"I was there when he started having one of his fits, you know," George Emory says in an off-handed manner. He's a big man with age just touching his temples and the weariness of the last decade has clearly taken it's toll on him. "He was just sitting there at this little diner in Buzzard's Bay when suddenly he went all stiff and started mumbling in this weird language. Sounded like birds chirping at first."
He looks out the window and shrugs. "You've heard the stories. How he would come into town after being out in the wilds for months and something would just trigger him. First he'd start talking to himself like he was hearing voices and then that funny talk. What they don't tell you about in the news reports is the scream."
"Worst thing I've ever heard - like a cross between a woman being murdered and children laughing. Then his head just dropped backwards and his neck split." His hand begins to tremble as he fumbles with his phone. The nurses told me that when he gets like this I'm to let him rest and allow him to gather his thoughts. They warned me against sending him into another fit. The silence drags on for half an hour before a sniffle breaks the tension, "It was the demon coming out. I was sitting next to the door and when it started climbing out of him I ran. I could hear the people screaming from inside and that damned thing laughing. I still hear it late at night."
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