Cops - The Lost Tapes #1
Somewhere, in a grey, featureless room, a faceless man approaches a large, box television set.
The Trinitron KV, with its twenty-seven-inch, curved glass display, is a relic of a bygone era; and shares a shelf with a similarly aged videocassette player.
In one hand, the faceless man holds a videocassette tape; unlabeled, with a black plastic shell.
He raises it to the mouth of the cassette player with a soft click, then as he pushes it inside, a gentle mechanical whirring can be heard, as the VCR’s internal gears engage, and it accepts the tape.
As it disappears behind a small, plastic shutter, the VCR emits a soft hum of activity as it spools the cassette’s tape. Then after the faceless man pushes the small, black ‘play’ button, the old box television flashes into life.
At first, the TV screen displays nothing but inky darkness, until a series of bright, white letters emerge from the void.
“Due to the graphic nature of this program” a gravelly voice recites, “viewer discretion – is advised”.
The TV screen bursts into a colorful montage of police officers hopping fences, kicking in doors, or jumping out of their cars following rapid highway pursuits; and is soundtracked by reggae band Inner Circle’s iconic composition - ‘Bad Boys’.
The syncopated groove accompanies the montage of officers as they chase and arrest a variety of suspects, then is suddenly drowned out by the voice of a stern, and commanding narrator.
“COPS is shot on location with the men and women of law enforcement”, he says, “all suspects are innocent until proven guilty – in a court of law”.
#1
The action fades, replaced by a flashing ‘COPS’ logo set against a black background.
The flashing graphic fades in turn, before the screen displays a single police interceptor, cruising down a lamplit suburban street at nightfall.
A caption reads - ‘Providence, Rhode Island’ - as the driver begins to speak.
“I grew up around here, I know these people, and they know me”
The shot changes to a closeup of the vehicle’s driver. He is olive skinned, with a receding hairline and a strong, Roman nose.
His caption reads - ‘Officer Fabio Visconti’.
“They call me or page me whenever they need anything”, he continues, “like if kids in the neighborhood are acting crazy, they call me, if anyone suspicious is wandering around, they call me; and if anyone’s neighbors decide to start acting all unneighborly, like the call we got right now, it’s me that drops by to handle it”.
Officer Visconti pulls up outside of a small, detached house.
‘10:32pm, suspicious activity’, another caption reads.
Visconti exits his police cruiser, the cameraman following close behind. He then ascends the steps of the detached house, and knocks on the door.
“Police department!” he announces. There is a brief silence, before the door in front of him opens.
“Good evening, Sir”, Visconti says to a tall, white-haired man, who now inhabits the open doorway, “my name’s Officer Visconti, I’m with the Providence Police Department. We got a few calls from some folks who are a little worried about you, so I’m thinking I come inside, we have a little talk, and maybe I look around a little too”.
“Why certainly, officer!”, the white-haired man says with a cheerful lilt, before Visconti directs his attention to the watching camera.
“I got the cameraman here with me tonight, but if you’re not comfortable with him coming inside, he can wait out here while I take a look around”.
The tall, white-haired man’s gaze locks onto the lens of the camera, and for a moment, he stares directly through the fourth wall.
His pale, sickly-green eyes light up; a wolfish grin revealing mustard-colored teeth.
“Is this going to be on the TV?” he asks, his eyes still fixed on the camera’s lens.
“Potentially”, Visconti replies, hooking his thumbs under his duty rig to rest his arms.
“Then I insist on it!”, the white-haired man croons with delight, “please, come inside, make yourselves at home!”
Officer Visconti follows the white-haired man into his home, past a staircase, and into an open plan TV and kitchen area.
The home is clean, well kept, but sparsely decorated.
“So, officer”, the white-haired man says, “what is it you wished to discuss with me?”
“Like I said”, Visconti replies, “we got a few calls from some concerned citizens, nothing I think you gotta worry about; but I just wanna take a look around to help put their minds at ease.”
“And what exactly are you looking for, officer?” the white-haired man asks.
“Weird noises after midnight, strange smells coming off the property” Visconti replies, “you wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you?”
“I can’t imagine what they must be referring to”, the white-haired man softly protests.
“Then you don’t mind if I look around then, right?” Visconti asks.
“Not at all, officer”, the white-haired man replies, “not at all”.
The camera follows Visconti as he completes a cursory inspection of the kitchen and sitting area.
The officer then climbs the stairs to examine the rooms on the second floor, and makes an eerie observation regarding the lack of furniture.
He checks one room, then two, but observes no bedframes or mattresses in either of them.
“-the hell does this guy sleep?” Visconti mutters to himself, as he makes his way to a nearby bathroom, and opens the door.
The interior is pristine, with bright white porcelain fixtures that look oddly unused.
“No water in the toilet bowl” Officer Visconti remarks, giving the camera man an incredulous look before descending the stairs again.
“I trust everything was to your satisfaction, officer?” the white-haired man inquires.
