"Life is a screen which separates us from the mystery of things."

VICTOR HUGO
1862

Closely, Stan watched as the six long fingers entered the black man's chest. He tried not to jump, scream, gasp or even breathe but couldn't help but tremble. Although he inspected the scene at a distance, he hoped that the creature violating the young black man wouldn't know that he was there. His quaking hand held fast to his camcorder, making certain he caught every moment on tape. He surveyed this all as the small creature with gray skin stuck its entire hand into the black man's right pectoral area and come back into the open with a beating heart. What amazed Stan the most was that the young man was still alive.

From his perch on the fire escape of the second-story landing, Stan noted that the three other young black men seemed impressed, but not shocked by this display. Stan concluded that these inner city youths must've dealt with these creatures before.

ALIENS, his brain screamed, just say it!

No way, Stan said to himself, too afraid to speak aloud. He wouldn't say it or accept it. Certainly, The creatures meeting with this small bunch of gang members in Compton, California fit the bill of the prototypical, mass media alien: Four feet tall, gray skinned, big dark eyes, domed heads, long arms and long fingers. However, Stan knew that these things didn't really exist. Did they?

Stan, once a promising student at UCLA until too many bad trips left him expelled and jobless, was no idiot. Nevertheless, he was often homeless except for when he could scrounge info on the gangs in south-central Los Angeles. His pal, detective Jerome Giles, paid him well as a snitch and even dispatched him with a camcorder on occasion to help with sticky entrapment cases. Stan licked his lips and thanked God that he kept the recorder from the other night's brutal methamphetamine bust. Jerome would never believe this one if he couldn't see it.

Stan saw the creature reach down into a pouch on its belt and remove an object shaped like a human heart, only clear as crystal. The being inserted this glassy article into the black youth's chest and placed the real heart in the pouch. Suddenly, the young man and his friends seemed overjoyed by something. Their communal glee was voiced, but Stan couldn't understand the words. His eyes caught something behind the "alien" trio. Thirty feet behind them was a shimmering black oval. It wasn't a ship, but a glowing rip in the middle of the air running horizontally. The oval surged with blue light about its edges, as if it possessed a pulse. The center of the elliptical ripple blotted out the dirty wall behind them. One of the creatures turned from the scene and walked back toward the black oval, then stepped into it. The body vanished into the black spot. Stan swallowed hard and tried to keep from shaking or vomiting.

This is impossible, his brain howled. All of that alien stuff is nonsense! Enough of his scientific mind remained for him to dismiss such tales as this. Stan knew that it was so illogical and impossible…yet there they stood, taking another heart from a youth and replacing it with a clear copy. What was going on? Was this a gag of some kind? How could it be?

Unexpectedly, one of the creatures looked right at Stan. He wasn't sure if the alien saw him in that instance, but the creature certainly noticed him when Stan screamed and jumped into the window of the condemned tenement building. Stan ran through the disused apartment, out into the hallway and in the opposite direction as the alley with the gang members and creatures. He sprinted down the stairs and looked all around the floor he was on. Swiftly, he moved into the community toilet in the hall and stashed the camcorder in the filthy medicine cabinet. He then bolted out into the smelly hallway.

"Stop!" He heard a human voice shout at him, but kept on running anyway. Stan turned a corner as several shots rang out. He was almost to an exit when he thought better of it. Quickly, he ran into an apartment full of full garbage bags and opened a window. As he peered to his right, many fears were confirmed. Sure enough, one of the black men stood waiting at the exit Stan almost took with a gun drawn. Stan regained control of his breath and drew out his .38 special. He'd never used it and prayed he never, ever would. Stan abhorred guns, but knew where he was living. He slipped out of the window, but the black man heard him. Stan shot at him twice, nicking him in the right shoulder, but connecting with his stomach. The black man grabbed his gut wound and stumbled back around the corner. Not caring if the youth lived, Stan ran like mad down the alley.

