#30 – The Enfield Horror

I KNOW. I fucking know, alright? I lied to you all and I promised the blog would be back to regular updates, but to be fair I also thought I was getting married and living happily ever after a few months ago and instead we broke up and life went to hot shit on a toasted teacake for a bit. These are the burdens we unfortunately all have to bear – you have to deal with the unimaginable stress of getting yet another update late, and on my selfish end all I’ve endured is the melancholy sensation that my entire life is gurgling in excrement as it swirls around the toilet, feebly flapping its atrophied arms like a harpooned otter.

Like Britney Spears however, I have emerged anew from my chrysalis of whimpering and have now restored some happiness and equilibrium to my life, so fingers crossed I’ll be better to you. No promises about punctuality or consistency though, because promises are clearly nothing more than lies with earnest ambitions that tend to fall apart like ash in your hands before flying away on the winds of grief. LOL!

YOU'VE GOT TO LAUGH!

I’ve also cracked the ‘selfie’ in the last few months.

But enough about me – let’s talk about you, baby. And by ‘you’, I mean The Enfield Horror, a cryptid that boils George Orwell’s deceased piss by bumbling about somewhere in the middle of his “four legs good, two legs bad” theory:

Humpty Dumpty is gonna fuck you up, son.

Humpty Dumpty is gonna fuck you up, son.

The Horror came to the small town of Enfield, Illinois in 1973. The first encounter took place on April 25th when a young boy named Greg Garrett was attacked in his back yard by a monster the likes of which nobody not off their fucking box on acid had ever seen. He described it as grey and slimy with enormous red eyes, but the strangest part of the story was the creature’s three foot-like appendages with which it apparently kicked and stamped at Garrett’s legs, tearing his tennis shoes to shreds. Three generally isn’t the optimum number of legs for any recognised member of the global bestiary, meaning the poor kid essentially got fucked up by some kind of spaztacular biological Robin Reliant.

"Two legs bad, four legs good, three legs generally not that fucking useful in a getaway situation."

“Four legs good, two legs bad, three legs generally not that fucking useful in a getaway situation.”

Having had its fill of shoe leather and children’s tears, The Horror didn’t hang about for long and less than an hour later was harassing Garret’s neighbours, the McDaniel family. Henry McDaniel and his wife returned home around 9.30 at night to find their two children in hysterics, raving about some ‘thing’ trying to get into the house through the air conditioning unit. Then the entire family collectively browned their trousers when something started scratching at the front door – the children because they thought it was a monster, and Henry and his wife presumably because every knock on the door could be social services when you’re the sort of evil shitwizards who abandon your prone-to-hysterics children until 9.30 at night.

Henry assumed they were probably dealing with some sort of stray animal and opened the door, a decision he’d quickly come to regret:

“It had three legs on it, a short body, two little short arms coming out of its breast area and two pink eyes as big as flashlights. It stood four and a half feet tall and was grayish-coloured… it was trying to get into the house!”

Of course, this being America, Henry had a neighbourly welcome in the form of a giant fucking gun and promptly ran off to fetch it once he’d slammed the door in the creature’s face. Reopening the door he fired four times, and was convinced he’d hit the thing – unfazed however, the monster just ‘hissed like a wildcat’ and bounded away, covering 50 feet in three enormous leaps.

IT STILL ISN'T A REAL SPORT, JONATHAN.

IT STILL ISN’T A REAL SPORT JONATHAN.

As is generally the case with these things, the original story sparked a slew of sightings over the following weeks and people eager to glimpse the creature descended in droves on the railroad tracks that seemed to form the hub of the Horror activity. A group of five young men hunting for the beast reported seeing one that fitted McDaniel’s description, and local radio news director Rick Rainbow (give the man an Anchorman spin-off on the strength of the name alone) even managed to record the Horror’s banshee-like scream when he encountered it near an abandoned house. Several times the creature was apparently fired upon, and several times it repeated its trick of kangaroo-bounding the hell out of dodge.

Illinois state troopers called to the McDaniel home after the first encounter discovered long gouges in the siding of the house and dog-like prints in the yard, each of which had six toe pads and featured a third, slightly smaller foot. There’s nothing but speculation to go on with regard to what, if anything, The Horror truly was, and the strange events in Illinois even left professional monster-hunter and all round bearded hero of mine Loren Coleman fairly lost for words:

“I traveled to Enfield, interviewed the witnesses, looked at the siding of the house the Enfield Monster had damaged, heard some strange screeching banshee-like sounds and walked away bewildered.”

Pictured here feeling up a Bigfoot, because reasons.

Pictured here feeling up a Bigfoot while looking like General Zod’s dad, because why the hell not?

Some have linked The Horror’s bizarre appearance to a series of UFO sightings in the area at the time, while others argue it could’ve been a genetic mutation or a simple case of a three-legged stray coupled with public hysteria. A stray what I have no idea, but rest assured if I worked at Battersea Dog’s Home and this gnarled bag of cocks came in, it’d go straight in a sack with some rocks and headfirst into the Thames:

ENFIELD

“Come on Fido, we’re off for a little Tom Daley.”

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