The Cannibal Within

by Mirabello, Mark

  i The Cannibal Within

  The Cannibal Within

  ii Mark Mirabello iii The Cannibal Within

  The Cannibal Within by M.L. Mirabello, Ph.D.

  Mandrake of Oxford

  Copyright © Year I (2002)

  by M L Mirabello and Mandrake of Oxford First English Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including xerography, photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage system without permission in writing from the author.

  Published by

  Mandrake of Oxford PO Box 250

  OXFORD

  OX1 1AP (UK)

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the US Library of Congress.

  ISBN 1 86992827X v The Cannibal Within

  Author’s Note

  A Warning

  I will now reveal the facts to you—the hard, inexorable, terrible facts. The truth is not beautiful—it stands on cloven hoofs—it is covered with coagulated blood—but it is the truth.

  The human race does not control its own destiny. We may think we are free—millions of brainwashed simians living in a corn-fed Babylon called America believe this fantasy—but it is all an illusion. We are slaves—livestock—tethered on a long and invisible leash.

  ‘The Earth is a farm,’ wrote Charles Fort. ‘We are someone else’s property.’

  We may think we are special—holy, honored, valued— god’s chosen primates—but that is a fraud. The dupes of superhuman forces, we are misfits and abominations. We have no higher purpose—no savior god died for our sins—we exist, only because our masters are infatuated with our meat. We have a choice: the evil may be patiently borne or savagely resisted.

  vii The Cannibal Within Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the mysterious scrolls discovered in AD 181 inside a tomb at the foot of Janiculum Hill in Rome. History claims that the Roman Senate, led by a praetor named Quintus Petilius, burned the scrolls as a threat to religion.

  viii Mark Mirabello

  Table Of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter I: The Gaunt Stranger’s Story: ‘How They Raped Me And Ate My Friend Alive’

  Chapter II: My Years With Things That Eat Humans Chapter III: How I Found Freedom

  Chapter IV: The Question Of Madness

  Chapter V: Reading The Mysterious Manuscript From The Old Woman’s Home, I Learn About The Origin Of The Monsters

  Chapter VI: The Nature Of The Beasts

  Chapter VII: The Life Cycle Of The Master Species

  Chapter VIII: The Evil Empire: The Tunnel World Of The Master Species

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  x Mark Mirabello

  Preface By M.L. Mirabello, Ph.D.

  ‘The violation of something private, trembling, and moist arouses them,’ whispered a female voice, during an unusual telephone conversation on July 20, 1999. ‘With their big, godlike erections, they are rapists by nature.’

  Stunned by the unusual declaration—pontificated in a matterof-fact tone—I said nothing. I simply listened.

  ‘They love to mix blood with their ejaculations,’ continued the voice. ‘So virgins—untouched by experience—are their preferred victims.’

  The woman, who never spoke above a harsh whisper, seemed to have difficulty breathing. After a brief pause, she continued her monologue.

  ‘But their virgin fetish is not indiscriminate,’ she whispered. ‘They prefer the fresh pudenda of young females—warm and sensual—over the stagnant depths of old maids.’

  I was beginning to think I was the victim of a telephone prank—as a university professor, I have been targeted by mischievous students before—but I continued to listen. Even if the story were a tasteless jest, the stranger possessed a certain lewd eloquence.

  ‘I was only nineteen when they raped me in 1972,’ she whispered. ‘They stole my pre-sexual innocence—polluted my tender, naked, helpless flesh—and kept me in a cage as

  xii Mark Mirabello

  a `breeder.’ After years of feeding their ghastly lusts, I managed to escape.’

  ***

  The next day—while I was reading the Kabbala ( Zohar 3:76)—the peculiar caller suddenly appeared in my office. Clutching a mysterious-looking manuscript in her left hand, she was wearing a Rembrandt-brown cloak.

  Brown, I remember thinking, is the favorite color of paranoids. I read that somewhere.

  As the stranger stepped into the light, I observed a small woman who was gaunt—even skeletal—in appearance.

