I dared my friend Alex “Prozac” Cohen to write an HP Lovecraft Fan Fiction story in 20 minutes and the son of a bitch did it.

The Aberration on Holly Street

A lifetime of various trials, failures and fortuitous relationships settled me into a uniquely engrossing and well-suited career option four years ago; in my discussions with friends and family I describe myself as a chronicler of the human condition. In truth I report and summarize incidents for an insurance broker. It is an occupation that has presented to me the frail and mercurial human condition in all its forms. In these last four years I have written on incidents that would surely disturb the minds of many. However, as an uninvolved party, I have taken careful consideration to avoid allowing these events to affect my own mind, and more importantly the work itself. As such I have grown numb to many of the horrors mankind inflicts upon itself, which I’m sure you can imagine on your own.

However, my most recent casefile has cast my put-on bravado into doubt. No longer do I carry the self-assurance of one whose only role it is to record these incidents factually and without bias. No longer do I believe that the darkness within the human spirit, which I have studiously logged, is entirely the fault of our baser instincts. Following the incident at 172 Holly Street, I will freely admit, and proclaim to the world, that there is a force pressing down upon us that drives us to these actions and that we will never fully understand. My colleagues have pleaded with me to avoid interjecting my own belief into these reports. I cast those concerns aside. I will never file another report and indeed wish to avoid all human contact for as long as my days remain. I would pray that not many days remain, and perhaps this can be attributed to the fever that has struck me upon learning more about this last incident, but I no longer am sure who might be listening to our prayers.

Perhaps this seems dramatic. There was a time not long ago I would have laughed at such assertions as well. But once you have come to learn of Adam Stevens and his role in the 172 Holly Street fire, the great hero Adam Stevens, perhaps you will come to feel as I have.


The first thing I noticed, after coming upon the scene at the dreaded address, were the balloons. Deflated, singed, and ever-present, they covered the yard with a grotesque, overwhelming smell of burnt plastic. I had often logged the aftermath of arson and each time the smell was similar – charred wood and stripped paint. However, it was evident that the comically large amount of balloons strewn across the lawn had taken the place of this familiar scent. A birthday party, luxuriously decorated and overstated to a lunatic degree, had placed them everywhere across the house. All colors and shapes, strewn across every part of the decadent front lawn, must have created a wondrous site and guaranteed a festive atmosphere. I would come to learn that they also overwhelmed the house. It is possible, and I could have discovered more if I had the stomach, that the decorations had played some part in the rapid spread of the blaze.

It is worth sharing now that the mortality rate in this incident, given all that was at risk, was low; ultimately, only Steven Adams and one child, William Abner, remain unaccounted for. The celebration was apparently attended by over 60 people, the young friends of William (who house and birthday it was) and their parents. Much of the evidence and information-gathering I presented in this report come from their accounts, gathered slowly and painstakingly after the incident, in which many remained and watched the framework of the home slowly disintegrate.

None could account for the start of the fire, or how they knew to exit the house. Too, none could recall seeing Steven Adams at or near the ruinous party beforehand. He was no neighbor, either – other evidence has confirmed he lived in a nearby town in no convenient proximity.

And yet all accounts of his heroism point to some sort of advanced knowledge of the event. The consensus viewpoint, from many of the adults present, is that while they gathered and waited outside the house for emergency services, Steven Adams bolted through the crowd and with no hesitation whatsoever sprinted directly into the burning house. It has been said even that he pushed a small child facedown into the lawn, in his haste to enter the building. Who was this man, I was asked by each of the witnesses. Indeed he was a mystery to them, and in particular Mr. and Mrs. Abner who evidently left their child behind in the house. Later evidence indicates he was relatively plain, possessing a frame that seemed almost sickly in its thin and unbalanced nature, paired with a far above average height. Multiple times, it was noted to me that he was not a graceful runner. Given the circumstances, which could favorably be describe as panic-inducing, his lankiness and urgency crated a noticeably odd running gait. As well, his cavalier treatment of the child in his path, whom he had little trouble brushing aside, was not described as a natural motion. If not for his obviously heroic intentions, it could have appeared intentional and distressing, bore the account of one witness.