“So far so good”, comes Visconti’s pokerfaced reply, “does this place have a basement?”
“It does, yes”, the white-haired man says.
“Okay -”, Visconti responds expectantly, “can you show it to me?”
“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea, officer”, the white-haired man says. His eyes narrow, the warmth draining from them as they harden into a cold, intense stare.
“Excuse me?”, despite his acclimation to defiance, the response catches Officer Visconti off guard.
“What I mean is - you really don’t want to see what’s in the basement, officer”. The man’s lips now curl into a sinister smirk. His eyes, once friendly, are now sharp and piercing.
“Sir, you can either show me the basement now, or we can come back with a warrant and make it a whole thing. It’s your call”, Visconti states.
The white-haired man pauses, his sickly green eyes darting from Visconti, to the camera, and back again. Then with that same rigid grin still carved onto his face, he beckons them to follow.
The camera follows Visconti and the white-haired man, as the latter leads the lone officer back through the barely furnished kitchen, and to a padlocked door towards the rear of the house.
“Would you mind unlocking the door for me, Sir?” Visconti asks.
“You don’t want me to do that, Officer”, the white-haired man replies.
“Wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t, Sir”, the officer responds impatiently “now please, if you’d do the honors”.
The white-haired man’s lips curl into a wolfish grin, before he walks off to retrieve a set of keys from a nearby countertop.
Officer Visconti and his camera man watch as the white-haired man removes the padlock from the basement door.
“Alright now, could you open the door for me please?”, Visconti asks.
“As you wish, officer”, the white-haired man says, turning the door handle, then stepping aside as the old wooden frame creaks open to reveal a set of rickety wooden stairs, which lead down into the pitch-black basement below.
Officer Visconti steps forward, peering into the darkness, then reaches for a nearby light switch. He flicks one, then the other, but nothing happens.
“You got any lights wired up down there?” he asks.
The white-haired man grins, then shakes his head.
“It’s been dark down there for a long, long time, officer”
Visconti shoots the white-haired man an irritated look, then takes out a flashlight from his duty rig, and heads toward the stairs.
He recoils slightly as the musty reek of rot hits his nostrils, then shines his flashlight down the staircase to illuminate a dusty concrete floor.
“You want to tell me what you got down here, Sir?” Visconti asks.
“Something old” comes the white-haired man’s response, “something very, very old”.
“You wanna be a little more specific?” the officer requests, “I can’t say I’m a big fan of surprises”
“You’ll just have to see for yourself”, the white-haired man says, a disturbing hint of playfulness entering his voice.
Visconti shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, then he and the cameraman begin to descend the basement stairs.
“Hello?” Officer Visconti calls out, “is there anybody down here?”
His question is met with silence.
The cameraman then switches on his equipment’s flashlight, prompting a muted word of thanks from the officer in front of him.
Seconds later, the two men reach the bottom of the stairs, and take their first tentative steps into the darkness.
Officer Visconti shines his flashlight around the basement, but instead of its beam illuminating cramped and mold infested walls – a thick, almost impenetrable darkness seems to swallow up the light.
“Jesus”, Visconti mutters, “how big is this place?”
His voice penetrates a silence as thick as the darkness surrounding them. He takes a few more steps, then once again calls out.
“Hello?” he yells, “anybody here?”
This time, the echo of his voice bounces from wall to unseen wall, and it takes a moment for complete silence to return. But no sooner than it does, a loud, and sudden clap coming from behind them has the two men wheeling around in fright.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me”, Officer Visconti growls, as he deduces the sound’s source.
He grasps his radio with his freehand.
“Central, this is Unit 17, we got a 10-34 at number twenty-nine Belmont Avenue. Son of a bitch just locked me and my camera guy in his basement. Suspect is a tall Caucasian male. White hair. Real creepy lookin’. Request immediate backup, over”.
He expects a response within a few short moments. Instead, he hears nothing but static.
“Central, this is Unit 34”, Visconti repeats a little louder, before asking, “how copy – over?”
But again, he hears nothing but that same ghostly hiss.
“Is it the basement?” the cameraman asks.
“No, it’s not the basement”, a subtle panic is rising in Visconti’s voice, “these things work on the god damned subway for Christ’s sake. I swear, if that piece of garbage doesn’t open that god damned door, I’m gunna -”
In an instant, Visconti is abruptly silenced.
He turns his head, raising his flashlight to reveal that something long and slender is touching his shoulder, something which dangles from the ceiling above them.
At first, it appears as if a loose cable is hanging from the basement’s support beams, but as both Visconti’s and the camera’s flashlights converge on it, they reveal a pale, pearlescent thread, slick with some kind of fluid.
“What the fuck?” the officer whispers, slowly tracing the beam of his flashlight up the shimmering, white tendril, before finally reaching its source.
Something clings to ceiling above them. Its surface an inky black. It’s anatomy - incomprehensible.
