Yee Naaldlooshi - Skinwalker submitted by gunnarangellawrence1 to creepypasta [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/yd14ocistnf61.jpg?width=2032&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=fd609b7bb36432162a0442ab81c8392e538b34c0 by Gunnar Angel Lawrence Terry noticed the quick blink of the computer screen when the email arrived. It seemed odd, he thought, but then again it was the end of a long day at work and he made the conscious decision to ignore the email until the next day. He eyed Christina as she got up from her desk and stretched. Her long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and to her back. She looked at him and smiled broadly, it was time to go home. Terry got lost for a moment in her ice blue eyes and looked downward quickly. “I know there’s a song called, ‘Its Five O Clock somewhere’ but let me make it official, and it’s time to go home.” Terry said with a smile. Christina lifted both arms into the air and gave a celebratory ‘yay’. “Christina, call Scott up here, tell him we get paid this week, not a lot, but enough to eat for a few days anyway.” She smiled and pushed the intercom button and relayed the message. Terry opened the drawer picked the two checks out and slammed the drawer shut. The computer screen blinked once and Terry noticed that somehow the email had opened. He looked at the first line and swore. Christina turned and noticed the expression on Terry’s face. “No! Terry what is it?” Scott lumbered into the room and knew that something wasn’t right. “Wh—What’s wrong, guys?” he asked. Terry sighed and handed them their checks. Then he summarized the email. “The package we got from Show Low, Arizona, the one for the new casino? There is an issue. An Indian man is claiming it was stolen from an ancient burial site. He is on his way here now from the airport.” “That’s bullshit! I know I paid for that piece from Andy, he’s a reputable dealer. I’ve bought from him before.” She said. “I know that Christina, please do me a favor, find the paperwork on that piece and give the dealer a call for me, he is going to be here in less than an hour. Scott hang around, you’re bigger than I am and I might need someone to take out an elderly Indian for me.” Scott grinned and nodded. Terry’s company found and acquired rare pieces for private collections, hotels, casinos and the occasional museum. The new casino in Miami had asked for interesting Indian décor. Unfortunately, few genuine Indian artifacts were found anymore in Florida that didn’t already have the name of a casino stamped on them. This piece was found in Navajo territory in a backwater community called Show Low. Terry watched Christina lean against her desk with a sigh, her paperwork in hand. They were all very aware of the financial difficulties their company had been having since the recession started. And they all knew that a delay with the selling of this piece to the casino would mean a delay in cashing their next checks. He cleared his throat and pretended not to watch her stretch again. He knew that she knew that he liked her; there was just never the right moment. It wasn’t too much longer before a truck pulled up to the office. They heard the squeal of the brakes and all three bolted for the door. The delivery driver heaved his overweight frame out of the truck and shoved the small box and a clipboard into Terry’s hands. Terry took the box and signed the form on the clipboard. The driver, Lenny, nodded with relief. “Now you can deal with the Chief here, He’s followed me all day.” Terry glanced over to where he pointed and saw the long white car pull to a stop behind the truck. The man who stepped out could have been in his seventies, but there was a strength about him that was conveyed with swift, firm movements. His bronzed skin seemed to glisten in the humid Florida afternoon. He strode over and waved good bye to the delivery driver who was moving as quick as his girth would allow. The old man called after the delivery driver. “Get out of here now sir, it is very important.” Lenny nodded and climbed into his van from the rear. Terry watched the old man turned and focused on him. “My name is Ata Halne. I am begging you not to open that package. We need to get inside, before the sun sets, it is coming.” Terry smiled, “Mr. Halne… “No! My name is Ata Halne, I don’t have time for explanations out here, we have maybe ten minutes before the sun sets. Get inside now please.” Terry stared back at Scott and Christina and they appeared to be as confused as he was. All three of them backed into the building and shut the door. Ata Halne reached over, bolted the door and slid the bar lock in place. He turned toward them and breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, are there any open windows, barred or not, and are there any other entrances to this building?” He moved closer and they backed up. Christina, normally not one to take attitude, especially when she was ready to leave, was not speaking. She was gripping Scott’s hand with enough intensity to cause him to wince. “Mr. Halne…” Terry started. “I said my name was Ata Halne, now answer the question.” “Okay fine. No there are no other doors, no windows on this floor….” The old man pointed at Scott, “You, go shut the windows on the other floor now.” Scott hesitated, and looked at Terry, who nodded. “Hey, we paid for that package and we got it from someone who has always been honest with us. What is your beef with this package?” Terry demanded. The old man lifted his calloused finger and pointed it straight at Terry’s face. Unwavering, he held the finger there and spoke. “Anasazi.” II The word rolled off the man’s tongue with a cold trill. Terry felt a chill shoot through him when he heard it, though he had no idea what the word meant. The old man repeated himself. “Anasazi. What you have in that package is Anasazi.” Christina cleared her throat, still hesitant to approach the old man and spoke, “Anasazi, that’s Navajo legend right?” The old man stared at her, “Funny thing about legends, a lot of them tend to have some element of truth to them. For the Anasazi, even the legend doesn’t cover how evil and how real they are.” Terry looked at Christina, who had become something of an expert in Indian artifacts in a short time. “Chris, I’m at a loss here, what is Anasazi?” She grinned cautiously. “They’re spooks, ghosts, witches; he’s keeping us here for a damn ghost story.” Ata Halne raised his finger to her and the cautious grin retreated from her face. “You are about to find out how much of a ghost story the Anasazi are.” He