Editor’s Note: Novella “And the Scales Fell From My Eyes” by Thomas M. Malafarina is a lengthy read at over a daunting 22,000 words. Wishing to make this more reader friendly, and give you something to look forward to next weekend, with the author’s permission, we have divided it up into three more manageable, more easily digestible parts. This is part II of this novella.
“Bunny Man” may have been my first, but as you probably have guessed by now, he was not to be my last. Several days later, having grown tired of the taste of rabbit, I decided I should once again go on the hunt for some other inferior species. As it worked out, I discovered I had a craving for fowl.
I waited until dark then drove down to the seedier part of town in search of the appropriate solution to my particular longing. I didn’t use any of my higher-end vehicles for this excursion. Instead, I used an old beater car I had picked up months earlier for a song. This was another of those things I did without understanding why. Then I swapped out the license plates with a car parked along the street several miles from my home.
When I drove past the corners where prostitutes were known to pedal their wears I discovered the streetwalkers were out early that evening. It look like it would be good fortune for me and not so good for them. I noticed several of them flagging down cars and offering themselves brazenly right out in the open as it they were untouchable by the law. Perhaps that was true. Maybe someone had paid off the police or maybe a city official to look the other way. I didn’t know nor did I care. As I was well aware there are many forms of justice in this world. One in particular came immediately to mind and that was the law of the jungle; survival of the fittest.
That night there was a wide assortment of human animals occupying the street corners including apes, rabbits, reptiles and many others. I wasn’t surprised to have not seen any cats among the throng. We are far too proud and noble a breed to associate with such rabble, that is to say unless we are on the prowl for food. I suspected there might actually be some females of my breed participating in the prostitution profession, but these would likely be high-end pricey call-girl types who catered to the upper echelon of society; perhaps even exclusively to other male cat descendants.
A particularly thin boney creature approached my car as I stopped and rolled down the window. She very much resembled a large lanky member of some bird family although I couldn’t identify which one. She had a long thin neck, a small mouth, a beak-like nose and beady little eyes. He hair was done up high and was multi-colored adding to the effect.
“You lookin’ for a date big guy?” She said with as alluring a tone as she could manage with her raspy smoker’s voice. The stench of her last cigarette and body odor along with the overpowering reek of her cheap perfume permeating the car was almost enough to make me retch. As if to make things worse, she leaned over looking in through the passenger window. The neckline of her blouse hung so far down and I could see her small exposed breasts dangling from her boney chest, which was covered with inflamed and oozing soars. If she knew what I knew about our ancestors she would have turned and fled in terror from the predator before her, but she remained ignorantly bent over gawking into my car with her squinty eyes and miniscule-pustule covered breasts.
Although I personally wanted nothing to do with this particular whore, I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard to make sure I was reading the situation correctly and noticed it read 9:05PM. That wasn’t a proper number combination to indicate this was something I should consider. Thank goodness for that. Although I had no desire to make this trollop my next meal I was having a hard time controlling the urge to nevertheless grab her by her scrawny slut-neck and snap it like a twig.
Instead, I made the nobler choice. I simply waved her off and far too politely than was required said, “No… no I don’t think so… not tonight thank you.” Ignoring her stream of vulgar cackles, which faded as the window rolled up and I got further away, I then drove around the corner hoping for something much more delectable and which was not as disappointing as that bag of bones. Then, there she was, standing squat under the fading amber glow of a failing streetlight was a plump meaty trollop who very much resembled an overstuffed Cornish game hen. My mouth immediately began to salivate.
I pulled over to the curb. The tramp waddled over to the door as I looked down at the digital clock, which now read 9:09 PM. Yes. This must be the one. Not wasting any time with small talk, I opened the door and she flopped clumsily inside, her breath wheezing as she struggled to get comfortable. She pulled the door closed and I suppose she was about to explain her fees for various services but before she had the opportunity, I punched her in the face slamming her head against the side window and knocking her out cold.
I drove home careful to obey all the speed limits and traffic signs. The last thing I needed was some cop to pull me over with a deliciously plump unconscious game hen hooker in my car. I knew I had every right to have her and to do whatever I wanted with her. However, I also understood the laws that were created and enforced by humans wouldn’t take into account the truth of my origins. These humans most certainly would not understand or approve of my hunting. They might even want to punish me for my skill and prowess. Some might treat me as if I were mad when in fact; it was they, who had lost touch with their ancestral ways.