The coarse, black hairs which cover it’s body seem to twitch as the beam of the flashlight touches them, before suddenly, and without warning, it violently extends a pair of hooked and skeletal limbs, and snatches Officer Visconti into the air.
He screams in abject terror, his legs flailing as black, chitinous barbs burrow into his flesh; then as his head and shoulders disappear into a great and terrible maw, he reaches for his pistol.
In one bright moment of radiant hope, Officer Visconti manages to pull the sidearm from its holster. But as he attempts to arm it, a sickening crunch sends his body into spasms, and the pistol falls from his grasp.
The picture on the TV screen becomes a blur of concrete and flashlight.
A scuffling of rubber on concrete turns to frantic footfalls against rickety steps, as the cameraman makes a hysterical dash for the basement stairs.
“OPEN THE DOOR!!” he screams, hammering his fist against its peeling paint, “OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!!”
The cameraman begins throwing his shoulder against the thick wooden panels, his microphone picking up the dull, rhythmic thuds as he tries again and again and again to break it down.
He suddenly freezes, having heard a skin crawlingly unfamiliar skittering emanating from the bottom of the basement stairs. The camera’s microphone picks the sound up once more; a little louder this time, as the thing draws closer to the staircase.
“HEEELP!!” the cameraman shrieks. He barely sounds human anymore. ““PLEASE GOD FUCKING HELP ME!!”
His bestial scream peters out in time for his microphone to catch a voice coming from the other side of the door. It belongs to the white-haired man, standing just feet away - and he is singing.
“The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout”, he softly croons.
“Please God, no” the cameraman begins to bawl, unwilling to shine his equipment’s flashlight toward what moves at the bottom of the basement stairs.
“Down came the rain – and washed the spider out”.
“Get back!” the cameraman screams, “Get the fuck away from me!”
“Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain”
Something long and dark takes hold of the cameraman’s leg, then after one final bout of pleading, drags him back down the staircase with a cacophony of cracks and cries.
His screams of terror turn to wails of agony, punctuated by a ripping, and tearing, and snapping, before muffled whimpers are drowned out by the white-haired man’s song.
“Then itsy-bitsy spider - crawled up the spout - again”.
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#2
As the white-haired man’s song ceases, and the symphony of ripping flesh and crunching bone subsides, the blur on the screen fades to black, before being replaced entirely by the same flashing ‘COPS’ logo observed previously.
A muted, instrumental version of ‘Bad Boys’ plays for a few seconds, before the logo fades, and is replaced by the image of a female police officer, at the wheel of her patrol car.
“Every job has its challenges”, she says pensively, “it's just that – working in law enforcement – those challenges are a lot different to most other jobs”.
‘Sergeant Audrey Theriot’ the caption beneath her reads.
“Those challenges tend to vary from region to region too”, she continues, “like out in the county, things tend to be a lot more reactive, whereas here in the city, we prefer a much more proactive approach”.
‘Lake Charles, Louisiana’, another caption reads, ‘Routine patrol’.
“We patrol certain neighborhoods after dark”, she explains, “and try to anticipate criminal activity, rather than just waiting for it to happen. Some nights can be pretty quiet, others can be -”
Sergeant Theriot is interrupted by a sudden incoming radio transmission.
“All units, all units, 2A-13 has a Code-3 10-32 at eight-sixteen Gordon Street. I repeat, Code-3 10-32 at eight-sixteen Gordon Street out in Holy Cross, respond with cherries and berries, over”.
“Okay, we gotta take this”, Sergeant Theriot says with urgency.
She flicks on her lights and sirens, kicks her cruiser’s engine up a gear, then tears off along the highway in the direction of the emergency.
“A Code-3 is our highest level of emergency, so we’re going in loud”, Sergeant Theriot explains, “and a 10-32 means we got an armed suspect, so, we’re probably going to see something right now”.
She falls silent, concentrating on the road ahead of her, bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic as she tears along the highway at breakneck speeds.
After some distance, Theriot slows her cruiser down dramatically, then turns down a quiet, suburban street. Ahead of her, another police cruiser sits stationary at the curb.
“Alright, you ready?” she asks her cameraman, before suddenly bringing her own cruiser to a complete stop.
“Okayletsgo!”
Sergeant Theriot slips from her driver’s side door, and sprints over towards her fellow officer.
He kneels behind one of his cruiser’s front tires, his eyes glued to the windows of a three-story home on the opposite side of the street.
“What’s the situation, Cooper?” Theriot asks.
“It’s the guy from that birthday party last week”, Officer Cooper explains, “the one who stabbed those three little girls to death. It’s him, I know it’s him; and he’s in there, Sarge, he’s right fucking there!”
“Alright”, Theriot replies, “but we gotta wait for backup, two isn’t enough. You got your shotgun in your cruiser?”
“Yes, Ma’am”, the young officer replies.
“Then go get it!”
As Officer Cooper sets about retrieving a pump action shotgun from his police cruiser, Sergeant Theriot rushes back to her own.
