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Almost immediately, it felt like my sinuses had been filled with cottonballs, and an intense pressure headache presented itself with the greatest of ease. It peaked quickly enough that I found myself nearly speaking in tongues. Had we been at some backwater exorcism tent revival down by the river, this would have seemed pretty normal. The only problem with this was that the closest piece of biblical literature that I had in the house was a stack of National Geographic and several books on calculus and abnormal psychology.



I'm not sure if it was some kind of weird instinct, or just having been driven nearly insane in less than a few minutes, but making loud noises of some kind suddenly seemed like it might be a good idea. I thought the worst that would happen is that it might drive everything away, which would be good, since I was pretty much fucked at this point.



The woman asked me what was wrong, and as I attempted to say, "I'm going to grab some amplifiers," all that came out was discombobulated wailing.



I put my hands over my head to signify she should cover her ears, but this only served as a barrier of basic communication. Between her confused stares, and my futile attempts to elaborate on what kind of plan I had hatched, a very awkward and unspoken tension filled the air. This bizzare circus act continued while I was hooking up amplifiers in the living room, and slowly, she kept inching her way closer to the door, and Clyde Easton. I couldn't really blame her, because if I was in her shoes, I would have done the same thing.



Once the last amplifier was hooked up, I shouted as loud as I could, "Cover your ears."



"Oh," she said while nodding her head and covering her ears.



The first squeal wasn't too bad, but it didn't do the trick. Skipping the next phase of my plan, I turned on the other two amps, and let feedback do the rest. The sound that followed could only be described as a sentient metal orgy. Although I couldn't see what it was, I felt it slowly ooze its way back out of my head, but then it stopped. An invisible pair of hands, but most likely tentacles, began squeezing my neck to the point that I couldn't breathe. The appendages would ease up as I approached the amps more closely. Between the high pitched feedback, and having my neck in a vice, I passed out.



I came to a short while later, while the woman stood over me with Clyde held above her head, poised to strike. The first thing I noticed was a hole in the front door about the size of a baseball. I wasn't sure if my plan worked, but I didn't have a headache, and I could breathe once again.

"So, you're not one of them," I commented.



"I... I'd certainly hope not," she said, "but what the fuck is that on the floor?"



I turned around and made eye contact with her, "Oh, that's just the mailman. Or rather, was the mailman," I continued while Clyde pointed towards the mangled heap on the floor.



Then we both noticed that he was still breathing. I muttered "What the fuck is this," as she simultaneously commented, "Is he alive?"



Taking a few steps back, Clyde was poised and ready to strike at a moment's notice. The mailman got back up, but this time, it was different. His face split apart at the forehead, and continued down both cheek bones. Then his head unfolded like some grotesque flower out of a Grade B horror movie that vaguely reminded me of a carnivorous plant. I realized whatever was going on at this point definitely wasn't Kosher. The resurrected abomination gazed his attention momentarily towards the woman still sitting on the couch, and then turned back to me.



He snarled and spat a disgusting combination of blood, mucus, and some foul smelling liquid at me. I quickly wiped the combination from my face before Clyde had another crack at the offending individual. The woman on the couch screamed and bolted out of the room. I assumed she'd had enough and decided to go elsewhere.



Clyde seemed to have little effect, other than making what was left of the mailman very, very angry. I kicked him in the groin as hard as I could, praying for some small miracle. This seemed to work, as he gently rocked back and forth, groaning between gurgles. I felt victorious, but only for a few seconds. As his face began to fold back to a somewhat normal state, it suddenly snapped back open, and he growled. The dance for survival was bound and determined to continue.



Just as our physical argument reached its zenith, the woman came back in with a jug of Drano. "Distract him," she shouted.



"Fucking easy for you to say," I yelled, wrestling him underneath me, "What are you going to do? Give him an enema?"



"I've got one better, watch out," she said, opening the cap.



She gingerly poured some of the liquid onto his face, which gave immediate results. I quickly removed my hands as he squirmed and howled. Sharp vapors filled the air. I stood back up and covered my nose and mouth with my shirt. From there, she poured the rest of the liquid onto his face.



Admittedly, it was the first time I'd ever seen someone's head collapse. His head crackled, popped, sizzled, hissed, and seemed to deflate like a balloon. I'd never seen anything like it. "Well, that oughta do it," she said.



It felt like something had crawled up my nose. I sneezed involuntarily. Then it dawned on me why his head collapsed: I was next.

I woke up the next morning to several loud knocks. I wasn't fully awake, let alone prepared for what life had in store for me. Casually, I opened up the door, only to have a few good heart calisthenics replace my morning cups of coffee. It was the mailman. His face was pulsating. His cheeks were undulating. He grinned, bloody mucus oozing from his mouth and down his chin. I'm not sure why, but all I managed to stammer was, "I think you have some on your shirt," just moments before I was shoved to the floor. The mailman angrily slammed the door shut behind him. I distinctly gathered that there was some greater emergency that needed to be tended to by the honking and screaming that could be heard outside, but right now, it had to wait.



I scrambled back towards the couch and grabbed a nearby baseball bat that was gently resting by the couch. It had been there for several months, waiting for that moment when it could scream "Payday." I was never really sure when, or even if, I was going to use it but today seemed like a pretty good time.



Without hesitating, I stood up and swung the aluminum bat at the mailman's head as hard as I could. My guess is that he was caught offguard, since he didn't even put his hands up to try and block it. He quickly fell to the floor and let out a labored groan. He coughed a few times and attempted to stand up. I allowed my friend to make a few profound arguments to the contrary. After the mailman was thoroughly incapacitated, I gently spun the bat around in the light and said, "Good job. At least someone else in here knows what's going on around here, because I sure as fuck don't."