Slowly driving up my driveway, I pressed the automatic garage door opener and slid my car silently into the darkness of the garage, then closed the door quickly behind me. It took all of my strength to drag the unconscious hen out of the car and over to the top of the basement steps. As I got there, she started to come to and began muttering a string of barely audible obscenities at me. All it took was one good strategically placed kick, and the corpulent capon went flying down the stairs, flopping head over heels and landing on the concrete floor with a sharp crack as her pudgy neck snapped, killing her instantly.
For the record, once washed then properly sliced and diced she was absolutely delicious. I had no idea I had been missing such amazing delicacies for so long. The 11:11 beings had truly opened my eyes to an amazing reality the likes of which no other human could appreciate. I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life.
Over the course of the next several months, I entertained any and every single one of my gastronomic cravings. There were so many different creatures, which I had hunted, killed and devoured that I lost track of exactly how many there had been. I was in paradise. I was king of my jungle. I wanted this to feeling to last forever.
As is often the case in life, it seems all good things must come to an end. My own situation, I unfortunately learned was to be no exception. No matter how much I was enjoying my newfound place at the top of the food chain, it apparently had to end. In hindsight, had I done what I originally believed the beings had wanted me to do and written a book about what they had taught me of the origins of humanity, perhaps they would have found a way to protect me; perhaps not. I can’t help but wonder if my getting hung up on the hunt and the taste of the flesh of lesser creatures somehow angered these 11:11 beings. Maybe they allowed things to go bad for me to punish me for my indiscretions. I suppose I may never know. Based on what has happened since then, I suppose it really doesn’t matter anyway.
Here is how events took place, at least to the best of my recollection. It had been almost a year since my encounter with the 11:11 beings; since that time on the strange island with the cave and the experiments. It’s very hard for me to nail down dates because time seems to have little meaning for me anymore. Regardless, here is what transpired. One day when I was once again sleeping late as all good big game hunting cats do after a successful kill, a loud and demanding knock came to my front door. The knock was much louder and much more deliberate than the frail knocking “Bunny Man” had made on that fateful day so many months earlier when I scored my first meal. Still not completely awake I stumbled to the front door angry and practically growling. I yanked it open harshly, determined to tear the throat out of whoever had disturbed my rest.
I stood in both shocked amazement and confusion looking up at the two huge burly looking dog-faced police officers who were waiting on the other side of the door. One of them bore an amazing resemblance to a British bulldog while the other looked more like a bloodhound. Behind them were several other cops and further back there were apparently still more whom I couldn’t see as clearly. I could make out glimpses of one, which resembled a large ape and another who might have looked like a bear. I had to chuckle to myself as these all seemed appropriate animals for the role of police officers to me. The bloodhound-looking cop held out a piece of paper in his paw/hand, thrusting it forward and telling me it was a warrant for my arrest for murder.
I was speechless to say the least. Murder? What was this idiot talking about? I hadn’t murdered anyone. Murder was a crime reserved for one human being killing another. Didn’t they realize what a ridiculous accusation this was? Their stupid human laws no longer applied to me or to my kind. Couldn’t they see that? Of course, I hadn’t murdered anyone; all I did was hunt for my food as any good stalking cat would; and quite successfully, I might add. That was well within the accepted laws of nature. Surely, even a bunch of stupid dogs, apes and bears must be able to understand that.
Breaking out of my shocked stupor, I started to protest but before I could get a word out I found my hands being roughly pulled behind my back and could feel the cold of steel and the pinch of handcuffs locking around my wrists. Didn’t these Beasts know whom they were dealing with? Then I realized they likely did not. I suspected there wasn’t a single reader among the herd of them. But surely they had seen my movies. Then again I recalled how most people pay little attention to the credits and knew nothing about who had written the screenplays for the movies, no matter how successful.
“This is all some sort of big unfortunate misunderstanding.” I said but was quickly stopped from speaking by a large horse-faced officer who came up from my left and proceeded to read me my Miranda rights while another officer, a big hairy ape looked on angrily. Normally these creatures wouldn’t have concerned me despite their size. I was descended from hunting cats and I could have handled myself if need be. However, now with my wrists manacled, I was helpless to fight back.
Within a few minutes what seemed like a small army of cops all resembling a variety of dogs, horses, bears and a few more apes all poured into my home and began tearing the place apart. An officer dragged me out to a waiting police cruiser then unceremoniously dumped me into the back seat slamming the door tightly behind me. If I could have slipped out of my cuffs, I would have started killing them one by one. Although I’m certain I would have been killed in the struggle, I might have at least had the opportunity to take some of them with me. Now in hindsight, perhaps death would have been a better alternative than what actually happened.