She grabs her radio set and requests backup, then within just a few short minutes, half a dozen additional officers, and an aerial support unit have joined the fray.
The sound of the helicopter’s rotor blades joins the cacophony of sirens and barked orders, and once a group of eight officers are assembled and ready, Sergeant Theriot calls them to order.
“What’s the situation, Sergeant?” one of them asks, “is the suspect still in the building?”
“Still in the building?!”, another sarcastically parrots, “look, top floor window! The motherfucker is looking right at us”.
At the home’s highest point, a window frame encapsulates the image of a shirtless Caucasian male. He stands motionless, his eyes fixed on the gathering below.
“Jesus Christ, that's him!”, another officer says, “That’s Floyd Cutter! The perp from the triple murder at that kid’s birthday party!”.
“And tonight’s the night we bring his ass in!” Sergeant Theriot barks, “Cooper! You’re the first in with that shotgun. Fontenot! I want you at the rear with the camera guy!”
“You got it, Sarge!”
“Alright”, she continues, “on three, we move for the front door, but you see a gun in that top window, you blow that son of a bitch away! Got it?”
“Got it!” Theriot’s officers yell back.
“Okay - three, two, one - move-move-move!”
As Sergeant Theriot and her police officers advance towards the front door of the house, the suspect remains motionless in the overlooking window.
The team gains entry to the home through the unlocked front door, then after clearing the first floor, they advance to the second, and repeat the process of safely securing it.
But when the officers reach the stairway leading to the third floor, Sergeant Theriot orders them to halt.
“Floyd Cutter!” she calls out, “this is the Lake Charles Police Department. We know you’re up there, now come out slowly, with your hands in the air!”
Theriot’s fellow officers stand at the ready, their weapons trained on the door concealing their suspect.
“This is your last chance to come out, Cutter!” Theriot yells, “Last chance to end this before it gets ugly!”
The officers wait. But above them, nothing moves, and nothing stirs.
The only sound is the dull thudding of the helicopter’s rotor blades, beating an anxious rhythm in the air above.
“Cooper! Perez!”, Sergeant Theriot hisses, “stack up either side of the door. Get his attention. Keep him distracted.”
As the officers obey, loudly ordering the suspect to surrender peacefully, Theriot reaches for her radio.
“Pelican One, this is 2A-Zero-One, requesting you shine your searchlight through the front facing third floor window of the target house. We need the suspect distracted and facing away from the door. Over”.
“Copy that, 2A-Zero-One”, the helicopter pilot’s reply buzzes through Theriot’s handset, “Pelican One has visual on the suspect. He is still looking out of the window, I repeat, he is still looking out of the window. Suspect has not moved since entry. Over”.
“Roger that, Pelican One”, Theriot replies, “Keep eyes on the suspect until we have him in custody. Over.”
“Will do, Zero-One, Pelican One out”.
“Alright”, Sergeant Theriot says, “suspect is facing away from the doorway, let’s prep for entry; try and force a surrender here guys; but be prepared for anything”.
Perez reaches for the door handle, Cooper readies his shotgun, while Sergeant Theriot and the rest of the team aim their weapons using the staircase for cover.
“Okay”, Theriot says softly, “three - two – one -”
At the go-mark, Perez throws open the door before Cooper leans around the threshold.
The camera catches sight of their shirtless suspect, still peering out of the window, and completely unresponsive to what’s unfolding to his rear.
“Show me your hands!” roars Theriot.
“Hands! Hands, motherfucker!” Perez echoes as he directs his own weapon towards the suspect.
“Do not turn around, Cutter!” Theriot adds, “Drop any weapons you may be carrying, then slowly raise your hands!”
The suspect remains motionless, his back to the heavily armed officers.
The beams of their weapon mounted flashlights are the only thing that illuminate him, and under their bright white glare, the suspect’s flesh is revealed to be a patchwork of intricately patterned scar tissue.
Sergeant Theriot begins slowly advancing up the staircase, her pistol still aimed at the suspect’s back.
“You’re coming with us, Cutter”, she states, “whether that’s in cuffs or a body bag, that’s down to you. No one’s gotta get hurt tonight. Just drop your weapons, and raise your hands”.
While fear and adrenaline surge through the encroaching police officers, their suspect remains dead calm.
The shotgun wielding Officer Cooper joins Theriot in her advance, slipping past the threshold and into the room as she steps up onto the landing.
“That’s it, Cutter”, she says, “don’t do anything stupid now, just put your hands up, nice and slow”
But Cutter does not move slowly.
Instead, he spins around in a split second, and points something metallic toward the officers.
“Gun! He’s got a gun!” one of them roars.
But the words have barely left his lips before her officers unleash a fusillade of gunfire in the suspect’s direction.
The storm of lead rips through his torso, sending sprays of blood onto the brick and shattered glass behind him. He falls limp, the weapon dropping from his grasp as he tumbles to the floor.