turned to Scott who had just returned from upstairs. “Are those windows shut and locked?” Scott nodded. The old man turned to the door and reached into a small leather pouch hanging from his belt and pulled a white powder from the bag. He tossed the powder against the door with some low chanting. Terry had finally had enough. “All right, Mr. Halne, whoever you are, we’ve had enough. It’s time you get going.” He walked over to the door and began to pull on the bar lock. And that’s when he noticed the door knob slowly turning. “It’s here.” Ata Halne muttered. Maybe it was the cold way in which he spoke; maybe it was just the sight of the door knob turning as he reached to open it. Whatever it was, Terry stopped and backed away from the door. Christina and Scott were behind him and shuffled over to the door. The knock came loudly and insistently, echoing inside the room making it seem as if it had come from seven different directions. The three of them stood behind Ata Halne, their eyes focused on that twisting, turning knob. A muffled cry came from the other side of the door. “Terry! Can you come out here please?” they recognized the voice of the delivery driver and Terry laughed slightly. “Oh shit, Ata, you really had us going there. But seriously it’s time for you to leave. I need to see what he wants.” Ata Halne lifted his hand and placed it on his shoulder. “If you open that door, he will kill you, your friends and me.” “It’s just Lenny, he’s an asshole but he isn’t going to kill anyone.” Terry moved toward the door and was stopped again by the Old Man who shook his head. “Lenny is dead, because he didn’t listen to me. What stands out there now is the Yee Naaldlooshii, a Skinwalker.” Christina giggled. “So what old man, you’re saying Lenny is a werewolf? Terry, let’s go home.” She gave the old man a look of disbelief and walked over to Terry. Terry looked at her puzzled. “The Yee Naaldlooshii, skinwalkers, they are suppose to use Anasazi magic to wear animal skins and become whatever animal they want to. They are early werewolf legends, but they turn into more than just wolves. It’s magic bullshit.” The old man walked past Christina to the window and pointed outside. “Can you see him, out there, in the shadows, are you sure it is Lenny?” She moved to the window and nodded, “Yes, Lenny is right there, plain as day. He’s standing next to his truck.” “And how far is that from the door here?” the old man asked. Christina shrugged, “About fifteen to twenty feet.” The old man nodded, “I see, so how is it exactly, that Lenny is turning the door knob on your door from twenty feet away?” Christina then turned to look at the knob, and back to the figure in the dark. The Indian was right, the knob was still moving. Her face grew pale as she backed away from the window. Terry made his way over to the window and peered outside. The overweight shadowy figure rocked back and forth on his heels in the shadows, and he was indeed too far away to be turning the knob. Terry tried to speak but felt a lump form in his throat. Seeing he had their attention, the old man said, “Call him closer, but don’t touch the door.” Christina called out, “Hey Lenny, come on over here.” ‘Lenny’ moved deftly for a fat man and walked briefly into the light that shown from the roof of the building. When ‘Lenny’ looked up, the old man touched Christina’s shoulder. “Look at his eyes.” She saw “Lenny’s” eyes glow a fierce yellow and gasped. “Lenny” seemed to hear her and stepped back into the shadows swiftly. Her eyes widened, she looked to the old man. “When the Yee Naaldlooshii are in human form, their eyes glow at night, like an animals. When they are in animal form, their eyes do not glow like an animals’ should. Like I said, your friend Lenny is dead.” The tears formed in her eyes quickly as she realized that the old man was telling the truth. Scott was yelling. “Bullshit, no this is bullshit!” he tore his cap from his head and tossed it to the ground. Terry looked out the window, then back at the old man. Ata Halne spoke, “If you had told me when I was your age, that I could sit at a desk here in Florida and type something that would be seen in Arizona, or any other part of the world instantly, I would have said it was bullshit. Today, you call it email.” Terry glanced out the window and addressed Ata Halne. “What the fuck is in that box, old man?” He opened his mouth to speak and that is when the pounding began. It was as if two massive invisible fists beat the metallic walls. The walls shook with each hit. Christina screamed and ran to Terry. Scott looked up as the pounding escalated, now the roof was being pummeled. The pounding continued as Ata Halne began sprinkling the white powder toward the window. He turned toward the three and began to speak, hesitated, and started again. “Short version. The Anasazi control very dark magic, there are very few of them left. The amulet inside that box belonged to a chief among the Anasazi, he was said to have consorted with demons. When he died, his house was burned and his charms were buried on sacred ground. It was buried in a tomb on sacred burial grounds where Anasazi cannot go. When the honest person you bought it from found it, he had no idea what it was. The Skinwalker wants this amulet, to help him consort with demons and gain the power that comes with it.” Terry shook his head. The pounding suddenly ceased. They stared up briefly and Terry spoke. “So why didn’t he get it in Arizona? Why wait until it got here?” “The Skinwalker has no power when the sun is in the sky. The amulet was removed from the protection of the sacred grounds and was on a plane bound for here before the sun fell. A Skinwalker is fast, but cannot keep up with a plane.” Scott, recovered from his earlier fit, now asked, “So what do we do now?” The old man leaned in, “Are you sure those windows are shut tight?” “Shit!” Scott yelled and rushed upstairs. Terry watched Scott go and faced Ata Halne, “So about his question, what do we do now?” The old man sighed, “The amulet needs to be returned to sacred ground. It needs to be buried and this,” he reached down into his leather pouch to pull out some white powder, “this needs to be sprinkled on top of the burial place. Preferably, it should be sprinkled in the form of a circle. The Yee Naaldlooshii will not be able to enter sacred ground in Skinwalker form, and will not be able to reach the amulet shielded by the white ash in human form. One more thing, their power they get from fear, the fear you feel now, fuels the Skinwalker outside. Pretty soon, he will be strong