Regardless, Steven Adams had little trouble making his way into the building, which of course is where reliable witness ends. However, there are certain facts that we can confirm from this point forward, and while not public knowledge, they are each more disturbing than the last.

The first great evil that I came upon is that after easily opening the front door of 172 Holly street, Steven Adams appears to have bolted the door behind in, preventing the intrusion of any other parties and potentially even his own escape. His motivations at this point are not clear but given that the door was found still bolted upon examination of the wreckage, his responsibility is certain.

The second item that confused me, and indeed would confuse anyone, relates to the unfortunate Mr. William Abner, very newly aged 12. His remains were found up the staircase that originated from the front entryway, and he had evidently either become wedged and partially trapped, his leg pinned down by a small piece of the ceiling. His placement upon the staircase was without question visible from the front entryway and now, unconscionably, I am forced to believe that Steven Adams could not have failed to notice the young gentlemen. And yet, his path through the house continued along the first floor, ignoring the child in dire need of an adult’s strength to escape his trappings and subsequently the blazing structure.

Evidence exhumed from the home’s remains has painted a clearer path of Steven Adams path – through the first floor, through a small kitchen door and down into the home’s basement. A direct path, speaking to an advance knowledge of the house or some critical need to enter the basement. From whence the flames originated? It is difficult to confirm, but an open possibility.

Who was this man, who had such knowledge of the house and such disregard for the well-being of small children? The papers and official reports count him as a good Samaritan, but at this point I could not say. I know that no report speaks of what else was found in the basement, or if it does the records have been changed. I know I hesitate greatly in scribing it even here. The answer is simple, to the extent that I must be considered mad for even elaborating upon them, but the charred remains of a humanoid statue were the only notable findings in that darkened underground dwelling. A dark, melted mass that has pooled into the earthen floor of the basement. It is impossible to say what it once resembled, but certainly nothing human, despite its relatively large standing – over five feet tall in its original form, although melted down it had taken on an elongated facsimile of a man. Stretched, melted into an obscene mockery of the human form that mirrored Steven Adams own reflection of a typical human shape. Still hot to the touch, when investigated, and seemingly still in motion, when looked at through the very edges of my vision.

It was not, of course, Mr. Adams himself. He too was found in the basement, burnt as any man in his position would be. Curled over, and in fact kneeling before the icon itself, they suffered their fate together, and all while young William Adler took his last breath.


I have been told that I am reading too much into things. That the stress of my position has led to misinterpretations. And yet I am convinced that my reading of the day’s events is, if uninformed, not wholly inaccurate. It is my wholehearted belief that the statue in the Holly house basement in some way caused the rapid blaze with the express intent to stomp out the joyous celebration taking place above it. How, I do not know. And how it was ultimately foiled, I cannot say. But when it became clear that no great act of mayhem was to take place, Steven Adams was called somehow and made of himself an additional sacrifice.

Theory alone – but as a God-fearing man the existence of such an entity has instilled in me a sense of dread and curiosity that cannot be sated. I submit this report now standing outside the home of Steven Adams and well-equipped to make illegal entry. I do so now at the risk of myself, this is I understand and commit to! But I do as a man who must know more about the forces that compel us. That draw us in and make games of our mortal lives. I have questioned, in my preparation for this home invasion, whether I am being summoned myself, but I can pay that no mind. I must know more. And so I conclude these writings, admitting fully to all guilt, and hope to return shortly to update my findings, no matter what horrors I may stumble upon in the dead man’s home.

When you are brushing your teeth while driving, it is important to have the same location for the toothbrush and toothpaste, spit cup and water bottle. The spit cup should be whatever fast food soda cup you threw into the backseat in an effort to block out the experience of having eaten fast food the last time you sinned. Aren’t you always saying how bad fast food is and how earnestly you avoid it as if it was trying to force it’s way inside of you? I’m sorry, but the chulupa is not trying to rape you, my friend; you’re asking for it.