“Suspect down!” shouts Officer Cooper.
“Secure his weapon!”, Theriot yells, “get the cuffs on him!”
The lead officers rush into the room, one to kick the pistol out of the suspect’s reach, the other to roll him over and handcuff him prior to rendering first aid.
The others follow, the beams of their flashlights dancing at their feet as they lower their weapons, and enter the room.
“Hang on a second”, Officer Cooper says, peering down at the suspect’s weapon, “I think this thing is -”
He gently kicks the pistol with the toe of his boot. A hollow tap confirms his suspicion.
“God dammit”, he says in exasperation, “it’s fucking plastic – this thing is just a toy!”
“You had no choice, Coop, none of us did”, Sergeant Theriot states, “Now someone get some goddamn lights on in this place! I can’t see shit.”
One of the officers turns around, searching the rear wall for a light switch.
He finds one, then a second later, a dying bulb crackles into life above their heads, and bathes the room in a dull, flickering glow.
It is only then that the officers can see what has been daubed all over the walls and floor; the strange glyphs and symbols that match those carved into the suspect’s flesh.
“What the hell?” someone whispers.
On the walls and ceiling, the symbols are of linear inscription.
But on the floor, the eldritch script has been inscribed in a circular pattern; with concentric rings of indecipherable text surrounding the exact spot where the suspect has fallen.
“What the hell is this stuff?” one of the officers asks.
“Not important right now”, Sergeant Theriot replies, “we need our suspect in cuffs, and we need EMTs on the way”.
“Got the cuffs on him” Perez announces.
“-the hell’s he smiling about?” someone asks, drawing the group’s attention to the face of their prostrate perp.
He lies prone; hands clasped at the small of his back, head turned to the watching officers; yet despite suffocating on his own blood – Cutter’s lips are curled in a rictus grin.
He regards them with wild exhilaration; his parting lips revealing blood-stained teeth.
He tries to say something, but only succeeds in coughing up a slew of his own, fresh blood.
“Roll him onto his side” Sergeant Theriot says, “don’t let him choke!”
Officer Perez obliges her, but his attempt to clear the suspect’s airway is futile. He continues to choke, as more and more blood proceeds to flood his perforated lungs.
“He’s not going to make it, Sarge” Perez states.
“What’s the ETA on our ambulance?” Theriot asks.
“They’re headed our way” an officer replies, “ten minutes max”.
“He doesn’t have ten minutes”, Perez adds, his ears tuned to suspect’s labored breathing. Cutter coughs and splutters, blood leaking from his mouth and nostrils, until finally, he breathes his last.
“Sayonara, shit-bird” Cooper seethes. His words are met with disapproval from Sergeant Theriot.
“Cooper!”, she barks, “get your ass outside and secure the perimeter, make sure any civilians out there are under control!”
“Yes, ma’am!”, Cooper says through gritted teeth, before obediently making his way downstairs.
“And the rest of you!” she yells, wheeling around to address the remainder of the group, “unless you want to spend tomorrow morning in the lieutenant’s office getting your asses chewed out; stay – professional!”.
The officers nod or murmur to the affirmative, before Sergeant Theriot continues.
“I need one of you to head down to your cruiser to get some evidence bags, we need to secure that toy pistol while it still has Cutter's prints on it”, she says, “the rest of you, make sure th-”
In an instant, Theriot is silenced, as she and her officers turn their attentions to the body of the recently deceased suspect.
His corpse, still and silent for the previous few minutes, is now violently twitching as if wracked by mysterious muscle spasms.
“A seizure?” someone asks, “I thought he was dead?!”
“He was!” Perez yells in response, “I checked his pulse! There was nothing! I swear!”
“Hold him steady!” Theriot instructs, “make sure those cuffs are secure! He could be trying something!”
“He’s not going anywhere, Sarge!”, Perez growls.
He holds the suspect securely on his side, watching as the seizure causes more fresh blood to leak from his mouth and nose.
“Jesus Christ, what’s happening to him?!” someone asks.
“I have no idea” Theriot says, her eyes widening at the inexplicable display, “just keep him steady, God dammit! And where the hell is E.M.S?!”
“Sarge!?” Perez says, his voice swelling with panic, “something - something’s happening here!”
Sergeant Theriot walks over to Officer Perez, who struggles to hold their suspect steady as the seizures only intensify.
“What’s wrong with him?!” she asks.
Perez simply looks up at her with wide, terrified eyes.
In an instant, the flesh between the suspect’s shoulder blades begins to split, spraying Perez’s uniform with blood.
Horrified, he lets go, allowing the suspect to roll onto his stomach as the open wound widens.
“Where the HELL IS E.M.S?!” roars Theriot, as she drags Perez away from the spasming corpse.
The flesh of the suspect’s back continues to rip and tear, until suddenly, his shoulder blades burst open and apart in an eruption of blood and viscera; like some kind of hideous, gore drenched hatchling spreading its wings.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”, someone yelps, as the officers press their backs to the walls of the attic.