  She had an unusual face—a face that had been twisted by pain—the pain of someone who had experienced a slow rotting of flesh and soul.

  She had queerly pale skin—it looked yellowish-white, as if it had been bleached by some toxic chemical process—and she had strange hieroglyphic symbols branded unto her arms and legs. Curiously, her head and body were completely hairless.

  She hesitated—as a hunted wild animal would hesitate—and then slowly entered the office. Her cloak fell open as she walked toward me, and I noticed the clothing of a prostitute.

  Specifically, she wore a tight skirt—stained with whiskey, sweat, or semen—and a tattered blouse, yellowed with age. Her small breasts—misshapen and pendulous—were clearly visible through her clothing.

  xiii The Cannibal Within ‘They actually think humans are ugly,’ whispered the woman, who noticed me studying her. ‘In particular, they dislike our

  small heads, our protruding jaws and cheekbones, and our large noses, which appear to be falling into our mouths. Our tiny genitalia—grizzled with hair—are especially revolting to them.’

  The woman’s septic breath made me wince—it smelled of rotting teeth and bloody phlegm—but I nevertheless offered her a chair.

  ‘Please tell me your story,’ I said. ‘I want to hear it.’ ***

  Before uttering another word, the stranger unexpectedly molested my mouth with a fierce kiss. The act was so violent—so savage—I thought she was trying to suck my soul out of my throat.

  I instinctively pushed her away and staggered back. The stranger, who seemed indifferent to my reaction, closed the door and sat down.

  ‘You taste honestly human,’ she whispered. ‘I had to be certain. The unknown superiors—or their slaves—they are everywhere.’

  As the woman and I stared at one another, I noticed her eyes for the first time. They were compelling eyes—clear and green like the eyes of a serpent.

  ‘`The unknown superiors’?’ I asked, after a pause. ‘Who are the unknown superiors?’

  ‘They keep their existence secret,’ she whispered. ‘They understand, as Hannah Arendt pointed out, that `real power begins where secrecy begins’—but they are here.’

  ‘And no one else knows about them?’ I asked, in a patronizing tone mixed with curiosity.

  ‘A few other humans—certain betrayers of our species— know the facts,’ whispered the woman. ‘In return for riches and the appearance of power, the traitors—a `fifth column of evil’—guard the doorways to our world.’

  ‘Guard?’ I asked. ‘Why are guards needed?’

  ‘The monsters fear sunlight,’ whispered the woman. ‘It makes their skin crack and bleed.’

  ***

  The conversation was decidedly bizarre—even weird—but I decided to continue. Although a historian by training, I have long been intrigued by present-day world views—especially when they are anomalous, apocalyptic, or odd—and it has always been my opinion that any belief system—no matter how unorthodox—is worthy of study.

  After all, when dealing with the human mind, beliefs are more im
portant than facts.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘who are the `unknown superiors’?’

  The stranger pulled a living insect from her pocket. As it struggled spasmodically in her grip, I noticed it was a sugar ant. Such ants—which have stomachs bloated with a honeylike substance—are considered a delicacy in central Australia.

  xv The Cannibal Within ‘Man thinks he is the lord of the organic world,’ she whispered, looking down at the ant. ‘The top of the food chain.’

  ‘We are,’ I declared. ‘`The most formidable of all beasts of prey,’ microbes and pests are our only natural enemies.’

  ‘Man is wrong,’ whispered the stranger. ‘He clings to his fictions—man needs lies like children need toys—but he is wrong.’

  ‘And what is the truth?’ I asked. ‘Can you reveal it to me?’

  The stranger put the insect in her mouth. As she gripped its head with her hand, she bit down on its bloated stomach, crushed the external membrane, and sucked it dry. The taste of the sugar ant, which is supposed to be the sharp sting of formic acid followed the sweetness and fragrance of honey, seemed to give her pleasure.

  ‘There is a higher species,’ she whispered. ‘A master species—a transhuman species! These creatures—these unknown superiors—they stand above us as we stand above apes.’