enough to get in.” Scott shook his head. “No, no damn it, we paid for that thing. No shit-face Indian monster is gonna take it. I’m getting the Judge.” Terry agreed. Scott disappeared into his office and returned a moment later, the massive three inch barrel weapon at his side. It was Ata Halne’s turn to be confused. “Judge?” he asked. Terry pointed and explained, “Scott’s judge is a 45 long colt. He’s gonna blast the shit out of your Skinwalker.” “No weapon will have an effect on the Skinwalker. All he’s going to do is make a hole big enough for it to get in the building. Unless…” he approached Scott who held the Judge in his hand. “Scott, are those hollow points?” Ata Halne asked. Scott nodded. “Please, let me see them.” Ata Halne asked. Scott looked at Terry and Christina, removed the bullets and handed them to the old man. The old man packed his white powder into the hollow points and stood them up on the desk next to him. He pulled out a flask and wet the powder in each bullet with the liquid inside. When he saw the three looking at him, he shrugged, “Whiskey, it will keep the ash from flying out while the bullet travels.” Terry pointed at the Indian’s pouch, “Ash? What does that do?” The Indian patted the pouch and handed the bullets back to Scott. “This ash is the white ash of a sacred tree. The branches of the tree are capable of killing the Yee Naaldlooshi, but only in his human form. Sharpen a branch, pierce the skin. When the Yee Naaldlooshi is strongest in animal form, not even sacred tree can kill him, but the ashes of part of the sacred tree branches can cause it great pain.” “So, this ash can kill it then?” The Indian shrugged, “It is possible. I’ve have only heard of one Skinwalker that was successfully hit with a bullet. He was three feet away when the bullet struck him. It didn’t affect him and he killed the man that shot him.” Scott heard the last part and hesitated, staring down at the Judge. He looked at Terry, then at Christina and approached the window. He glanced briefly and turned inside. “Guys, he’s gone.” All of them gathered around Scott, and looked out the window. The delivery truck was still where Lenny had parked it. But “Lenny” was no longer in sight. The absence of the pounding from the outside now screamed at them in silence. Ata Halne pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Terry. He placed his hand on Terry’s shoulder and spoke. “We do not have much time; this is the location of the closest true sacred ground to us. It is behind a house several miles from here. If your gun does not work, and it won’t, you must bury this in the center of the enclosed area behind the house. This house was built on the site of a great chief’s dwelling.” Terry stopped him, “Whoa wait. What about you?” The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out another leather pouch handing it to Terry. “We don’t have much time, left. Take the amulet and when I say go, you go.” “What about that thing out there?” Terry asked. Ata Halne gave Terry a grim look, “It’s not out there anymore, it is in here with us.” Christina screamed and pulled close to Scott. They pulled together in the center of the room, their eyes darting to and fro in the room. Ata Halne began speaking. “Remember, the Skinwalker can appear to be anyone or anything or any size. Do not let each other out of your sight. It can take your appearance, and your voice, but it won’t have your memories. It will try to stop you from completing the burial, in human form; the Skinwalker has all the strength of any human, but is cunning. You have the map; you must go and do this.” A high pitched wail rose from the corners of the room and the lights snapped off. Scott yelled, “Shit!” Terry’s hands grasped around in the darkness and pulled at the arms closest to him. He felt Christina trembling and Scott, arms extended waving the Judge around in the darkness. From the darkness came Ata Halne’s cry, “Go, all of you. Go now!” He cried out in pain and screamed in Navajo. The three bolted in the general direction of the front door and stumbled over the unseen desks and chairs in their path. Terry still clung to the box and fumbled in his pocket for the car keys. They heard Ata Halne grunt and an unearthly screech pierce the night. They made it to Terry’s car, scrambled in and locked the doors. While Terry fumbled with quaking hands to get the key in to the ignition, Christina looked back at the doorway and shrieked, pointing. Ata Halne stumbled out of the office and raised his hands. She grabbed Terry’s arm and squeezed. He watched the old man approach the vehicle. An odd grin was on his face and he began to beckon to them. Terry stuck the key in and turned, nothing happened. “Oh shit!” He turned the key again, the engine clicked. Ata Halne came closer and smiled. He reached his hands around the back of his neck and pulled. His face collapsed inward, blood poured from his eyes, mouth and nose as the flesh mask fell forward. Click click Scott pointed the Judge at the gruesome sight aimed, and pulled the trigger. The explosion roared in their ears as they saw the creature reel back from the impact. The remains of Ata Halne’s flesh fell from around the creature. It was more shadow than substance, and turned its glowing yellow eyes toward the car as it fell to the ground. Click, click, the car engine roared to life as the creature stretched out its hand. Scott raised the Judge and fired four more times. The creature cried out as each round struck home. Terry slammed the car into ‘Drive’ and punched the accelerator. With a swift turn of the wheel he drove over the creature writhing on the ground. There was a slight shudder as the rear wheel spun off the slick bloody mass that was once Ata Halne. It was only now that Terry noticed that Christina had been screaming, he spun the car around and they sat and watched the quivering mass on the ground. With their ears still ringing from the gunshots, and from the screaming, they didn’t hear Scott speak the first time. Terry turned when he saw Scott’s mouth moving and asked, “What?” “Is it dead?” he yelled back. Terry shook his head, “I don’t know.” Tears ran down Christina’s face as she reached up and removed hair from her eyes with quaking fingers. The creature shuddered. With eyes locked onto ‘it’, the trio waited. They barely breathed as they watched it raise a misshapen arm from the pile of flesh and begin to push itself upwards. “Damn it! I’m out of bullets. Hit it again, Terry.” “No, we’re getting out of here.” Terry yanked the wheel to the right and headed toward the highway at full