They watch as the suspect’s insides seem to liquify and pool, bubbles of fresh blood rising and popping in a bowl of carbon soup.
“Everyone out of the building!” Theriot says, “Go! Now! Move!”
Perez is the first to make for the door as Theriot barks at the others, eliciting their compliance, and ensuring she is the last to leave.
The suspect’s body still spasms and twitches as she reaches the top of the stairs, and after lowering her foot onto the first step downwards, Sergeant Theriot stops, and looks back into the room.
The movement takes but a fraction of a second, but in that brief, flicker of a moment, she sees something, long and thin, rising from the suspect’s bisected corpse.
She hurtles down each flight of stairs, screeching at her officers to take cover behind their vehicles.
They have never heard such terror in her voice.
As the officers and cameraman spill out into the street, a group of waiting reinforcements seem confused by their sudden emergence.
“-the hell is going on in there?!” one of them asks. His question receives no answer.
Instead, Theriot begins yelling into her radio as she runs.
“Dispatch, this is 2A-Zero-One! Be advised, we have a potential quarantine situation at eight-sixteen Gordon Street! Requesting immediate backup and guidance on containment procedures. Over!”
As Sergeant Theriot and her officers take cover behind their vehicles, the house they only recently emerged from begins to creak and groan.
There is a sudden flash of movement in the third story window, before the interior of the home suffers some kind of catastrophic structural collapse.
An entire floor comes crashing down, forcing dust and debris out of shattered windows, and prompting more yelps of confusion from the newly arrived backup.
A further crash inside the home has dust plumes rising into the air, and once again a loud groan can be heard from its interior.
But this time, it is not the whine of straining timber. It is a much deeper, much more frightening rumble, the likes of which none of them has ever heard before – and the sound alone is enough to curdle their blood.
In an instant, the entire house seems to crack and come apart, as some serpentine mass tears itself free from the bonds of masonry, and extends itself to its full, unfettered height.
The congregated officers watch in awe and horror, as a thousand eyes suddenly blink open, and stare back at them.
A terrible silence hangs in the air for a few moments.
The thing stands motionless, observing them with a cold curiosity, then as the seconds drag by – the soft pitter patter of raindrops begins to break the fragile quiet.
Sergeant Theriot stands mesmerized with terror, weapon pointed towards the towering mass.
She does not breathe, she does not blink. She only comes to her senses when the first, fat raindrop hits her forearm.
It is unlike any she has seen before.
Dark, wet splotches begin to appear on the sidewalk, on her patrol car, and on the exposed flesh of her fellow officers.
She reaches up, touches one of the patches of liquid now present on her arm, and rubs the substance between her thumb and forefinger.
It is warm, sticky – and has a coppery scent.
As the downfall grows heavier, the thousand eyed thing which towers above them unfurls a pair of gargantuan, translucent, and intricately veined wings, each with a sickeningly iridescent sheen.
As it swings them, the downdraft is enough to cause the officers to shield their eyes, and the sound alone chills the blood of all who hear it.
Then with one great and terrible effort, the thousand eyed thing rises up into the starless, night sky – and disappears.
#3
As the camera’s lens becomes caked in the oily, red substance, the picture fades to black, and is replaced by the ‘COPS’ logo and theme song.
Once again, the cycle repeats itself, and after a brief intermission, the voice of yet another police officer replaces the steady reggae rhythm of ‘Bad Boys’.
“Some nights can definitely be worse than others”, a male officer opines, “but for me, I think I’d rather just be doing something. Those nights were nothing happens for hours at a time, and then it goes from one to a hundred in a hot minute, those are the nights I don’t like”.
The shot changes to a close-up of a young, African American police officer, sitting at the wheel, and guiding his patrol car along a lonely stretch of lamplit highway.
‘Officer Tony Harper’ the caption reads.
“I’d rather be going from one call to the other, boom-boom-boom”, he says, “because the next thing you know, you’re halfway through my shift already. But as a general rule, it’s best to expect the unexpected, and be ready for anything”.
The officer has barely finished speaking before a reckless driver pulls out in front of him at dangerously high speeds.
“What in the world is this fool thinking?” Officer Harper mutters to himself rhetorically.
He flicks on his lights and sirens, then reaches for his radio.
“Dispatch, this is Officer 2-2-7, I am westbound on the two-nintey near Oak Hill Apartments. Initiating a traffic stop on a vehicle involved in reckless driving. Vehicle is a blue Nissan Altima, driver appears to be a Caucasian female”.
“Copy that 2-7-7”, comes the reply, “Do you require any additional units or assistance?”
“Negative”, Harper responds, “but stand by for further details, making contact now. Over.”
Officer Harper revs the engine of his patrol car, approaching triple digit speeds in order to catch up with the erratic driver.
‘Austin, Texas’, the caption reads, ‘Traffic Stop’.
