Recently, an odd scene was discovered in a cave in northern
Illinois: an entire family of bears slaughtered. Nobody has been able to
explain what happened, if the bears were the victims of some sort of
super-predator new to the area, or if they had been involved in some sort of feud
with a neighboring clan of bears, or even if they were the victims of some
strange ritual. The bears appeared to have been killed via bite marks and one
bear, a large black bear presumed to be the father bear, had simply been
strangled to death, although some experts claim that he was not strangled at
all but subdued by what’s known as a “blood choke.”
Naturally, this would indicate a sort of intelligence unknown
to the animal world. Perhaps a dolphin could possess the intelligence, but not
the manual dexterity to perform such a maneuver, and besides, what would a
dolphin be doing in a cave in northern Illinois? Don’t be ridiculous, man.
Still, this new evidence has just made the picture all the stranger for investigators
and fans of the macabre alike. At some point, it would appear, a human being
entered the cave and choked out a large black bear.
Naturally, this seemed absurd, but local legends tell of a
supernatural being that has appeared occasionally through the years, a sort of
mythic archetype dismissed by most reputable experts as little more than a
deranged fantasy, or perhaps a collective yearning for a sort of superman capable
of weathering the withering horrors of every day existence to say nothing of
the surreal horrors of these strange and terrible times. The tales are
whispered, never spoken of in anything louder than hushed tones, as much from
fear of the fragility inherent in such an idea, the fear that it could be lost
if introduced to the poisons of mainstream society, as it is the fear that the
speaker will be roundly mocked by his fellows. But every once in a while, a
single name, a name that is more an idea than anything else, can be heard in
the whispers and sighs of the wind: The Great Willie Young.
And that brings us to the curious case of an abandoned shack
found in the woods only a couple of miles from the cave where the slaughtered
bears were found. The shack was decrepit, little more than walls and a tin roof.
On the inside of these walls were shocking drawings, lurid depictions of sex
acts too depraved to repeat here. There was also an old rag, which experts have
discovered retained what they termed “near-lethal amounts of ether.” Underneath
this rag was found a dusty and cracked book. It is impossible to tell who wrote
it or how old it is because many of the pages are missing and those that remain
are, frankly, disgusting, half burned and half covered in what might be semen. All
that remains are a collection of wild ravings and rantings, fragments of a
clearly diseased mind likened to “a sicker Unabomber”, but occasionally moments
of lucidity peek through the chaos, and intriguingly, these are rife with
references to what may be The Great Willie Young. And now, for the first time,
some of these passages are published here. Reader discretion is advised.
“He said that he awoke, as if from a fever dream, and found
himself trapped beneath the bulk of one of those beasts. He did not know what
to do, and so for a period of several weeks he forced himself to live with the
creatures. He lay with one, somewhat comelier than the rest, and he said that
it “could suck start a jet engine.” I asked him how this was even possible given
the sharp teeth involved, and he just said “Baby, when you been around as long
as I have, you develop a thick skin and I don’t mind admitting it, after a
while you need something with some teeth to it to even feel anything. You dig?”
I’m not sure that I did, but this “fever dream” he described, this sort of
isolation of the mind, its wretched madness, reminded me of my own self-imposed
isolation, the desolation of my soul. I asked him how he escaped from it, and
he just shrugged and said “Even the sharpest teeth get dull after a while.” I
did not know what he meant, and I doubt that I ever will . . .”
A further passage seems to indicate that at some point, the
hermit’s friend or guest or whoever he was, had explained further.
“He said “baby, it ain’t natural for a man to live with
bears so long like that. You wake up one day and you realize you ain’t a man no
more. You somethin’ else.” He shuddered when he said it, and I thought of the new
scars his body held. It had clearly been a fierce fight, but all I know is that
he had somehow escaped.”
Another passage seems to devolve into madness, but there
may be moments that hint at a deeper truth. But maybe not. This dude was
clearly pretty fucked up.
“Willie says he doesn’t know if he can go back. “Go back
where?” I asked him, and he just shook his head and said “You know. You know,
baby.” Something about this chilled my soul, or what’s left of it, and after
some time spent passing the ether rag back and forth, I had the courage to ask
him. “You mean living with the lions, don’t you?” I could barely do more than
whisper it. Willie just shook his head again. “I can’t say,” he said. “That ain’t
for me to tell. A man lives so long, he lives the same life over and over
again. But sometimes, a man gotta break free of the cycle, has to find a new
way.” I felt I understood and, frankly, I achieved a measure of validation in
his words. I huffed the ether rag and asked Eugene what he thought and Eugene
just said “What the fuck are you asking me for? I’m only a squirrel.” It seemed
as if days passed and then Willie turned to me and he said something I’ll never
forget: “But that don’t mean a man is finished if he ain’t finished. A wise man
knows the difference. And if it’s time to go back, you gotta go, baby. Ain’t no
good living inside your own head, making up gibberish and hiding from a world
that ain’t done with you. ‘Cause that world’s still gonna be there when you
come back, and baby, one way or another, everyone always come back. That’s what
happens when you ain’t finished. You finish it or the world makes you finish
it.” I wept and told him I understood. Eugene called me a pussy, but Willie
scolded him and told him “Nothin’ more powerful than a pussy, Eugene.”
After that, what survives is little more than psychotic
drivel, the ravings of a lunatic. But there have been reports, whispers really,
that a being simply termed “TGWY” has been seen in the wilds of Michigan, near
the Detroit area. Interestingly, and perhaps coincidentally, sales of ether
have also spiked in the area and graffiti speaking of “The Fear,” and “Failure
Demons” have begun appearing on overpasses and on the sides of buildings. One
piece of graffiti appears to be a crudely drawn image of a large man fitting
the description of The Great Willie Young in sexual congress with a bear. Next
to it is the corpse of the bear, a squirrel that appears to be masturbating
with a human penis, and finally, these words scrolled in an elaborate script
next to the scene, what appears to be semen and blood dripping from each letter:
I’M BACK.
May God help us all.
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