speed. They stared back at the creature that was now stumbling to its feet, standing over Scott's corpse. They were doing eighty when the creature finally disappeared from view. Each of them were panting heavily and remained silent for several minutes. Terry wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed harder on the accelerator. Neither of them realized how many hours they were driving before they finally came to the turn off the old man had indicated. They pulled in, exhausted. And Terry got out of the car. III Terry watched Scott get out of the car. He could tell that Scott was nervous, more because of the expression on his face as he stared straight ahead at the house in the distance than because of any words he used. Scott gave him a familiar nod of the head in the direction of the odd house and stepped away from the car. Terry turned to walk toward Christina when it hit. The blur leapt over the rear of the car with a deafening wail and landed on Scott’s back. Terry heard the strained gurgle as Scott fell to the ground with a thud. His neck had been torn open in one swift move, the blood exploding outward hitting Terry and Christina. She screamed as Scott hit the ground and began pulling and clawing at Terry to run. They stumbled away from their friend and headed toward the only cover available. The house. Christine reached the door first, slamming her body against it with full force; the door gave as they burst into the room. Terry was a half second behind but still managed to get in her way when she tried to slam the door shut. With trembling fingers, she bolted the door and fastened the chain. Then she noticed the blood on her hand, her clothes and face. She began shaking. They had heard it coming; the warm moist breath it expelled with each step seemed to reach the backs of their necks even at a hundred yards. That panting might as well have been the creature laughing at them, for all the effort it expended in killing their friend and chasing them down. As Terry looked at Christina, they both realized that the only reason they made it to the house, was because Scott didn’t. ‘The old Indian had been right.’ Terry thought to himself. ‘Here we were, the young smart professionals with no time for ancient magic bullshit being chased by a homicidal magic creature.’ He winced at the irony and cursed the damned email that started it all, just a few short hours ago. Christina shivered as she wrapped her arms around Terry’s neck and wept. The house was deserted and there were several more hours before sun rise. She buried her face in his chest and he embraced her. He kissed the top of her head, and said, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” She nodded silently. Terry kissed her again and guided her away from the front door. After a few moments, Terry took the amulet from his pocket where he had stashed it just in case, and examined it. It wasn’t anything spectacular; it appeared to be made of wood and turquoise with some gold pieces dangling from the center. The wind whipped up outside the door, but there was no banging. There were no scratches at the window and no pounding on the roof. Terry pocketed the amulet and peeked out the window. On this moonless, starless night little was visible save the glow of the nearby city that lit up the hills and horizon around it. A rap on the back wall caused him to jump. He looked over at Christina; her head buried in her hands and decided to check out the noise. The room appeared to be the den of a hunter or outdoors enthusiast. Mounting boards lined the wall with distorted heads of long departed animals. Terry approached what appeared to be a fire place and wondered if anything could get in. He heard a rustle behind him and turned. Christina stood in the shadows, and he could see her shaking. “I’m scared, Terry.” He nodded and came to her side. “I know. Me too.” “Hold me, Terry.” She brushed her chest against his sending his heart rate skyrocketing. He placed his hand at the small of her back and squeezed. “Always, Christina, always.” Her hands fell to his waist and pulled him in tighter. “Why couldn’t we just toss the damned thing out there and let it go away. Doesn’t that make sense? Then we could stay here. Please, please, just throw it outside.” Terry shook his head. “That thing killed my best friend. I’m not giving it shit.” Christina pulled back, “I know that, he was my friend too, but I don’t want to die. Where is it Terry? It wasn’t in the box.” A chill went up Terry’s spine. “How did you know it wasn’t in the box, Christina?” She shrugged and raised her eyes to meet his. Terry saw the yellow glow emanating from her once beautiful ice blue eyes. He stumbled backward. “Oh God, no, not Christina!” ‘She’ smiled. “Is this what you want, this body? I know it is.” Terry stared into the face of the woman he loved, but never told. He reached for the leather pouch as ‘she’ continued speaking. “Where is the amulet, Terry? Tell me now and I’ll make sure that you die as quickly as she did.” “Go to Hell.” ‘She’ laughed. “Kiss me Terry.” ‘She’ leaned down and climbed on top of him. He could still smell the perfume in her hair. Her cold lips locked on to his and pulled. Terry struggled to retreat, to get that hand full of ash from the pouch, but he shook as ‘she’ leaned in again. She placed a hand on his thigh and slid it upward. Terry yanked his hand from the leather pouch and shoved the white ash into ‘her’ opening mouth. ‘She’ screeched and tore Christina’s flesh off where it collapsed into a crimson mess. It rolled on the floor with a horrible wail as it clawed at what could only be its ‘mouth’. Terry leapt to his feet and ran for the back door. He passed Christina’s body lying in a bloody mound and cried out in anger and pain. He tore open the back door and ran into the back yard. One section of the yard was fenced off, and he saw the Indian symbols on the grave. Terry kneeled and overturned a stone in that section of the yard. He tore at the ground with his hands trying to get a hole dug in the tough soil. He reached into his pocket, removed the amulet and dropped it into the shallow hole. He covered it over, replaced the rock and sprinkled white ash in a circle over the stone. Then with two handfuls of the remaining ash, he waited. The creature burst from the house and raced toward Terry. Its form glistened and sparkled, looking more like a shadow than a solid creature. Its forward progress stopped suddenly at the fence, as if it had hit an invisible wall. “Skinwalker, meet sacred ground.” Terry said. “NO!” it shouted. “It’s not possible. We are too far from Navajo land.” “So was the Navajo chief they buried here.” The creature shrieked and clawed at the air trying to pass through the invisible impenetrable shield. After several minutes of fruitless attempts, the creature began walking the border around the sacred ground. Terry turned as the creature did, never taking his eyes off of it. “In a couple of hours, the sun will be up Skinwalker. I can wait, can you?” The creature looked to the east and knew Terry was right. It spoke. “The woman, you loved her?” “Yes, I loved her and you killed her.” The creature’s expression, if you could call it that, turned up into a smile. It pointed a finger at Terry. “With the power of the amulet, I can give you your woman back alive.” Terry stopped. ‘No, Ata Halne said that the creature would be cunning.’ Terry thought. The creature spoke again, “We sit here at an impasse, and I have told you what I can do for you. You know what you can do for me. And yet neither moves.” “You can make Christina alive again?” The creature nodded. “With the help of the amulet, I can do anything.” “How do I know you won’t kill me when I give it to you?” “Obviously, you don’t. But you can sit and wait for her body to decay, or I can give her back to you now.” Terry held out his left hand, as if to drop the amulet he didn't have any longer into the creatures' grasp and extended it over the border of the fence. When the creature opened its hand, Terry grasped it and pulled. White ash flew into the creature, searing it. With a hard yank, Terry pulled the creature through the fence. It writhed in agony, thrashing on the ground. “I kind of figured that if touching sacred ground was too painful for you, that having the shit kicked out of you with sacred ground might do the trick.” Terry turned and picked up the stone. He brought the stone down on the creature’s head and heard a sick crack. He lifted the stone again and brought it down through the torso of the Skinwalker. Green smoke bellowed from the cracks in the creatures form. Slowly, the creature began to lose his form and the twitching ceased. Terry looked down and watched as the form melted into the sacred ground and sizzled. He dropped the stone back into its place and stood over the liquefied remains of the Skinwalker. He picked up more stones from the sacred ground and placed them on the bubbling black liquid. He stayed for the sunrise; just to make sure the creature was as dead as it now smelled. When the sunlight hit the black ooze, it disintegrated into dust. There would be no human form for this Skinwalker not any more. Only when there was enough light in the sky did he leave the sacred ground and head for his car. |
Previous Section-Part 2B submitted by Eki75 to DupontDeLigonnes [link] [comments] [3/5] Chapter 9 Highways and dead endsThe hunt for Xavier Ligonnès is enough to drive you crazy. It’s like looking for a lost object, a bank card for example, of which we can determine the exact moment of disappearance: we used it to pay, it was there, and the next moment it is not there anymore. Logic dictates that we look for it where we usually store it (a wallet, a handbag), then where it could be (a back pocket of pants, a hall cabinet), and the less we find it , the more we seem to see it everywhere. Faced with absence, the brain constructs images (the credit card in an office drawer, as a bookmark in a book, forgotten on the counter of the last store) but these are fictions or mirages; they encourage further research but they do not provide a solution. Xavier Ligonnès’s apparent volatilization follows the same logic and produces the same effects on the investigation. The more weeks and months go by, the more places to look get smaller. Emmanuel Teneur ends up leading the investigators to the Société Générale agency on Place Royale in Nantes, but the safe he holds there is simply empty. A request for information on Joven Soliman is sent to the security attaché for the French Embassy in the Philippines. He is a sedevacantist priest, a fringe of traditionalist Catholicism who considers the Pope to be an imposter. The attaché transmits the hours of mass where he officiates. A trip to the Philippines is being considered, but that would mean going to the other side of the world to look for a needle in the thousands of islands of the archipelago. If this track has never been closed, nothing has supported it to date.Since we must push logic to the end, the investigators even contact the American authorities to corroborate or contradict the story of protected witnesses told by Ligonnès in his famous letter. The DEA has never heard of the individual, and the liaison officer based at the Miami consulate assures us that his last trip to the United States was in 2003: Ligonnès arrived in Florida on July 18 and left on August 22. The study of his entourage also did not highlight anyone capable of providing false papers to the fugitive, and if he had gone through a criminal network, the police believed that an informant would undoubtedly have warned them to protect himself. Then there are the news reports: the portrait of Ligonnès goes around France, and even if he has undoubtedly changed his physical appearance, his hairstyle, perhaps had even resorted to cosmetic surgery, someone, somewhere, might recognize him one day. After all, that’s how John List, a New Jersey insurance salesman who killed his wife and mother in 1971, was arrested. He waited for two of his children to return from school to coldly shoot them, then attended his youngest son’s football game before shooting bullets through him at home. He evaded justice for 18 years until a co-worker recognized him from a report on America’s Most Wanted. Rarely has a criminal case given rise to as many appeals as that of Ligonnès, because his stalking not only bewitches the police, it torments an entire country. More than 1000 reports, thousands of pages of depositions, letters, verifications. You have to imagine the miles of printed paper that this represents when they are stacked on a desk. The most recent: in July, after the broadcast of a Netflix documentary on the subject in the United States, the producers of the film claimed to have received an interesting lead in Chicago; but it’s just one more drop in the bucket. Xavier Dupont de Ligonnès has been seen in Annecy, Nancy, Cholet, Corsica (several times); on the side of a road, thumbs up, by a French tourist in Las Vegas; disguised as a chimney sweep in Nîmes; in a hotel in Cantal and in a pizzeria where he paid cash in a hurry; seen again in Germany, in