Tag Archives: alternate places

On the Hunt for Eastus Hutt

This is an odd Keelian sort of story. John Keel wrote The Mothman Prophecies, which is even weirder than the movie.


“Records indicate Eastus Hutt bought the place—a total of ten point eight acres—last October. Nobody at town hall heard of Swiller Road. I had to look it up at the Registry of Deeds. Turns out it’s an old fire road that leads out to the middle of nowhere.

“Turn here—”

The rutted access road was potholed at the beginning. Thirty feet in the hard-pack smoothed out.

The older of the two detectives, Becker, rode shotgun and read the map. He had a clean cut look that reminded Rodrigues of the nineteen-forties.

Rodrigues said, “Perp knows how to hide, eh?”

Becker looked over at Rodrigues and said, “Everyone’s got an address, Rodrigues. You get that angle and you’ll get your perp.”

“I’d just be happy to see that car again. You know it was a ’91 Town Car? Fine ride man. Had some trick rims or some shit. They looked like they weren’t moving. I want a closer look.”

“All I know, it was black and had no plates to run.”

The road crested a hill and there was a house fifty feet away. Rodrigues stopped the car to survey the scene. It was a single story home with a white picket fence. The fence had no posts or rails, just pickets sticking up.

Neither detective said anything so Rodrigues released the brakes and rolled in closer. Out in front of the house was a well-appointed living room with hardwood floors. Off to one side was a dining room and to the other side was the kitchen with all its appliances.

Becker said, “This doesn’t look right to me.”

Rodrigues looked at Becker, tossed the gearshift into park and said, “Yeah? No shit?”

Becker looked at Rodrigues then back at the house. “I don’t see the car.”

“You want point?”

“Yeah. I don’t think anything will happen, but I still want you drawn and ready. Got it?”

“Let’s do this.”

They got out together—synchronized cops, and walked to the door through the living room, skirting furniture. Becker made to ring the doorbell, but there was no button. They looked at each other again before Becker knocked on the door. After the third knock, he tried the knob and was surprised to find the door open. The knob was only a knob; it didn’t turn, there was no keyhole, and there was no latch.

Becker raised his weapon, nodded to Rodrigues and then entered, aiming as he scanned the inside. Rodrigues was right behind him, scanning and aiming as well. Both came out of their crouch, lowering their weapons.

They had stepped out into a dark, parched, and barren landscape. The few trees in sight were phantoms; leafless and stunted. There was a distant muted light in the sky as if from a fingernail moon on a foggy night. Something bug-like skittered across at a distance.

“Fuuuuck me,” Rodrigues said.

They both looked back through the door into a sunny day. The door began to close and Rodrigues stepped back into the doorway to keep that from happening.

Becker turned with his gun hanging by his side and made to walk back out, an exit which was relative. Rodrigues stepped aside to allow Becker egress into the living room and then followed to sit on the arm of a couch.

“What now boss?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, what the hell was that?”

“I didn’t see no Lincoln.”

“The inside is outside and the far-out is inside.”

“Say again?”

Becker looked at Rodrigues, just to see if he was fucking with him. Rodrigues looked sincere.

“All this inside stuff; the furniture, the flooring, the appliances. It all belongs inside, right?”

“With you so far.”

“We go inside and there’s…what?”

“A whole ‘nother outside. A dark and freaky place, man.”

“Does that make any sense to you?”

“I gave up trying to figure out why some people live the way they do. As long as my crib works for me…Know what I’m saying?”

Becker walked out of the living room and when he got to the picket fence he turned to face the house. Everything here was so blatantly wrong. But you couldn’t bust a guy for that if no rules had been broken. They didn’t deal with code violations.

They were only here because Eastus Hutt, a total stranger to everyone and a guy who wore sunglasses everywhere, had spent an undue amount of time in town just before the water tower collapse which crushed three houses and several occupants. Also…his car had no plates to run.

Something as big and hairy as a German Shepard darted out the front door of the house. It was heading toward Rodrigues on six legs with its mandibles spread wide.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Becker raised his gun to fire. Before he could get a round off, something exploded behind him.

The bug thing burst in an eruption of blueberry colored glop.

Becker turned and Eastus Hutt said, “Wolf Ant. Communicate telepathically.” He pointed to Rodrigues, who was still looking around trying to figure out what happened, and said, “You there, kindly close that door please.”

The gun Eastus Hutt was pointing had a bore bigger than anything Becker had ever seen before, easily an inch in diameter. It was a revolver of cartoon-like dimensions.

Becker faced Eastus Hutt, his gun still drawn. He was ready to make an arrest. Before he could say anything, Eastus Hutt spoke up.

Flashing a badge quickly, he said, “You two have stumbled upon a secret facility. It would be smart of both of you if you forgot everything you have seen here today. For the sake of national security, I ask you to return to your car and leave immediately.”