It was at this point that I gave the aluminum bat a name. Easton. Clyde Easton. I thought it almost sounded like Clint Eastwood, but with less letters and an infinitely more stoic attitude when it came to matters such as these. To test my theory, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a Pop-Tart, and walked back into the living room: He hadn't moved an inch. Clyde even poked him a few times to make sure of this.



Slightly exhausted from the ordeal, I sat down on the couch and began eating my breakfast, while the body in the middle of the living room floor occasionally twitched. I turned on the television to see if there was any information regarding what I assumed was part of a larger problem. Nothing. "What good are you," I shouted with a mouthful of food.



I panicked slightly when I heard another set of knocks at the door. I panicked even more when the mailman started to get back up. "There's nobody here," I yelled, while Clyde used his strength and resolve to achieve positive results.



"Please let me in," a woman said from the other side of the door.



I repeated myself slowly amidst the "pings" and "kritches" that were helping to accentuate nearby furniture and a lamp in a very unsanitary, but very crimson/avant-garde sort of manner. Finally the mailman stopped moving and slumped back down to the floor.



"Please? Somebody?"



Looking through the peephole, I noticed a slender, attractive looking woman with long black hair standing at the doorstep. "Please," she said again. I could see someone being chased at the intersection. I thought for a few seconds before opening the door and said, "Fine. Make it quick."



She immediately latched onto me with a full body embrace as I tried to steady myself. "Ok, ok... get down," I said, almost as though I were trying to verbally discipline a hyperactive child, or perhaps a small dog.



I tossed her onto the couch and spun back around to close the door. As I did this, I realized that another individual was quickly running towards the door, snarling and screeching. Clyde intervened by butting their mouth, which allowed me to quickly close and lock the door.

Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of new-age bullshit. One of the ideas that circulated the most was that every living creature emits a specific vibrational frequency that matches the earth’s natural harmonic tone.



I'm not entirely sure how it began, but the point is, I think we're royally fucked. However, I don't mean fucked in a we're-going-to-die-as-a-species kind of way, but more or less on an individual basis. Instead of having the five senses to survive, we have to make do with four. Those that were born without hearing have nothing to fear. Those of us that were... that's an entirely different matter altogether. Unfortunately, this also includes animals.



Until a few years ago, the idea of panspermia was considered laughable science fiction. A major turning point occured when it was discovered that rudimentary ammino acids indeed existed in deep space, and was the key to life itself. Comets and asteroids would travel amongst clouds of interstellar proteins, bringing essential building blocks to foreign habitats, which in turn allowed mutations to occur that would otherwise normally be considered impossible.



What nobody really considered was that intelligent life itself *could* exist in the freezes of deep space, and quite comfortably, given the right conditions. The problem was that we couldn't see them, because unlike what we considered to be within the bell curve of life, we assumed if they were alive, we would be able to detect their presence under normal circumstances. Obviously, it turned out that we were wrong in our assumptions about what could and could not exist within the confines of an arbitrary system.



When we see another living entity, we aren't actually seeing them. In fact, what we are seeing is a specific spectrum of light that they reflect. This is also why we see colors. This also makes for an excellent model within a system involving predator and prey. What we didn't expect was that all of us would be prey to an unseen predator.



My bowels happened to be emitting a harmonic tone of sorts as I chewed a somewhat unsavory bite or greasy, dripping meat from the double quarter. I instinctively reached over and took a deep swig from the extra large tub-o-coke. I'd never really been a believer in any of that new-agey hocus-pocus bullshit, but after what happened next, I began to rethink my outlook on life.



As I put the drink back in the cupholder, the car unexpectedly rocked to the side, which was coupled with a semi-hollow thud. To me, this registered as slightly unusual, because last I'd checked, I was sitting in the midst of a bumper to bumper traffic jam while "Knife Party" blared uncomfortably from my speakers.



I casually looked up, and was greeted by the most surreal, yet subtly horrific scene that I'd ever laid eyes upon. A bald, heavyset man was pounding both of his hands on the hood of my car, his face flushed a deep crimson red and parts of his face appeared to be pulsating.



Blood slowly oozed from every facial orifice as is thunderous pounding and primal screams slowly crescendoed over the music. I wasn't entirely sure what this half-crazed gentleman had in store for me, or if he was contagious with some exotic jungle fever, so I quickly locked the doors and pressed on the car horn to attract some kind of attention.



I caught attention all right, but not the kind I anticipated. It seemed that my actions only succeeded in angering the man as his bellowing increased in volume and intensity. Suddenly, he clutched the sides of his head as the area just below his eyes and beside his nose puffed up significantly. Blood continued to pour from his nose, and he slammed both hands down onto the hood once again.



Suddenly, his screaming stopped and he stared past me with a strangely vacant, yet slightly confused look, panting heavily as he did so. His body, neck, and face violently wrenched to the side, giving way to a retrospectively predictable projectile vomit onto the car next to me, the unsuspecting occupants screaming in terror as bits of partially digested whatever gingerly slid their way down the windshield. After a few impressive launches, the man collapsed in a lifeless heap onto the pavement.



I just stared forward and tried to unsuccessfully repress what had just happened. I suppose what pissed me off the most wasn't the fact that I was 3 hours late getting home, but that I had missed Wheel Of Fortune.