The water bottle should be tucked into that magazine pocket on the backside of the passenger seat, for all those magazines nobody reads in cars. But that glacier of laundry that seems to be carving the back seat canyon area into existence is three feet deep, so you don’t really have any friends. You smell, persona non-friendus.

The toothbrush and toothpaste should be prominently displayed in the center cup holder, so that the world knows: hey, I may look like I live in here (I don’t live in here: you don’t ever want to see where I live, it isn’t safe), but I’m not without my pride.

Apply the toothpaste at a red light, do not try to paste your brush in motion, you’ll end up with a stain on your pants that looks mischievous at best. Brush as long as you can stand it, because eventually some passing motorist will look at you and smile with a hint of pride at how well you multi-task. Be sure to look away quickly so as to avoid the subsequent look of disgust as they notice all the un-bagged trash piled up on your passenger seat. You’ll want to hold onto that glimpse of approval from another human being the way you hold onto to all that valuable trash. (You know there’s some very important papers in there, you just know it!)

[Hey, remember people? Those things you used to touch that occasionally touched you back? My God it’s been so long…the other day you almost got wood at the gas station when the old woman behind the counter handed you change…]

All done? Now it’s time to rinse. Grab that water bottle from it’s quiver and swish, then roll down the window on the freeway and blow it out so that the wind throws it right back in your face. Then remember the spit cup and think about all of the things in your life that you have done. Don’t worry, there should be a tissue somewhere in all that shit…

Vincent: Is John with you?

Adam: Yes

Vincent: I just wanted to make sure he’s not in jail

Adam: Yes but we’re leaving for Mexico because of “the incident”

Vincent: Allright, I’m forwarding 3000 pesos to his account, I’ve got a glock and three passports in a lockbox under the name “Jason Bourne”

Adam: Way ahead of you. I need a nice tie and an iron clad alibi, along with a history of the royal lineage of Spain… also a band-aid

Vincent: Okay, he’s a small business owner, uhh he hires ex convicts to make clothes for the homeless… Sweaters for Smiles

Adam: Great rent a storefront and tear the sleeves off a denim jacket. Claim it’s been that way forever and put as much fake blood on the driveway as you can buy.

Adam: Johnny’s going to beat this one, and no dead hooker will say otherwise.

Vincent: Hmm, she needed to die for the greater good.

Adam: She would have wanted it this way, in her own – screamy, locked in the trunk way – She’s a true patriot

Vincent: She’s a trooper, set for a better place, Hell?

Adam: Well to be honest it’s a shallow grave by the old wrecking yard – but in spirit, sure.

Vincent: She would have wanted it that way, it’s in her will. I had it forged and all her earnings are entrusted to us.

Adam: How much do you think we’re looking at? Enough to buy a new face and a sturdy camping tent?

Vincent: Maybe the tent and a fourth of the surgery.

Adam: Good enough, we will convene at point ‘Bravo’ and then meet later at point ‘shallow grave where the hooker is’ also – remind me to rename that point.

Vincent: Done, see you back in the world.




(PS: An Actual Text Conversation)


It’s been a while, quite a while, about

if memory serves me properly, since we last spoke.

I just wanted to write to catch up. Let me tell you what I’ve been up to. Besides dabbling in


I’ve also been participating in

– which as you can imagine leaves me with a few


Anyway, how is the



still as

as I remember?

Well I’ve got to get back to this project at work. My boss is really

me about it.

Thanks for taking the time to read this and feel free to write back, if we don’t take the time for friends and the occaisional letter or email well then I think we’d all just be a bunch of




PS: Remember I have an

coming up and I’d love you to attend!


(( Courtesy of Fuhnny.com ))

Click to Print This Page

Adam: He would kick down the door of that orphanage and say

“look, some of you don’t have parents, and that’s sad, but I’m gonna burn this place down, and if you want to live you have to get through me..”