Italy, and heard on the telephone by the reception of the psychiatric hospital of Troyes. Since he disappeared looking like the ordinary neighbor, since he was a representative and his profession has taken him to all corners of France, there is no less reason to see him in Mulhouse than in Roche-sur-Yon, and you can simply see him everywhere. Aire de Lançon-Provence in July 2020 Extracts: “It was the same look, except that he looked very sad, in the west, but he had the same glasses as in the photo you are showing me”; “He looked like a man like everyone else, but there was something odd in his eyes;” “Yesterday, around 1:00 pm, I was watching the news on television on the TFI channel. I saw a report where an individual killed his children and his wife before disappearing into the wild. (...) Seeing the gentleman in the photo, I made the connection with the person whom I had crossed Sunday afternoon because he had the same smile.” At the Vauvert tourist office: “I hardly look at the news, but Thursday evening I saw the photo of Mr. Ligonnès, I had the impression of having already seen him, my heart was racing.” Between Carpentras and Avignon, when he comes back from the bakery, the manager of one of Nicolas Sarkozy’s brothers crosses paths with a man with a beige bob, which he is certain is the fugitive. “I flashed,” he says. “For me, there is no doubt. This is him.” Still more letters are sent to the police to offer them help. An amateur astrologer requests a copy of the suspect’s birth certificate to establish a birth chart, a woman in child-like writing recommended a great medium who had helped her find her daughter who had become a junkie in Marseille. A prisoner asked in writing to be sent to Guinea to go hunt him down in the jungle, attaching to his letter a list of the necessary equipment, including infrared glasses and a “samurai sword.” With each letter, with each phone call to report a suspicious individual, investigators attempt to cross-reference the information. They patiently collect the testimonies of the depositors to know where Xavier Ligonnès was seen, if he was accompanied or not, what was his size and his outfit. Inconsistent testimonies or those referring to individuals who are too young (Ligonnès would be 59 years old today) and too small (he measures a little over 1.80 meters) are discarded. For the others, investigators check the CCTV recordings, when they have not been erased and when the cameras have actually recorded on tape. If the person has been spotted pumping gasoline, in a Géant Casino, or in a Courtepaille, they trace the means of payment used and seize the duplicates of bank cards. They give priority to the restaurants, especially the Buffalo Grill, Ligonnès’ favorite establishment. And when the trail is still hot and the dishes haven’t been done yet, they collect DNA from the plates and cutlery. A few months after the start of the investigation, the investigating judge in charge of the case will even be forced to ask them to slow down, the seals starting to take on the appearance of a china cabinet in a large restaurant. The Total service station in Lançon-Provence, July 2020 The PJ of Nantes believed on several occasions to finally have in hand the winning ticket and to be on the point of intercepting Ligonnès. This was the case in Borgo, where a photo taken from the video surveillance of a supermarket in this small Corsican town was very similar. Upon verification, it was only a local. They believed in it even more in January 2018 when they were told that an individual with a strong resemblance to Xavier Ligonnès was at the Saint-Désert Notre-Dame de Pitié monastery near Roquebrune-sur-Argens. About twenty police officers raided and searched the premises until they came across Brother Jean-Marie Joseph, who certainly looked disturbingly like Ligonnès, but who was not him. In still other cases, the police were never able to “close the track,” and it is perhaps Ligonnès who was seen. For example, in Lançon-Provence, April 26, 2011. That day, at 2:44 am, Mahjoub B., a handler by profession, parks his vehicle at the Total service station after the Lançon-Provence toll. He fills up, then goes to the store to pay. On his way, he passes a 45- to 50-year-old man, about six feet tall, who hangs out there between the gas pumps and the store. When he returns to his vehicle, his colleague asks him if he has seen the man, whom he is convinced is the one everyone is looking for, the one who killed his family in Nantes. Mahjoub then takes a new look at the individual, notices that he is wearing glasses, light jeans, that he has brown hair a little graying and a beard of a day. At his feet, four rigid shopping bags, one red, one white, one brown and one whose color he cannot distinguish. Inside the store, employees also noticed the individual. He’s been out for almost three hours. At one point, he walks in to ask for free coffee, as part of a promotion. Behind her cash register, Jocelyne H. notes a detail: he is missing a tooth. “The second on the left, I believe,” she says when heard by investigators. This is information that has never filtered out and yet, it’s true – a little detail, Xavier Ligonnès was missing a tooth. Little by little, the space has filled in, but you can always see it when he smiles. The images from the station’s surveillance cameras are confusing: if this man is not the one we are looking for, it must be his twin brother. At 3 a.m., the cameras show him hitchhiking by a Volkswagen Combi, which investigators quickly find. The driver’s name is Christophe B. He has not heard of the case, and he must be one of the only ones in the country; but Christophe is no longer listening to the news because, he says, “the news is bad all the time.” From the hitchhiker on the night of the 25th to the 26th, he remembers that he “did not smell very good” and that he had a growing beard. They didn’t discuss much. The man simply told him that he was coming from Paris where he had gone to see “his sick old father,” and that he wanted to take the train to Aix-en-Provence. Christophe dropped him off at a motorway exit, the 30 or the 31, between 4 a.m. and 4.15 a.m. The surveillance cameras at Aix train station allow you to get back on track. He is filmed on the forecourt at 6 am, he wears light pants, a dark jacket. He buys a ticket at 1.20 euro, free destination. Then we lose track. Despite all the checks, despite all the cameras, it will be impossible to track this man perfectly resembling Dupont de Ligonnès, who could nevertheless have confirmed that he was, at least on this