The police very quickly found my special food preparation and storage area in the basement, as well as my butchering table and all of my cutting tools. As it turned out, they were all apparently quite upset by the discovery. It made me chuckle actually. Several of the officers, young pups by the looks of them, had the audacity to rush out of the house vomit all over my precisely manicured front lawn. The nerve of them! What was wrong with these creatures? Didn’t they understand? Didn’t they also have the need to eat meat? They weren’t all vegetarians were they? I supposed in their small still-undeveloped animal brains, they simply couldn’t comprehend the same ideals, which those of us at the top of the food chain understood. Why was that my fault? Why should they treat me so poorly because of their lack of understanding?
They drove me to a local precinct and dropped me off at a small interrogation room where I sat alone for several hours. After that, several detectives came into the room and the questions began. I refused to answer a single one until I first had an opportunity to consult with my attorney. I told them I had been read my rights and I wanted to invoke those rights at that time. I wanted to call my lawyer. The truth was I didn’t know any criminal lawyers but I figured I could have my publisher contact someone from his legal department and have him find me the best mouthpiece money could buy. But no matter how I protested, my words fell on deaf ears. It didn’t seem to matter at all to the officers, who continued to refuse to give me an opportunity to call anyone. What the hell was going on? Wasn’t I still in America?
To my shock and displeasure, I learned just moments before my arraignment that my case had been handed over to a court appointed attorney. This whole thing had gone beyond the point of ridiculous. I protested repeatedly that I could afford the very best and as such demanded to hire the most successful defense attorney in town. However, they would have none of that. Moreover, here is the really bizarre part of the story. Every single person of authority I encountered insisted that I was destitute and couldn’t afford a lawyer. Hence, the reason for the court appointed attorney. They said that no matter what my financial situation I still had the right to proper courtroom representation. Were they insane? I was a world famous author with not only books and screenplays to my name but movies as well. I was rolling in money. How could everyone keep insisting that I was penniless? I was starting to wonder if the 11:11 people might have transported me to some other planet or dimension.
During my subsequent arraignment, I tried to explain my dissatisfaction with my legal representation to the judge, a delicious looking owl-like female creature who if she would give me half a chance I would have gladly made my next meal. However, bound and shackled as I was there was little opportunity for such pleasure. The judge told me if I was unhappy with my current representation, she would find me another but sooner or later I had to accept one of them. She too insisted I had no money to pay my own lawyer. I had to wonder what sort of conspiracy was being concocted against me.
Then after some time I figured it all out; a conspiracy was exactly what had occurred. Someone or more likely multiple people, probably the very same people who were now prosecuting me, had seized this opportunity to somehow hijack my bank accounts and as such had stolen all of my money. That owl-faced bitch of a judge was probably in on it as well; maybe a few of the cops and some other law enforcement types. That was the only explanation for why someone as wealthy as myself could suddenly find himself in such a financial quandary. They had all conspired to steal my fortune.
I quickly turned and whispered my conspiracy theory to my court appointed attorney who didn’t seem to be taking my complaints seriously. In fact, he seemed to be leaning back away from me as if I was producing a foul smell or something. I was aghast. Was this really the person appointed to look out for my wellbeing? It was obvious he had no interest in helping me whatsoever. I was starting to realize that he also might even have been involved in the whole conspiracy.
Then instead of helping me get bail or even speaking up on my behalf, all he did was insist that I have a session in front of a court psychiatrist who, by the way, I now also believe was part of the plot to discredit me and steal my money. I must admit, in the beginning I originally trusted the good doctor even though he looked a bit like a fox with his long pointed snout and smallish eyes. However, he too did little to help my cause; in fact, it was this doctor who had the audacity to label me as a delusional, psychotic, schizophrenic, homicidal maniac.
Even after I took the time to tell him all about the 11:11 beings and how they told me about my proper place in life, it did little to appease him. I then gave him a detailed explanation about the origins of mankind and how I was not a murderer but was simply hunting for my food which my race has been doing since the dawn of time. I mean, how much simpler could I have explained things to him? He too seemed to back away from me every time I spoke. Now that think about it, everyone I met was acting the same way. It was crazy the way they were treating me. Yet, like the others, this doctor had the nerve to look at me as if I were the one who was insane.
