Part 1
Dear Mr. Emmet Cartwright,
My name is Trevor Miller and I’m writing to you from a mental health institution in St. Augustine. The story I’m about to tell you is the very story that landed me in here, so my expectation is that you will not believe me. It was because of this expectation that I initially decided to leave you to suffer the coming ordeal without warning. On the off chance that you do believe me, I feel it’s my responsibility to at least try and warn you.
On the Christmas eve of 2017 I heard the sound of a crash from the field of my family’s farm. I immediately grabbed my shotgun and stepped out to have a look. A man stood in the middle of our freshly plowed corn field. Behind him was a deep but narrow pit with steam rising from it.
He was well built, in his thirties, white and about six feet tall. He may have had all the nakedness of a lost drunk or hippie but he had none of the aimlessness. There was a sense of purpose in eyes or maybe it was a sense of accomplishment. None the less I hoped a stern word and a cock of my double barrel would send him bolting.
“Listen here fella,” I asked him, “how’s about you turn around and be about your way?”
I cocked the gun and repeated the statement but he didn’t flinch. He seemed more interested in the field, paying attention to everything on the farm except the farmer.
As he looked around his expression transitioned from one of gratification to one of a curiosity. Everything around him seemed to baffle the man. He stared at the grass as if didn’t expect it to be green. He stared at the sky as if he didn’t expect it to have stars and he felt the wind in his hands as if he didn’t expect it to blow.
I grew impatient. I had no interest in his curiosity and even less in what he was trying to do with pit behind him.
“Alright fella, I think I’m losing my patience with you. I’m not sure what kind of man isn’t rattled by the prospect of his head being filled up with lead and I don’t want to find out. So how’s about you and I turn this into a forgettable day. You go in the direction you’re supposed to, then when you’re going turns into being gone, I’ll go in the direction I’m supposed to.”
His breathing turned heavy. He stood close to three meters away from me but I could hear his huffing as if it were from my own nostrils. I watched closely as his eyes turned red and his teeth clenched. When I saw what I thought was him putting a foot towards me I panicked and let one off.
“What the shit?” I uttered.
The bullets had ricocheted off of his cheek and flown off into the field. I noticed the bullets had managed to smudge a thick and transparent wax-like substance on the outer layer of his skin. Other than that he looked like a normal human being. His breathing despite being loud, sounded human. Even when he finally spoke, I could tell the language he spoke was human.
“U akku eppa I tairiyam?” he said.
“Listen fella, I don’t know if you got the memo, but you’re in Florida. We don’t speak much Arabic around here.”
“Arabic!” he said glaring at me. “Ni ka e ka mo iyai ni aivil ko avillaiya?”
As he moved closer to me, I got a closer look at his cheek. My shot didn’t do much damage, but it did manage to graze his outer layer. I figured if I could aim for the scratch I could hit some actual flesh.
I let another one off.
I stood motionlessly as a poorly aimed shot grazed his lower jaw and escaped into the wind. Before I could cock my gun again, he rushed at me and grabbed me by the hand. Forcing me to the ground with a quick tackle, he kept hold of my arm and knelt on the other. He twisted the arm he had in his left hand and quickly tapped my elbow with the lower palm of his right hand.
I immediately heard a pop sound. It took close to two seconds for me to start screaming in anguish as I realised that my arm had been broken.
“Ni ka makka!” he said.
He took his knee off of my other arm and broke it off as swiftly as he did the other. With two broken arms I wailed hopelessly as he dragged me across the field into the farmhouse garage. He left me on my back and headed into the house via the garage door.
When he returned he had a Tamil-to-English Translation book in his hands. He stood over me and looked at my body from head to toe. He seemed calm till I tried to wiggle away from him. He immediately lifted me by my left ankle and broke it; once again with a swift tap from his lower palm.
He leaned closer to my body so as to scan its entirety for the second time. I lay motionlessly, fearing he would brake anything else I tried to move. As I lay there, he browsed through the book attentively but hastily. In close to five minutes he read what seemed like a six-hundred-page book in the space of ten minutes.
"Now that I understand your language Mr. Miller of Florida America, cooperate with me. Disclose the whereabouts of the records of my people."
"Listen fella,” I said, “I don't even know what you are."
"Ni ka makka!"
"What does Ni ka makka mean?"
"You people, it means you people," he said.
"By you people, do you mean African Americans?" I asked.
"You know that is not who I am referring to. My people have no concerns with race, religion, nationality and other cheap means of comradery."
"I don't know shit man.” I screamed, “I don't know anything about your people or what you mean by my people."
"Listen attentively Mr. Miller of Florida America,” he said. “Time is not amongst my resources and I am of absolute certainty that it is not amongst yours. If you do not assist me with information on the fourth second, there will be lethal consequences. Where has Mr. Cartwright of Massachusetts America hidden the records of my people?"
"First."
"Don't kill me man."
"Second."
"I’m just a farmer."
"Third."
“I swear.”
On the fourth count he lifted me off of the floor by clasping the entirety of my jaw in his left hand. With my back fully pressed against the wall, he pulled a knife out of what seemed like a pocket on his inner thigh. The knife was a light and crystal clear purple.
He slowly cut across his own face from one lower eyelid to the other. When he did, a repugnant steam flowed almost chocking me to death. The scent and taste of the fumes made me nauseous to a point of vomiting.
Even with my vomit pouring into his hands and dripping onto the floor, he continued to cut across his lower eyelids. Cutting through his wax-like exterior seemed laborious for him but the crystal knife was undoubtedly more effective than my buck-shots.
Once I had puked out all I could, I began to dry-heave. When he noticed he let go of me and allowed my body to wiggle to the floor. At the time I couldn’t see what he was doing. I was too busy trying to catch my breath.
When I finally turned towards him, he was holding in his hand a cut-out of the wax exterior of his skin. The wax-like patch bloated with every squeeze and he squeezed it every second. He took a final look to see if it was bloated enough. When he was satisfied he gave me one last look in the eye and tossed at me. The second it touched my clothes it set my body on fire. Still having use of my legs, I rolled across the floor hoping I could survive.
I did survive, but not in the manner I expected.
I woke up in a hospital in St. Augustine with almost every inch of my skin burnt. The doctors told me it was the second time I had woken up and it was the second time I was telling them about the ‘inhuman human’. The third time I told it to them they didn’t believe me. The fourth time I ended up as an inpatient in the mental health wing.
I wouldn’t believe me and I don’t expect you to Mr. Cartwright.
However, in the case that I’m able to get even an inch of your openness to the idea. I hope you remember to avoid him at all cost.
If you do see the inhuman human, I beg of you Mr. Cartwright . . .
RUN!
* * * *
West Falmouth Harbor, Massachusetts
United States of America.
“Is our victim still alive?” asked Detective Reese.
“Yeah she is,” his partner Emily Halmonds replied.
“Name?”
“Melissa Cartwright, burnt from head to toe, no organ damage.”
“She know who did it to her?”
“Yeah.”
“She say who he was?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. “But you won’t believe her.”