They did just that.

Later, Becker said, “It’s after noon and I can’t remember what we did this morning.”

Rodrigues cocked his head, eyes searching, and said, “Huh, me neither.”


If this sort of thing interests you, pick up anything written by John Keel. Most of it is out of print now, though you’ll likely find his stuff at the local library. The Mothman Prophecies are highly recommended by yours truly.

Other names to look for include Ivan T. Sanderson, and Charles Fort.



Another story about places where the borders are thin and things get through, Click on the arrow and let me tell you about it.


It didn’t occur to Zachary Mosko that anything was amiss when he awoke to the static and hiss. He felt around the bed for the remote and found it near Margaret’s pillow. She remained sound asleep. He pressed the power button, which shut down the LCD monitor and the cable box.

In the quiet of the darkened bedroom, after setting the remote on the nightstand and lying back down, he could still hear the static in his own mind. There had to be some sort of input for static to occur, a channel number without a channel. Zachary realized that what woke him up might not have been the lack of a cable program and the resulting hiss of static.

In the static was another sound: lip smacking was the description which came to mind; as if someone or something had just taken a taste, licked the flavor off its lips a couple of times. Casually. Repeatedly.

Zachary’s eyes were open, searching—guiding his other senses in that way. He was on his left side, facing away from Margaret, facing the closet. He rolled to his back so he could blindly assess the darkness more fully.

The red LED of the television didn’t light the room at all. It glowed like a single eye peering from the edge of the monitor. It remained unmoving, watching its prey in constant calculation. The rest of the creature to which the LED-eye might belong resolved in Zachary’s mind as muted shades of terror and teeth.

Zachary slowly and carefully propped himself up on his elbows, daring not to make a sound. He regretted the recent death of his alarm clock, the room’s lone nightlight. Mental note: go shopping tomorrow.

With a hand on the chain-pull, he focused on the part of the bedroom most likely to have a lurking presence. He prepared to shed light on the situation.

When he turned on the light, he followed the illumination as it reached walls and corners—a tsunami of light; finally casting shadows where there had only been murk, shades of gray replacing the deep darkness of space. His space.

There wasn’t anything to reveal. All threats disapparated under the illumination of truth. No foe could move faster than the speed of light; his retinal perception had a hard enough time just keeping up.

He turned the light back off before it woke Margaret. She might not understand his heebie-jeebies over a little static. Hell, he didn’t understand his heebie-jeebies. He grunted a little chuckle and paid a smirk into the dark.

Outside, the wind gusted up, sounding like the tide coming ashore. As that sound dissipated, another rose to replace it—a high pitched sound, electrical and faint. It was a sound which would prick the ears of a dog before human perception. But there it was, feeling like predatory tinnitus.

The red LED of the LCD monitor went out showing that it had been powered up and in the darkness of his bedroom he felt alone, utterly alone; left to deal with whatever was lurking in the darkness—something he knew was there even after confirming it wasn’t. He was still propped up on his elbows so he could see what happened next.


Static began to show up on the screen. It began in black turned to a deep impenetrable gray as it washed in on the speakers. A few scattered bits of light, mere pixels really, scurried across the screen. More pixels vaguely made manifest a shape. As the head and shoulders of the static-thing resolved, the screen seemed to bow and flex, warp and ripple.

Two hands, then two arms reached out across Zachary Mosko’s dresser to pull the static-thing out as if drawing itself from a pool after a few laps. It yanked once and had its chest resting on the dresser. The hiss of its breathing, shallow yet rapid with its exertions, should have woken Margaret. But she remained unmoving and deeply asleep.

After the short rest, the static-thing took a great inhalation filled with electrical interference and launched itself at Zachary. It grabbed him by the legs and began drawing him back, back toward the LCD display.

Zachary reached to anchor himself in the room. One hand landed on the remote control and he frantically tried to turn off the television—turn off the terrorizing presence that couldn’t possibly exist.

Again, and again, and again—he stabbed at the power button.

When that didn’t do anything for him, he dropped the remote on the bed and grabbed at the footboard in a last ditch effort.

The electrical discharge grew louder as Zachary’s feet and legs passed through the surface of the LCD monitor. Pixels parted in fluid motion, engulfing Zachary and taking shape around him.

He inexplicably uttered no cry of help, too busy in the attempt of staying alive. He flailed in desperation as he was drawn in; denial written plainly on his face.

And then he was gone.

He had passed on to another where. A looking glass made by Samsung.

Margaret Mosko woke up then. She felt around on Zachary’s side of the bed and came up with the remote. She used it to turn off the television which was reduced to a light static anyway. She figured Zachary had gone for a snack when the cable went out.

Irony in that. Think about it.

Later, the police didn’t believe her. The spouse is always the first suspect.

But the surveillance video was pretty clear.

So now you know what happened to Zachary Mosko.

I understand it’s going around.