It’s getting cold, standing by the water in Lotus Isle City Park.
Looking across the Columbia River at the planes taking off from Sheraton Portland Airport.
I wish I was on one of those flights.
A Portland detective that my Editors have on retainer called last night. Fifteen bodies were found, tied together, spanning the river from North Bridgeton Road to Tomahawk Island.
At first glance local authorities pinned it down as a mass murder.
Upon examination of the bodies, the techs on site discovered it was the same man. All fifteen of them. Down to the birthmark on the left thigh.
In cases of twins, they usually don’t share the birthmark. These fifteen men, they seem to be exactly the same. Like they were photocopied.
The investigators found four more bodies tied to a dock behind a house on North Lotus Dr.
The eyes and tongues have been cut out of all the bodies. They were definitely posed, like they were in some gruesome dance.
9:30a.m. After standing by the water for 5 hours, they finally found the murderer.
He looked exactly like the victims. Down to the birthmark on the left thigh. Which, we could all see, because he was naked, covered in blood and dirt.
Yeah, I know him. Lost his son a few months back. Went a little crazy after that. A little dark. But I don’t know why there are so many of him.
While they were putting the naked man into handcuffs, another man, identical to the one in custody, comes running out of the woods, knife in hand and attacks.
I heard he kept trying to find the ghost of his son. He said this place was magical, he could go to where the ghosts were.
A low hum flows through the trees and more of the man come out onto the street.
Every time I went under, I brought one back with me. Then they would go under, there are so many of them…they aren’t alive. They aren’t real.
The same-men surround the police and start to move in.
The humming gets louder and the same-men flicker in and out.
The police open fire.
The real-man is screaming for his son.
The trees burst into flames. I’m trying to get close enough to the mass of same-men, taking pictures, trying to record the hum.
I hear sirens in the distance. Hopefully firetrucks.
A lone coyote steps from the smoke and watches.
All the same-men are on the ground, dead or dying.
The real-man is in the back of one of the police cars.
The fire department is struggling to put out the flames- the wind from the river adding to their struggle.
I drive away from the carnage. Real people or not, it turns my stomach.
On the radio I hear reports of the same-men appearing all over Portland.
One hit by a car on North Expo Rd.
Three found digging massive holes in the Mud Slough.
I get on Interstate 5 and make my way out of Portland, same-men running through the trees, dancing in the sun.
I keep my eyes forward and focus on leaving.