“I don’t think she’s going to run” he says, then as if on cue, the driver ahead of him flicks on their right-hand turn signal, and begins pulling over to the side of the road.
“There you go”, Officer Harper says, “she didn’t strike me as the type to start trouble”.
He joins her in drifting over to the side of the road, then while maintaining a safe distance between the two vehicles, Harper parks his cruiser, and turns off the engine.
Yet just as he does so, the female driving the car ahead jumps out of her driver’s side door, and begins rapidly approaching Harper’s car.
“Spoke too soon I guess”, he says with audible disappointment, before grabbing his taser, and stepping out of his cruiser.
“Stop right there!” Harper yells, “Turn around and return to your vehicle!”
The young, female driver appears to say something to the officer, but it is drowned out by the drone of passing traffic.
“Do NOT approach the officer’s vehicle during a traffic stop!”, he yells, pointing his taser at the driver as she continues to advance.
The camera man readjusts, gaining a clearer picture, and cleaner audio.
The young woman, who now stands stationary just ten to fifteen feet away, appears distraught. Tears stream from eyes ringed with exhaustion, as she begs Officer Harper for help.
“Officer, please, you have to listen to me”, she says with a quivering voice, “someone is coming after me, and when they find me, they’re going to kill me”.
Her final words are shrill with panic. Officer Harper lowers his taser.
“Who’s coming after you, Ma’am?” he asks.
“I - I don’t know”, she says, “this is going to sound fucking crazy but – I don’t know what they look like. All I know is that they’re coming after me, and they’re coming tonight. So please, I’m begging you, you have to protect me!”
“We’re going to get you the help you need, Ma’am”, Harper says, “but you can’t be driving like that, alright? You almost hit me”.
“I know, I’m sorry”, the girl replies, “I’m just so fucking scared right now and I really, really need your help. Please, officer, take me to jail or something. I’m not safe out here!”
“I can’t just put you in a cell, Ma’am”, Harper explains, “that’s not how it works”.
The girl’s eyes widen with panic for a moment. She then marches over to the front of Harper’s cruiser, and slams her foot into the front headlight.
She grunts with the impact. The plastic cracks.
“Are you crazy?!” Harper yells, slamming his driver’s door shut before approaching the young woman. He orders her to turn around, grabs her wrists, then handcuffs them after placing her under arrest.
He leads the woman to the back of his cruiser, reciting her Miranda rights as he grips the crook of her elbow. As they walk, the woman recites a manta of her own.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you” she says.
“Dispatch, this is Officer 2-2-7”, Harper announces via his radio, “I have a suspect in custody for vandalizing a police cruiser. Requesting transport for her vehicle just west of Oak Hill Apartments on the 290”.
“Copy that, 2-7-7”, comes the reply, “transport will be there within the hour”.
“I understand you’re going through a lot right now, Ma’am”, Harper says, directing his words at the woman in the back seat, “but you just made things a whole lot worse for yourself”
“Where are you taking me?” she asks.
“Once the tow truck gets here, I’ll be taking you to booking”, he replies, “after that, you’ll probably have to spend the night in a cell”.
“Thank God”, the woman says.
Her sincerity prompts Officer Harper to turn in his seat, and through the protective grille which separates them, he regards her with curious eyes.
“Ma’am?” he asks, “just what exactly is going on with you tonight?”
“I told you”, she replies, a deep exhaustion gradually supplanting her terror, “someone’s coming for me”
“Who’s coming for you?” Harper asks.
“I don’t - know” she replies impatiently.
“But - they know you, right?”
“Right”
“Okay, but – why are they coming after you?” Officer Harper asks, “Do you owe somebody money?”
“If I tell you”, the girl replies, “you’ll think I’m crazy”.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because everyone thinks I’m fucking crazy when I tell them”, she replies, “and so will you”.
There is a sudden glimmer of pity in Officer Harper’s eyes.
“Honestly? I don’t know if you’re crazy or not”, he says, “but what I do know – is that you’re 100% going to spend the night in a cell. So, if someone really is after you, for whatever reason, it’ll take a small army to get to you down at the precinct”.
“Oh God, thank you”, come the girl’s weakening reply, “oh thank you Jesus”.
Officer Harper and his arrestee wait by the roadside for around fifteen minutes, until finally, the tow truck arrives to haul away her vehicle.
Harper exits his cruiser for a minute, ensures the truck has been sent by the county, then returns to his driver’s seat.
He turns, on the cusp of saying something to the girl in the back, but sees she is fast asleep.
To most, the backseat of his patrol car represents rock bottom. But to her, it is a warm bosom of safety.
“First person I ever met who was happy to be arrested, that’s for sure”, Harper says to the cameraman, “let’s just see what she has to say once we get to the precinct”.
The scene shifts to the parking lot of the local police precinct.
Officer Harper pulls into the lot, then drives around to a specialized secure entrance used for booking suspects.