If there was anything even slightly good the doctor did for me it was to have me declared incompetent to stand trial. I suppose as ludicrous as that may sound, it did at least keep me from both going on trial for murder and from being thrown in prison. I doubt I would have lasted very long among the general population. I might be fine one-on-one but in a cluster of several dozen creatures more savage than I could ever hope to be, I suspected I would not have survived. Instead, they put me somewhere else. I’m not exactly sure where I am now but I do know that I’m alone in my small room and have had no contact with others except for my weekly sessions with yet another psychiatrist.
The food isn’t too bad and they don’t seem to mind when I skip most of the vegetables. They’ve even been nice enough to serve my meat very rare, not as raw as I would prefer it but it’s acceptable. I have no close relatives whom I might contact to assist me, even if I could get the people in charge of this place to give me access to a telephone, which they won’t. I continually ask to speak to my publisher but they insist I have none. This is all very frustrating at times.
A few months ago they told me about some unknown writer who wanted to interview me and write a book or novella about my story. I figured I had nothing to lose. At least I might have the opportunity to bring some attention not only to my own plight but it would also be an opportunity to get the 11:11 peoples’ message out there. I was even hoping that maybe if they saw I was doing something to spread their word, they might find some way to help me and get me out of this strange place. However, nothing else has seemed to work so I suppose this story might be my last shot at freedom.
Well, now you all know what I know. I hope that my co-author Anthony D’whater-his-name is has been able to tell my story and explain the injustice perpetrated against me. He has promised to allow me to see the final product and to edit it as I see fit. However, I can only hope he is true to his word, because as long as I am locked in here, there is little I can do to prevent him from treating me badly in print if he should choose to do so. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure how to go about enforcing the confidentiality document, which I had him sign. So I suppose I am as much at his mercy as I am with my captors. This is not the sort of life someone descended from such noble beasts should have to endure. Unfortunately, it’s the only life I now have.
This is Anthony T. D’Angelo, the so-called coauthor of this account. My purpose for this epilogue is to clarify a few things for you. I felt it necessary that you understand the truth behind the story you have just read. First, let me state that there is no coauthor arrangement going on here between myself, and the unnamed subject of this account. I am the sole author of this work.
The anonymous character in this story, the narrator is a real person; however, he was not involved in the actual writing of this piece. When I set out to write it, I did so with the intention of making it sound as if it had come directly from the subject, and as such, I chose to write it in the first person. Had I allowed the subject to write or even co-write the work you would have never been able to follow the story line, because there would have been none; at least not one you could have even attempted to understand. You see, he has a tendency to ramble and speak in a non-linear and illogical fashion, which only he can comprehend; at least I think he can.
Most normal people who want to present a story do so in a chronological progression. They usually start at the beginning with step one, then the remaining steps will generally follow in a logical evolution and then finally there is the end. Granted in some stories there are flashbacks to other times in history but that too is usually also done in a coherent fashion. However, the subject of the previous story has no perception of space and time or no comprehension of the logical flow of information. From what I can tell, he hasn’t had such an understanding for quite some time. Creating this work required me painstakingly to sift through the jumbles of information, which he dictated to me over the course of several months’ worth of interviews. Next, I had to try to make sense of it all before attempting to turn it into a story; one that most normal, sane people would be able to understand.
As I mentioned, in this narrative I was writing as if I were the subject of the story and as such, I had this character tell you some things which in reality were untrue but in his mind were completely real. This also helped with the evolution of the story. For example, I had him tell you that he paid me a handsome sum of money to “co-write” the work and that he forced me in turn to sign a non-disclosure agreement in order to prevent me from divulging his name.
Although again he does believe this to be the case, it is not true either. It was what he; in his deluded mind needed to believe in order for the work to progress, but it was all a complete fabrication. The truth is I took extensive notes while he sat across the room from me flapping his gums relentlessly, waving his arms maniacally and spewing out one insane monologue after another consisting of nothing more than rambling streams of consciousness. As such, my job was to take all of this rubbish and attempt to reorganize it so it flowed in at least some semblance of logical order. I also felt if I could make it sound as it the narrator was a normal, intelligent and sane person, it might make the ending of the account even more powerful. I hope that I have succeeded.
There was no need for the so-called non-disclosure agreement. I received no money for my time and work in creating this story. It was something I just chose to do because it seemed like a viable project, at least initially. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. God knows it left me feeling as if I wanted to run away screaming or bang my head against the wall on more than one occasion. There wasn’t a shower in the world that could make me feel clean enough after listening to him carry on for hours. That sort of emotional filth never seems to come clean.
