The Monster of Warsaw
I’ve never been a fan of rumors and superstitions or anything of that sort. I’ve always been one to list all the scientific facts if I could. Yet, science has not explained the mystery behind the killings on 23 Warsaw Street. Of course, I was only 17 when the killings occurred. The year was either 1968 or 1969. I could never remember. My family has lived (and still do) their whole lives in neighboring 24 Warsaw Street.
One day walking home from my job at a local burger joint, I notice screaming coming from my neighbor’s home. Mind you, screaming usually came from this house. I didn’t want to say anything at the time, but the man of the house had a very violent way of dealing with domestic issues. I would see their kids with bruises and cuts on their arms and faces occasionally when I went to school in the morning. It was very sad, really. I felt for them.
This screaming was different, however. It wasn’t the kind of “hurt” scream you hear from being hit. This screaming was bloodcurdling… It was as if they were being killed, which ended up being the case. As I approached the door, I heard them ALL screaming at once, including the man. A home invasion, I thought. I stormed to their instead. God, I regret that decision.
I banged on the door, then the screaming stop. A man’s voice that wasn’t the father whispered for me to enter, then the door just opened. Making a creaking noise, the door revealed the family, each covered in their own blood, butchered on the floor. Little Susie’s head was on the ceiling fan. Billy’s legs were chopped and sliced. Mom and pop had their faces bashed in, becoming almost unrecognizable. I couldn’t see the wooden floor with all the blood everywhere. I was still on the porch of their home, just staring into the home full of bodies. I felt frozen in time. Then, something pushed me in. A gust of wind forced me in then slammed the door behind me on my ass. That was rude as fuck.
Then it hit me… If the man was dead, who told me to come in? I felt the stomping of hooves in the house, a minotaur-like creature. I nearly shit a brick, but instinct told me to bail. I promptly rose, trying to unlock the door, but even with all the locks open, the door wouldn’t open. I felt the creature drawing closer to me, I picked up a nearby baseball bat and charged at it with full force. It disappeared. I ran into a wall and knocked out. I woke up in my bed the next morning. I looked outside and there were police cars all around the neighborhood. It was some freaky shit, man. I followed the case on the news, and they could never find a killer. Go figure. I was arrested a couple times as a suspect in the murders, but insufficient evidence got me free. Still, the incident ruined my chances of being a lawyer. Anyway, I managed the burger joint for 50 years before retiring to my mansion in Long Island. Sometimes, I like to visit my old hometown to catch up with old friends.
There have been plenty of murders since then, of course. Each murder was as unsolved as the next with no signs of progress. The funny part is, the houses in my old neighborhood were all remodeled except for 23 Warsaw Street. It never changed. No one ever moved in to the dump. Hell, no one wanted to move in to that dump. But still, there were murders. I guess the monster likes to move.
Another funny thing, it’s only in that small town in New York. My conclusion is that the beast lives there, but you’re welcome to go there and find out for yourself.