  ‘And the master species....’ I said. ‘Do they live on another planet? There are legends—found among the Dogon tribe in Africa—of a `master species’ from the Sirius star system.’

  ‘No,’ whispered the woman. ‘They are here. Most nest in the darkness beneath our feet—in a complex network of tunnels and caverns that have been slowly—deliberately—carved out of the living rock over the millennia—but some walk among us. In disguise.’

  ‘Disguise?’ I asked.

  ‘They have telepathic abilities,’ she whispered, ‘and they are masters of illusion. Crawling into our minds, they plunder our thoughts and memories, and then, like sinister changelings, they take the places of real humans.’

  ‘A mental patient named Richard Shaver once described similar creatures,’ I said. ‘And psychologists have something they call Capgras Syndrome, a condition in which someone becomes convinced that a familiar person has been replaced by an identical replica that....’

  ‘It is really happening,’ interjected the woman. ‘The telepathically generated disguise can be penetrated—the transhuman will appear in his true form, for example, when he sleeps or becomes intoxicated—but the monsters are cautious. The transhuman who replaced a young Austrian named Adolf Hitler—on Christmas Eve in 1906—always slept alone and always avoided alcohol.’

  ***

  The very next day—July 21 to be precise—the mysterious stranger returned to my office for her second and final visit. Still clutching her strange manuscript—and mumbling something about ‘the evil down below’—she would make more horrifying revelations.

  ‘The monsters—the unknown superiors—eat only meat,’ she whispered. ‘Not dead meat—not freshly killed meat— but raw flesh, quivering with life.’

  With some hesitation, she handed the manuscript to me. I

  xvii The Cannibal Within noticed that her small and grimy hands—which were covered with blue, pink, and green bruises—were clearly trembling.

  ‘I have seen them feed,’ she continued. ‘Although the transhumans are cannibals—they devour members of their own zoological species—human meat is their staple diet.’

  As I looked at the thirty-page manuscript—each page was covered with defaced Christian symbols—my face drained of blood. I actually intuited the presence of ugliness and death.

  The cover of the document—fashioned from some kind of blackened leather that was hairy and soft like the skin of a wolf—was emblazoned with an obscene illustration. Painted in lurid colors, the picture had an aura of unspeakable evil.

  The illustration clearly depicted a human child—fattened and oiled. The following words, which the biblical Jehovah spoke to man in Eden, were inscribed on the child’s body in a bold script: ‘you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’

  Directly above the child—in an ominous and threatening posture—was a painting of a bloodstained predator clearly identified as a transhuman. The following evil command, which Jehovah god spoke to the devil in Genesis 3:14, was inscribed on the transhuman’s body: ‘dust you shall eat...dust you shall eat all the days of your life.’

  ‘They like the taste of fresh human flesh,’ whispered the stranger. ‘In particular, they like the soft, white, hairless bodies of young girls.’

  xviii Mark Mirabello ***

  Working from memory, I have reproduced the particulars of the stranger’s manuscript in book form. For emotional effect, I have described her own experiences in the first person singular.

  The document itself, which possessed no apparent structure, was a series of notes, declarations, and expressions of terror. Like the Enochian texts of John Dee and Edward Kelly—or the journals of Leonardo da Vinci—most of it was written in ‘mirror writing.’

  Skeptics will denounce her document as a clever fraud—the product of a scholar, forger, genius—but I make no attempt to evaluate or challenge the woman’s claims. In this work, I simply present the fantastic and revolting details.

  The substance of her story—that we share the planet with a higher species—a species that can manifest in any form it chooses—has been told by others. John Keel, a noted researcher of the paranormal, calls such entities ‘Ultraterrestrials.’ Earlier ages, he claims, called them demons, fairies, or trolls—satyrs, centaurs, or gorgons....

  The woman’s version, however, is especially powerful. Her ‘Unknown Superiors’—her ‘transhumans’—breed us like cattle and hunt us like rabbits. With unashamed ruthlessness, they treat humans the way humans treat animals.