Then you see how many orphans you can take on at once, when they’re desperate. Sure they’re undernourished, but adrenaline helps.

Adam: At first it’s like a shooting gallery, you’re wiping the floor with orphan after orphan

Adam: then the numbers start to swell as they realize the flames are growing closer to their beds

Adam: suddenly it’s a numbers game…

Adam: you’re like the spartans in 300 blocking a pivotal point of entry

Adam: they are the persian hordes

Adam: sure you have the easy combat skill advantage

Adam: but the hordes may overrun you if your’e not smart

Adam: and don’t pace yourself

Adam: Eventually, you’re going for the most economic kill

Adam: a crushed larnyx, a broken neck

Adam: The orphans piling up providing a brief respite

Adam: as they have to clamber over their dead

Adam: sure, it’s scary

Adam: but it’s also the biggest rush you’ve ever had

Adam: you find yourself screaming a war-cry you never knew you had


Adam: PARENTS!!!

Adam: you’ll scream through the blood and teeth and flying stick-like limbs of the underprivleged children you’re decimating

Adam: which only enrages them more

Adam: and feeds the cycle…

Adam: sooner, rather than later, it’s all over.

Adam: and you’re there, covered in gore and bits of the felt blanket they tried to use as a net or barrier

Adam: As you walk away, orphanage burning merrily behind you, you stop and think

“Maybe I should masterbate”

Adam: Because now, you’re finally ALIVE

Adam: -fin –

(Note: the Names of some people have been changed to protect the no longer innocent)

(Also Note: This story is graphic, sexually disturbing and awesome, please turn away NOW if you’re faint of heart, over 40 or religious)

I think back a lot about the girl I now call “Headboard Jessica” the name is different because I don’t want to put this poor girl through any more embarassment. But she’s a Freak with a capital everything. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

The year was 1998 or 99′ which ever sounds cooler in your head, and young teenage me was chock full of hormones and swagger. I met Jessica through a friend one day and decided that I HAD to have her. She was very pretty, a total geek and aggressively weird, in short the perfect woman for me, seemingly at least. I pursued her for all of a week or so before we ended up making out and soon after ‘officially dating’. Keep in mind these are the teenage years where that’s pretty much the status quo.

Dating consisted of us hanging out several times a week, making out frantically and standing indecently close at public gatherings. After a few weeks it came time to take it to another level. The first time we had sex (or “rode the light fantastic” as I whimsically call it today) we were at her friends house and ended up having a few hours of privacy. We made out a bit, and soon the shirts came off, then the everything else came off in a frenzy of passion and clothes flinging. Suddenly there I was poised above her, ready as hell, when she turned into the ice queen…

Before you judge me completely (you’ll do that later, trust me) keep in mind, I’m a horny teenager, yes, but I’m not a rapist or inattentive to a woman’s needs. There was a sufficient amount of foreplay and clear direct questions like “Would you like to have sex?” that were all to the positive. It’s just that when it got down to the act itself, she just went total cold fish. To clarify, she went cold fish, like Hiroshima had a fireworks show. There I am, feeling all the feelings you’re supposed to feel when engaged in intercourse with a woman, looking down and seeing a girl whose expression says “I could also be doing math homework” after several attempts at changing the pace, and asking if anything was wrong, I did what all men do sometimes, I finished, passed out and thought on it later.

Now this wasn’t off to a great start, but sex is probably right along side the ability to compress and expand your lungs in importance to a teenage boy. So I asked questions, “What do you like?” I offered toys, fantasies, oral, spankings, all were met with an indifferent shrug. This process repeats several dozen times. Things get hot and heavy, the act occurs, and suddenly I’m fucking one of Edgar Allen Poe’s ex-girlfriends. I start to doubt myself, am I less skilled than I thought? Smaller than I thought? I’d had nothing but great feedback and experience from every girl so far, and then this comes along and threatens to shatter my near-stratospheric ego. I vary things up to an extreme degree, hours of foreplay, crazy position variety, everything I can think of is met with a solid “meh” from this girl whom apparently can’t be pleased.