After opening up the rear passenger door, Harper has to gently prod the woman to rouse her from slumber.
She seems on the verge of catatonia during the search and inventory process, and struggles to keep her eyes open as she mumbles her name, date of birth, and other identifying details.
The woman is photographed and fingerprinted, then after a series of brief medical questions, Officer Harper leads her to a single person cell, containing only a sleeping cot, and a small reading light.
“Are you going to be okay in here?” he asks her.
“I’m safer in here than I am out there”, the girl replies wearily.
“I’m going to take that as a yes”, Harper says, before adding, “look, I have to head back out on patrol for a few hours. You should get some sleep. But when I’m back, we’re going to have a nice long talk about who’s hunting you, and why”
“You - you promise you’ll try and help me?” she asks, a ray of hope entering her voice.
“That’s my job, Ma’am”, Harper replies.
The girl is so grateful that, for a moment, she seems on the verge of tears.
She holds them back, utters a shaky “thank you”, then sits down on the wall mounted sleeping cot as Officer Harper and his cameraman exit her cell.
True to his word, Officer Harper spends the next few hours patrolling the highways and byways of Central Texas.
He then returns to the precinct in the early hours of the morning, and as promised, he approaches the Desk Sergeant regarding an interview with the young woman.
The sergeant signs a few forms, ensures an interview room is free, then clears the woman for questioning.
The last remaining obstacle between Harper and his “nice long talk”, is a medical check from one of the precinct's medics; and the medic on shift that evening, is a portly, middle aged woman named Sandy.
Sandy smiles for the camera as she passes the booking desk, then accompanies a custody officer into the precinct’s cellblock.
The custody officer unlocks the door, and allows Sandy into the young woman’s cell; but then, instead of standing watch, as per standard procedure, he strolls back towards the booking desk to engage Officer Harper in conversation.
Those left behind at the precinct heard a brief account of her story, and it’s clear to see that their collective curiosity is piqued.
The terrified young woman’s story is an unusual one, but if true, she’s not the one they need to worry about.
The real threat – is posed by the one who pursues her.
“Sandy might have a task waking her up”, Harper says, “she looked ready to sleep for days the last time I saw her”.
“We had to wake her up, just the one time to check on her” the Desk Sergeant says, “she was responsive, but – I'm not sure she really knew I was there. Poor girl seems just about burned out”.
“You believe her story?” one of Harper’s fellow officers asks him.
“I don’t know what to believe” he says with a shake of his head, “at first, I figured it was like a mental health kind of thing, but she just seemed so damned relieved to be in that cell. I’ve never seen anything like it”.
“Me either”, the Desk Sergeant says, “and I’ve been doing this job almost forty years”.
“You’d think Sandy would be done checking up on her by now”, Harper says, peering down the corridor toward the holding cells; then as if on cue, all hear a sharp crack coming from the open doorway of the young woman's cell.
“Sandy?” one of them calls out, “you two alright in there?”
Sandy doesn’t reply. Neither does the girl.
“Better go check on ‘em”, the desk sergeant says, but Harper and his fellow officer are already marching down the corridor, in the direction of the holding cells.
Harper is the first to reach the open doorway, and when he does, he recoils in abject terror.
He pulls his service pistol, and points it towards the girl, his voice crackling with fright as he orders her to drop what she is holding.
The girl drops the hunk of meat she recently tore from Sandy’s throat with her bare teeth.
It hits the ground beside the slain medic’s body with a wet thunk.
The girl looks up at Harper. Her eyes are different than before. They are changed. She – is changed.
Officer Harper orders her to raise her hands, then with a smile that reveals a mess of jagged, coaldust-black teeth, and a voice that is not her own - she says...
“I - FOUND - HER”.
As the girl breaks into a manic and jagged cackling, an ashen faced custody officer slams her cell door closed, then wanders away in a daze of distress.
“Turn the camera off”, someone says. And at that – the TV screen goes dark.
Epilogue
As the video cassette comes to end, the automatic ejection process unfolds with a series of smooth, mechanical movements.
The ancient video cassette recorder emits a soft, whirring sound as the internal mechanisms disengage the tape from the secure grip of the machine’s loading mechanism.
The cassette then slides out of the VCR’s slot, then with a final, gentle click, the cassette is fully ejected.
The faceless man stands, and approaches the VCR with slow and careful motion.
He grasps the edges of the cassette, then with a practiced hand, he removes it from the slot, then lowers it into a waiting box, which is closed with a satisfying plastic snap.
With a slow and measured stride, the faceless man then glides towards a titanic, highly organized library of video tapes, each one packed tightly onto row upon row of meticulously kept shelves.
The faceless man locates the appropriate section, guided by a system known only to them, and carefully slides the box into the open space it was taken from.
It fits snugly into place, nestled between tens of thousands of similarly unlabelled tapes.
The faceless man steps back, and surveys his collection of video tapes, wondering which he’ll choose on his next visit - to the Library of Lost Tapes...