In reality, my so-called “partner” in this endeavor is not a famous author, nor is he rich. The truth is the man is destitute, practically homeless and most definitely insane. Although it’s true that he has written mountains of manuscripts, they are all in my opinion, rubbish consisting of typical rambling incoherent half-thoughts. It’s no wonder he has never managed to get even a single one of his works published. As I described in the story his stacks of rejection slips actually do rival his stacks of unpublished manuscripts.
If I did tell you his name, you might recognize it, however not for his being famous as for his being infamous. You may recall it from national news stories from several years ago, or you might not. As it typical, his sort of notoriety tends to be short-lived and quickly forgotten. You likely may recognize and recall his misdeeds but his name is destined to fade into oblivion, which is perfectly fine with me. I have chosen not to identify him because in my opinion, although is story is quite interesting in a sick and twisted way, he doesn’t deserve any additional notoriety for his sordid crimes.
As I said earlier, he is quite mad and currently resides at the Danesville home for the criminally insane, in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania where he will likely spend the remainder of his miserable life. That is to say unless he is somehow miraculously cured of his illness. If that were to happen, he would likely be tried, convicted then moved to death row at some maximum-security prison where he would await his execution. However, after spending several months listening to his manic ramblings, I suspect in my unprofessional assessment, the chances of his ever recovering are non-existent.
We don’t get too many criminals of his ilk in this part of the country so when I heard about his murderous and cannibalistic spree I followed his arrest and interment, which for a time was the primary focus of the local media. After his commitment to the mental institution, I decided he might be an interesting subject for a book or at least a novella. It took several years and hundreds of phone calls, letters and emails to various officials before I could arrange to meet with him. You might wonder why I would go to such trouble. The bottom line was I felt someone needed to attempt to comprehend and present what this lunatic was thinking; what motivated him to do what he had done. The result of that endeavor was the story you have just read.
Think about it for a moment. This character was a failed writer who couldn’t get anything published. He spent his entire life living in poverty, starving for his art as they say. Although to some this might seem like a noble endeavor, there is nothing noble about poverty, starvation and mental instability. My subject was certain that any day someone would discover him and would subsequently become rich and famous. Yet that day never arrived. I suspect, in order to cope with his failure and the waste of his entire life he began to fantasize about a life he never had. He probably believed some force was holding him back from success. Like many paranoids who feel someone or something other than themselves is responsible for their failures, he had to believe that as well. Otherwise anyone with what he believed was his level of genius surely would have been successful many years earlier.
From our conversations, I determined he had rationalized that if one unknown force was holding him back, perhaps there was another force in the universe, which might exist to help him. He simply had to find it. That was exactly what he did with the creation of his imaginary 11:11 beings. Maybe he really did begin to notice the numbers 11:11 and others similar numbers showing up from time to time. Who hasn’t? I know I have. It’s all pure coincidence, the result of our living in a digital age. Since most numerical values are nowadays presented to us in digital format, it’s only natural that we might begin seeing repetitive numbers.
He actually did research his numeric sightings on the internet on a free computer at the local public library and those emails presented in the story are paraphrases with artistic license of some of those he had told me he had received. Just to verify this, I too did a similar search and sent out a similar email to that which he had sent to the various sites. To my surprise, I started to receive return emails very much like many of the same results he claimed to have received; so at least that part of his story held water. There are groups of people out there who actually do believe in these 11:11 beings. Unfortunately for him, their belief also served to fuel his delusional fantasy.
Then from what I could determine somehow in his twisted and broken mind he took the idea of a race of super-beings, the 11:11 people from these emails and decided they were trying to contact him personally. Why such a group of beings would have any interest in him is beyond my comprehension and probably beyond yours as well. But in his mind he was one of the greatest undiscovered authors on the planet. Therefore it only made sense to him that he would be the one human with whom they would share their secret.
Based on our interviews with people who had known him during his earlier days, before the insanity had gotten so severe, I had the impression he not only thought of himself in terms of being superior to most of his fellow man, but he also was something of a racist and a bigot. Looking at him from that perspective, the idea of him seeing people who he considered inferior to himself as something less than human was a natural state of mind for him. Some of these earlier associates had stated that he would often compare people with animals stating that one person looked like a lizard or another looked like a horse or a bird or an ape. Obviously, the seeds for his delusion were planted early on in life, which grew and flourished into the madness he experienced.