Drastic measures were called for. The ice had to break. Fast forward a few months and we’ve had sex about 30-35 times and every one a dismal, icy failure and deflating jab to my manhood. Then there was a party at her parents house that lived in infamy. Jessica and several of her friends ended up throwing a house party while her parents were gone for the weekend. We drank, laughed, drank some more, generally partied our asses off for a few hours. As the night wore on, my sex drive took over and we ended up locking ourselves into her parents bedroom. Darkened hardwood floors and classy faux-victorian furniture provided a picturesque frame for the king sized monstrosity that was the centerpiece bed. This huge mahogany nightmare was a california king, with a massive posts at the foot and a huge 2 inch thick headboard that spanned the entire length of the top of the bed, raised about 2 feet into the air and curved tastefully at the top.

Ignoring the upper class decorations, we stripped our way to the bed and threw ourselves onto it with a total disregard for anything around us. In my slightly tipsy haze I forgot about our usually dismal love making and started in. It wasn’t long before reality started to seep back in though. I looked down and noticed that same bored, vacant look that I’d come to dread. That’s when I made my decision. I was going to kill her. Not literally kill her but I was going to try the one thing I hadn’t yet. In full blown geek terms, I disabled the safety protocols.

Keep in mind I’m not a small person, now or even back then. I’m a pretty big guy, decently tall, broad shouldered and as my friend used to describe me “built like a brick-shithouse”. It’s always been my understanding, since day one, that you don’t hurt women. As I flowered into a penis-wielding agent of hormones, that was a backdrop to almost everything. You can do it ‘hard’ but you can’t just let fly or you’ll damage somebody. But today was the day. I let fly.

So I’m 20,000 leagues into this bitch, and as high school physics will teach you, the angle, versus weight, versus thrust and inertia says that this chicks pelvis was probably taking something like deep ocean pressures per-square-inch. To put it bluntly, I’m REALLY railing her. Suddenly… she’s alive! She starts moaning, at first I didn’t notice among my herculean and likely dangerous amount of thrusting. But I look down and see a look of literal “surprise” on her face, urging me ever onward to new heights of destroying this girls icy demeanor (and chances of avoiding hip dysplasia). She’s screaming, moaning, thrashing around, ripping the sheets, and pulling both of us further up the bed.

I’m simply blown away.

It seems that what she wanted, nay, needed, was for someone to seriously wreck her. At one point I hear a new and rhythmic thumping noise and I look up and to my horror I realize there’s a spray of blood across the pillow and her head is hitting that mahogany backboard in a disturbing fashion…

She’s still coherent and loving it, but I start to pull back fearing that I’ve actually done some damage. She digs her fingernails into my back and screams at the top of her lungs “Don’t you DARE fucking stop”, being a gentleman… I continue. Losing myself in the next few minutes we both reach orgasm simultaneously (and I might add as a FIRST for her so far) and I collapse in a sweat-coated gasping heap onto the bed. I open my eyes and see a living nightmare before me. Jessica is catching her breath, literally giggling with pleasure, a huge smile on her face amidst an acre of blood. The headboard is literally dented, the pillows, sheets, wall, even the cute victorian lamp next to the bed is splashed a brilliant shade of crimson shame.

Jessica’s head had kept hitting the headboard, opening a non-dangerous but heavily bleeding head wound and our vigorous actions had ended up making the bedroom look like a voodoo temple had been erected around us to please the blood drinking god of vengeance. I ended up wrapping her head and spending the next several hours cleaning blood off of everything. Some few weeks later, I broke things off with Jessica. Despite having climbed Everest, I simply didn’t want to do it several times a week. So I gave it all up but gained a disturbing and potentially awesome story. Which I hope you enjoyed.

And that’s why, to this day, we all refer to her reverently as “Headboard Jessica