date, still alive. How can one suddenly evaporate in plain sight, and how could a man who has collected chess all his life accomplish this feat? The XDDL mystery makes it possible to scaffold all the theories. These flourish in books, in docudramas and, of course, on the Internet. We imagine Ligonnès protected by the secrecy of a monastery, flown to the United States, where he can go unnoticed thanks to his English without an accent, or even on the escape alongside a woman he would have manipulated. The police officers in charge of the case do not work on theories or psychological profiles, but according to a scientific approach: they always start from a fact, which opens a track, which they then explore until the end, close, and move on to another. This method is also a way to protect yourself from endless guesswork, or insanity, but it doesn’t always work. Several times, the track looks like a highway towards the fugitive, and the police are convinced that they will finally close this investigation. But they end up stumbling upon the worst thing ever, as was the case with the allusion to Emmanuel Teneur’s sailboat: coincidences. Coincidence number 1. When the Ligonnès C5 was discovered in the Formula 1 car park in Roquebrune, the night watchman informed them that two reservations had been made in the name of Dupont Xavier, one on April 5 and the another on April 14. The hotel manager then specifies that the first reservation was actually made for April 6. That day, however, XDDL was in Nantes, probably digging the grave of Thomas, murdered the day before. Had he thought of accomplishing his crimes earlier or had he reserved a room for an accomplice, who might have been hiding something for him? The videos of April 5 and 6 are no longer available, but payment for the room was made with a Crédit Agricole credit card. The number gives a name, Faiçal E., and an address. Could it be an accomplice? The checks are launched immediately lead to a man who simply used “Dupont Xavier” as an assumed name - like Ligonnès - to book a night in the same hotel, the same year, the same month, within ten days. Coincidence number 2. The liaison officer in Miami launches research around the various aliases used by XDDL, for operations of “mystery shopper” or to stay in hotels. In the FBI file, he finds a certain Xavier Laurent, one of Ligonnès’s favorite nicknames, installed in Jacksonville, north of Florida. Jacksonville is not just any city. This is where Hugues, the cousin of XDDL lived, and it is also this locality that Ligonnès and his friend Michel Rétif declared to customs in 1990 during their trip to the United States. At the very end of the personalized letter sent to Michel on April 8, Xavier Ligonnès seemed to allude to it: “I will think about you there. (Not the right to tell you where, but you went there with me...in November 90…a clue to dig. LOL).” But this Xavier Laurent is another twist of fate: the police come across a certain Evan Shaffer, a petty criminal who has chosen this alias to commit crimes. Coincidence number 3. Ten days before the crimes, XDDL reconnects with a childhood sweetheart, Catherine K., whom he met in Versailles in the 1980s. Between March 22 and 24, they exchange text messages and try to find a date to meet the week of April 12, in Chamonix. These messages intrigue the investigators, some answers seem surprising, almost illogical, and they suspect Ligonnès of having wanted to ensure a logistical relay in his escape. A little later, a certain Patrick O. reports having seen XDDL in the queue of a Sixt car rental agency at Nice airport on April 17, 2011. By peeling the names of dozens of people having rented a car that day, the police officers miss the infarction: in capital letters, white on black, appears the surname of Catherine, who would have rented a vehicle at 1:30 am. A few hours later, their heart rate drops again: it was only a perfect disambiguation. Each coincidence causes the same chain of reactions. First a eureka!, the certainty of having finally found the tiny detail from which to trace everything. The police then cast their nets like fishermen on the high seas, telephone or banking requisitions, requests for listings, identity checks. Then they wait. It can last from a few hours to several weeks, and inevitably it is a burning, nagging wait, tense by the fear that the track will fly away. Finally, there is the immense disappointment and the obligation to face reality again: Xavier Ligonnès is still nowhere to be found, a track has flown again, and we have to hoist the rock up the mountain again. Those who have worked or are still working on the affair strive to maintain a cold, rational, police facade. But little by little, by dint of chasing a shadow - not even a shadow, a ghost - obsession lurks. One of them, a police officer with a professional Protestant pastor, now out of the investigation, still returned until recently to consult the investigation file every week, saying he simply wanted to put the 12,000 pages of documents in order. For a year, a criminal analyst has also been mobilized. He enters all the elements of the file in a software which digests them and spits out, perhaps, new threads to draw. In the meantime, the two police officers who are still following the investigation - one at the PJ in Nantes, one at the OCRVP, in Paris - “live” the case, as their colleagues say. Among these thousands of pages there is no doubt a clue that has gone unnoticed or, better, a lead that has not yet been explored. Track number 1. Who typed “fraternité saint-thomas becket” on Google on April 3 at 11:34 pm, before clicking on a link in the Cité-Catholique forum? Is it the same person who, the same night at 2:01 am, from an iPhone, did the search for “communion state mortal sin,” bringing it to the same forum? On April 8, the user of this phone will in any case send the search engine the request “hello Chacou”, which will lead him (her) again to the Cité-Catholique forum. Chacou was one of the pseudonyms of Xavier Ligonnès. Investigators saw crazier coincidences, but still: can it really be someone other than Xavier Ligonnès, who himself connected to Cité-Catholique almost every day of his escape? The last article published on the site about Saint-Thomas Becket, an ultra-traditionalist fraternity which practices mass in Latin, dates from January 2009. It indicates the name of its founder, Father Jean-Pierre Gac, and specifies this: “Born in the diocese of Blois where there are two communities (…), the fraternity has also extended in the diocese of Toulon - a parish