  Such a story, I believe, deserves to be told.

  Chapter I The Gaunt Stranger’s Story: ‘How They Raped Me And Ate My Friend Alive’

  ‘I am loath to believe any news that seems probable. Since men are predisposed to believe such news, it is easy to find those who will invent it; whereas the improbable or the unexpected will not be so easily made up.’

  Francesco Guicciardini (1483-1540) ‘When anyone invokes the Devil with intentional ceremonies the Devil comes, and is seen.’

  Eliphas Levi (1810-1875)

  U

  nlike most humans, I would survive my encounter with the master species. Although brutalized by their insatiable sexual perversions, I would somehow

  endure.

  My best friend, however, was not so fortunate. Since she was young and overweight—the kind of fleshy, juicy meat the transhumans relish—she was eaten alive.

  Discussing my experience and my friend’s death is difficult— I shudder when I remember the crimes those godlike beasts inflicted on us—but the facts must be revealed. The truth, after all, is a laxative for the soul.

  Even if it is the unforgettable experience of terror....

  Love, Hate, Sorcery

  Our horror began—somewhat ironically—on Friday, October 13, 1972. Still a teenager at the time, I was spending the night with my best friend, a girl nicknamed Maddalena. Her home was near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, a small town on the Ohio River.

  Both Maddalena and I were plain, unattractive, and unhappy girls. Bland and nondescript in appearance—the products of dysfunctional homes—we were the type that society cruelly predestines for spinsterhood.

  I was small, slim, and angular—with a tiny waist and featureless chest. Shy and introverted—a bashful virgin—I always wore my red hair scraped back into a bun. Everyone said I resembled a thin-lipped librarian.

  I never knew my parents—my grandmother raised me—but I had vague recollections of a perverted old man—someone who was always drunk and full of lust—and that man may have been my father. Although grandmother claimed he never actually molested me, sometimes—during thunderstorms—he haunted my imagination. I can never see h
is face in my mind—that memory has been lost—but I can remember his awful kisses—and I can remember feeling something cold and flabby against my body.

  Maddalena, my dear friend, was somewhat different from me. Overweight and freckled—with large moles on her body—she was vocal and extroverted. A sickly girl who spent a great deal of time in hospitals, as long as I can remember she had suffered from the aggressions of cancer.

  Maddalena had more family than I—she was raised by her natural mother—but her home life was not satisfying. Her mother—a practicing nudist who liked to wear only a black girdle and latex thigh boots around the house—was a loud and adulterous woman who had never actually married.

  ‘Fornication is no sin!’ her mother used to say, when asked about Maddalena’s illegitimate birth. ‘Jehovah God impregnated the Virgin Mary, and He didn’t marry her.’

  ***

  All the boys in Point Pleasant ignored Maddalena and me— we were ‘frigid virgin bitches,’ they joked, who were ‘saving ourselves for aliens’—but we did not care. We hated boys— mean, cruel, and shallow boys, arrogant with their young, pink, little penises—so we did not care.

  Besides, Maddalena and I had each other. Day and night, we were inseparable.

  Other girls claimed we were lesbians, and perhaps we were. Maddalena and I were not physically intimate, but I did have fantasies about her. In my dreams I kissed her in a playful and amorous way, and then we made love in the open—in the fresh air—the way wild animals do.

  Some would say my feelings were sick, but they were not. My fantasies—although hot with repressed desire—were born of love. They were beautiful, goddesslike, and natural.

  You see, Maddalena was special, for with her I felt comfortable. We shared secrets, we dreamed dreams, and, most of all, we read books together. In particular, we studied ancient and obscure works—sinister volumes about legends, sorceries, and beings from other worlds.

  We were especially interested in occultism—we poured over stolen texts on Satanism, chaos magick, and the dark litanies of dangerous gods—and in time our interest became an obsession.

  Of course, our devotion to the forbidden arts may have been dangerous—H.P. Lovecraft referred to certain ‘unnatural pryings into the unthinkable’—but we felt invulnerable.