskin of a dead saint, a ‘bell that had been laid nine days on a grave,’ holy water polluted with urine, and a large Easter candle carved to resemble a certain tumescent organ.

In a wooden box—made from a real coffin—Maddalena kept her ‘literature’ or lore. Her collection included a ‘book of shadows,’ a ‘devil’s missal,’ two occult litanies, a Gascon ‘Black Mass of the Holy Spirit’ (a blasphemous inversion of a regular mass, it FORCED God to grant one wish), and a dark grimoire called the ‘Red Book of Apin.’

In a small casket made of lead (lead cannot be penetrated by good spirits), Maddalena kept special demonic pacts we had drawn up on our eighteenth birthdays. Written with menstrual blood in mirror writing on virgin parchment, in the pacts we renounced the occult junta called the ‘holy trinity,’ the perverted fable called the ‘Bible,’ and the stooges the churches called ‘saints.’
Finally, in a little cage made from stainless steel, Maddalena brought a black mouse we called Barabbas. Raised from birth by us, Barabbas had been fed a special diet consisting of dog’s flesh, unleavened and unsalted black bread, and unfermented grape juice.

Diabolic Preparations
Maddalena and I met in our special location—a deserted goat pasture near a ruined church, a small stream, and dead trees—and we immediately took off all of our clothing.

As every sorcerer knows, nude or ‘skyclad’ rituals—although magickally hazardous—are more powerful. For that reason, King David of ancient Israel danced naked and unashamed before the so-called ‘ark of the covenant.’

‘Satan is
salax deus
—the lecherous god,’ whispered Maddalena, as she removed her blouse and touched her breasts. ‘Hung like a quadruped—hungering for lewd virgins—they say he `fucks like a god.’’

‘Most males are boring,’ I giggled, as I stared at my friend’s body with indecent interest, ‘but perhaps a well-endowed demon—a lustful incubus from hell—could satisfy even me.’

‘I hope so,’ whispered Maddalena, half in jest. ‘In the shameless invocation we are going to use, you have to chant the heterosexual lines.’

The night air was cold—our young skin was covered with gooseflesh—and as I looked at Maddalena’s naked body I had to admire her courage. Even though cancer had eaten away her right breast, she was always a source of courage and joy for me.

‘I love you, Maddalena,’ I whispered, with lesbian suggestiveness. ‘More than life itself, I love you.’.

‘And I love you,’ she replied, as she softly touched my pale skin and blood-red pubic hair. ‘And remember, as long as we have each other, we will always be safe—always be cherished.’

Maddalena removed a stolen communion host from her bag and placed it in her mouth. Although the body of Christ is non-kosher—all animals that are not cloven-hoofed and cudchewing are non-kosher—we routinely ate such food.

‘Kiss me with the host in your mouth,’ she said. ‘According to legend—a perverse and occult legend—such a kiss keeps lovers eternally faithful.’

‘Then we must kiss,’ I whispered, as I pressed my little mouth to hers, ‘so that we can be forever.’

That special kiss—which tasted like wild fruit—would be our first. Destined also to be our last, it would be a drop of honey in a life of undiluted gall.

***

Holding a consecrated dagger in her left hand—the dagger was a black-handled weapon called an athame—Maddalena cut an equilateral triangle in the damp clay.

‘Although addicted to falsehood,’ whispered Maddalena, ‘Satan must speak the truth when he stands within a triangle.’ Inside the freshly cut figure, we poured a libation of liquor. Made from the blood of the grape, it was red and warm like fire.

‘Satan is a flesh eater,’ whispered Maddalena. ‘Flesh eaters are drawn to alcohol, just as vegetarians are addicted to sugar.’

Outside the triangle, Maddalena sprinkled a small quantity of bluish-green powder. Purchased from a corrupt mortician, the powder supposedly possessed occult power.

‘It is grave mold from an old woman who died a virgin,’ explained Maddalena. ‘Deflowered by maggots—the fauna of death—she gave to vermin what she denied to men.’

Next, we sprinkled some grave dust that my friend claimed had been stolen from the Arlington National Cemetery. The dust—scrapings from a mummified penis—allegedly came from the tomb of a world leader slain in 1963.

‘He was a lover of wine, women, and evil,’ whispered Maddalena, as she fingered the offering. ‘Called `ugly head,’ he was sacrificed by one whose name means `god’s power.’’

‘Some day we must also steal earth from the grave of Lincoln,’ I whispered, as I watched my friend. ‘A master felon, he caused more American deaths than Hitler, Tojo, and Mussolini combined.’

‘But Lincoln freed slaves,’ declared Maddalena. ‘One person died for every seven freed,’ I replied, flaunting my knowledge of history. ‘Those are the odds of a psychopath.’ ***