Then somehow he managed to take his life-long feeling of superiority as well as thinking of others as sub-human and combine that with the propaganda he received from the internet. Next, he dumped it all into the garbage blender, which served as his mind and set the control knob for puree. When all was said and done he had apparently convinced himself that a race of superior beings had been trying to contact him to deliver a special message for the masses. What message could be better than tangible proof about the origin of mankind itself? Can you say delusions of grandeur cubed?
Then at some point in time, he must have passed out, likely from hunger since he seldom ate regularly and then hallucinated about the entire episode of his encounter with the extraterrestrials in the cave. The result was exactly what he wanted the result to be; he now believed that humanity was descended from wild animals, which were genetically altered by aliens. And he, of course, was descended from the top of the food chain.
Therefore, he deduced that whatever he chose to do was good because like the linage of kings and rulers through the ages he believed his bloodline was superior to everyone else’s. He truly believed he was a god among men and therefore he had a right if not an obligation to do whatever he chose to do. From there his life, which was already essentially in the toilet began to plummet into and even more severe downhill spiral.
Everything else discussed in the story and claimed by the subject; the fame, the money, the big house and all those other material things were nothing more than figments of his imagination. In his mind, that was his life. In reality he was homeless and destitute. He was a squatter, living in an abandoned factory building in one of the worst parts of the city. The only possessions he managed to hang onto were the boxes of his unpublished books and stories; and of course, his rejection slips.
He did however have a somewhat similar combination torture chamber butcher shop in one of the basement levels of the abandoned factory, but it was neither as clean nor as well-equipped as he chose to describe in his account. I’ve seen police photos of the crime scene and it was beyond revolting. Imagine a dirt floor, cement block basement with no electricity, no water, no windows and absolutely no ventilation. Now imagine months and months’ worth of splattered blood, rotting human remains, severed limbs and sections of raw meat all in various stages of decomposition. That was what his so called workshop was really like.
In this story I’ve spared you quite a bit of the gore which was the reality of his crimes. My goal was simply provided you with just an overview of a few accounts of his heinous acts. There were actually so many murders, one more unspeakable than the next. It nauseates me just to think about them. I’ve seen some of the pictures and I’ve read the police reports. Many of these killings were confirmed and the victims identified but many others which he confessed to remained unverified.
Since he primarily preyed on the lowest level of society, the fact that these people went missing may have gone largely unnoticed. If what he has told me is true however, the numbers could go into the hundreds. But as I said, he is a madman and has no idea what’s real and what’s fantasy. So neither he, nor I nor anyone else will likely ever really know just how bad his murderous spree of wanton slaughter and cannibalism actually was.
I’m certain someday if most of the horrifying murders are documented; there will be enough stories of madness and mayhem to fill a thousand-page novel. When that day comes, I suspect I’ll just leave that particular work to someone else. The fact is I’ve simply had enough of his madness for one lifetime. Although you may have found reading these few accounts in this story a bit disturbing, learning all the gory details and hearing about them from his own lips, with that inhuman look in his eyes staring wildly at me was more chilling than you could possibly imagine.
So that’s my story and I hope you appreciated it. I won’t ask if you enjoyed it because if you did, perhaps society should worry about you as well. But feel free to read it again if it suits you and think about it the next time you happen to look at the digital clock on your microwave oven or digital video recorder and you notice the numbers 11:11 or 4:44 or maybe even 12:34. Who knows? Maybe someone is trying to get your attention. I most certainly hope to God they are not.
About Thomas M. Malafarina
Who is Thomas M. Malafarina?
Thomas M. Malafarina is a prolific author of horror fiction from Berks County, Pennsylvania. To date he has published seven horror novels “What Waits Beneath”, “Burner”, “From The Dark” , “Circle Of Blood”, “Dead Kill Book 1: The Ridge of Death”,”Dead Kill Book 2: The Ridge Of Change” and “Dead Kill Book 3: The Ridge Of War”. He has also published six collections of horror short stories; “Thirteen Deadly Endings”, “Ghost Shadows”, “Undead Living” and most recently “Malaformed Realities Vol. 1, Vol. 2 and Vol. 3″. He has also published a book of often-strange single panel cartoons called “Yes I Smelled It Too; Cartoons For The Slightly Off Center”. All of his books are published through Hellbender Books, an imprint of Sunbury Press..
In addition, many of the more than one hundred short stories Thomas has written have appeared in dozens of short story anthologies and e-magazines. Some have been produced and presented for internet podcasts and radio plays as well. Thomas is best known for the twists and surprises in his stories as well as his descriptive, often gory passages.