is also entrusted to them in Ollioules.” Ollioules is located six kilometers from La Seyne-on-Mer, where XDDL spent its penultimate known night, and 94 kilometers from Roquebrune. Jean-Pierre Gac was questioned by the police but claimed to have never been in contact with the fugitive. Investigators have always believed in the possibility that Ligonnès took refuge in a monastery in the Var. They considered to search them one by one, before understanding that there are dozens and dozens of brotherhoods and fraternities, that they are not always castles of the Purple Rivers but sometimes simple farms, lost in the hinterland. To mount a search, it would be necessary to ensure that they do not communicate with each other, and therefore to visit them all at the same time. The examining magistrate quickly tempered the fervor of the police and declared the operation impossible. Track number 2. Xavier Ligonnès had two secret Facebook accounts. The first is named after his favorite country singer, Waylon Jennings. One of his nieces had also found him a month before the crimes, sending him a message, “but who is behind this nickname?,” to which XDDL had immediately replied “How did you manage to arrive on the Waylon Jennings Facebook profile? Too clever! Microsoft Advantage??? Kiss.” The second account concerns a certain “George Town” residing in Nantes and is linked to one of Ligonnès’ many email addresses, [email protected]. The police send a requisition to the management of Facebook in Palo Alto to obtain the creation and connection logs of the two profiles. The answer comes in days: the first was created in February 2010, the second in December 2007, when France had barely discovered the social network. Above all, the response indicates that Ligonnès connected to the two accounts on the night of April 4 to 5, between the first assassinations and that of Thomas. The profiles have since been deleted but suggest he could have used them to communicate with a third party. Catherine K., the youthful lover that XDDL contacted a few days before the tragedy, also reported to the police that she had been approached by a certain Philippe Steiner, whom she did not know, around May 20. He sent her a strange message, suggesting that they might have had a relationship in the past. When she went to respond, the profile had already been deleted. Today there are almost 100 Facebook accounts on behalf of Waylon Jennings, some are created and deleted every day. Track number 3. When the Ligonnès family is having their last meal on April 3, 2011, around 9 pm, a young woman walks through the glass doors of the police station on Place Waldeck-Rousseau in Nantes. Originally from a small village near Vannes, Julie is a BTS student and comes to file a complaint: the Twingo that her father lets her drive has been broken into, probably during the night. There was not much inside, but Julie reported the theft of her car radio as well as the vehicle’s logbook, which she normally stored in a small Renault gray faux leather pouch. This same pouch was found on April 22 in the dresser of the Ligonnès living room where Xavier used to store his papers, during the investigation the day after the discovery of the bodies. The police did not follow this track: they put the break-in of Julie’s car on the account of one of the Ligonnès sons, Arthur, who had already been arrested for theft of a bicycle and driving under the influence of cannabis. But why would Arthur have taken the vehicle papers with the car stereo, and why would he put them in the middle of his father’s papers? And if the theft was committed by Xavier Ligonnès a few hours before killing his family, how can this be explained? Was he able to steal other identity papers to facilitate his escape? In this case, it is always about cars. Those imported by XDDL from the United States, the Citroën C5 from the escape, the vehicles he claimed had been stolen over the years: the first at the Brest police station in 1998, while living in Pornic, a second at the same time at the Saint-Nazaire police station, and then again, in Nantes, on May 17, 2006, a Golf convertible finally found then sold a few months later to a mechanic, a friend of Cédric M. Cédric M. is never far away when it comes to cars. He is also a mechanic, that’s how Ligonnès met him in Vannes a few years earlier. He is one of the recipients of the departure letter, therefore a close friend. He was even the first employee of the RDC. Ligonnès regularly went to visit him in Locmalo in the heart of Morbihan, a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Nantes. With Cédric and his partner, Renaud, they went to the local creperie. They had lunch there together on March 31, 2011, four days before the crimes. In the village, it is said that Ligonnès took care of the dark accounts of the “guys,” who have quite a reputation. Could he have built up a slush fund there that no one would have found until now? Cédric and Renaud’s garage is not indicated by any sign. It is at the end of a road. In the yard, wrecks of American cars and a goat on a leash. Inside, Renaud is working on a shiny yellow Cadillac. His attitude is confusing. He is angry with the police who have never come to question him when he is, according to him, “the last to have seen [Xavier] alive. But I will not tell you when, because that the date is important,” he adds before returning to his Cadillac, wrench in hand. To date, Renaud has still not been heard by investigators. At the same time, reports continue to flow. Ligonnès seen in Mulhouse, on the four lanes between Saint-Brieuc and Rennes in a Peugeot 308 and overtaking on the right, Ligonnès seen again in Tunis and Toulouse. Ligonnès seen, but never caught. Next Section-Part 2D |
1-4-1988 | 1-11-1988 | 1-18-1988 | 1-25-1988 |
I apologize for that one and will quit using the term. Actually the term abortion for a bad match is a business term just like jobber, mark, babyface and the rest. But there are a few business terms (mainly for ethnic wrestlers and ethnic fans) which are in bad taste that I don’t use, so I’ll add that one to the list.
DiBiase will interfere and Andre will pin Hogan on 2/5, however Jack Tunney will prove he can’t be bought and hold the title up so Ted doesn’t get the title, and order a rematch in a cage at WM4 so Ted can’t interfere (and also so Andre can lose without doing a job). Hulk will win on a fluke, and they’ll run Hulk vs. Andre over the summer in your local cities after Hulk gets back from playing Hulk Hogan in the movies.
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