After he rounded the corner, it dawned on Stan that he'd run in the wrong direction. He'd flown past the floating black oval of light and was almost on top of the two creatures when he stopped. The creatures looked at each other and then beckoned him to come closer. One of the black youths stood at the rear of the creatures and raised his automatic pistol. Stan backed up, firing three times. One of his shots struck the boy square in the chin, splitting his jaw. The fount of crimson blood from his face splashed one of the creatures on the back of its domed gray skull, but Stan never knew where the other bullets went. He turned to run, not realizing that the floating black oval was hovering behind him. Stan tried to stop, but his momentum carried him into the black, pulsing oval.

In an instant, Stan's ears popped and every hair on his body stood literally on end. His eyes were full of swirling violet colored lights as a wave of what felt like electric current flowed about his body. Stan felt incredibly warm as the sensation of falling billowed over him. He knew that he was screaming by the vibrations in his neck, but his ears couldn't hear it. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing air. His heart skipped when he kicked his feet . . . a trick inconceivable with the ground being under him.

As sudden as the wild ride into the tunnel of violet light started, it ended. With a thud, Stan fell onto a slick, hard surface. Rolling over on the warm surface, Stan realized he was nude and that he wasn't in the filthy Compton alley any longer.

Staring at the scene before him, Stan rubbed his bloodshot eyes. A half dozen of the gray creatures sat at small card-tables looking into floating glass globes. Several human men in black suits flanked these aliens. A few of these humans wore the uniform of American military officers. This bizarre group talked amongst themselves in a large cavern, concerned over what they saw in the globes.

Stan went to Merrimac Caverns in Missouri when he was a child and thought the grooved walls around him looked close to those, save for the tiny holes. Glancing back over his shoulder, Stan saw that the oval of shifting blackness floated there. Stan attempted to get up, but both of his legs were "asleep." As he struggled to get a knee up, everyone in the room gaped at him.

His mind was ablaze with several thoughts: He must get up. He must get back into the oval. He must get back to Compton.

"Jesus Christ," one of the men in military clothing gasped.

At his words, everyone in the room glared at him and he stepped back. The military man wore a sheepish look. As Stan struggled with his numb legs, he saw the military man glow a yellowy orange and vanish. His eyes locked on the creatures, which looked different to him all of a sudden. The scene was almost out of focus, like a television with the horizontal hold screwed up.

"Stanley Christopher Gray. You are an unlucky man," one of the gray creatures said in clear English, "You have seen things no man should."

"Screw you!" Stan grunted as he succeeded in getting to one knee, "So the stupid people are right. There are aliens. I never believed in UFOs, but I figured if you guys are real, you traveled through dimensions."

The creature almost smiled. "I see all that is in your mind, little man. We have a scant advantage to gain by setting you free on the Earth with a complicated abduction story. Nor do we need your heart."

Stan stood on both unstable feet and rasped, "What did you need them for?" As he spoke he saw the tiny holes on the walls contract, then recede. It was almost as if they breathed.

Two young black men came through the ebony oval and stood behind Stan. They were nude, but had no trouble standing. One was gut shot, another wounded in the chin. Both men's faces were blank and listless.

"How the hell did they live through that?" Stan exclaimed.

"They didn't," the creature said as a shadow grew over his back. Stan beheld two long, leathery wings extend out of its back. The creature's legs and arms grew longer and its head narrowed to a more humanoid shape. When the creature was fully transformed, Stan though it looked like the usual depiction of a male Angel . . . save for the wings were leathery and bat-like. He was handsome but very severe. Slowly, all of the creatures and military men transformed likewise.

"This is impossible," Stan whispered, "I don't believe it at all! There is no Devil!"

The winged creature smiled with teeth not unlike those of a shark. Stan assumed such creatures would be ugly. They all bore flaws—scars or mild deformities, but were ruggedly magnanimous. A largest flaw in their bodies struck him; all of them had hooves and not feet.

"Just keep telling yourself that," the lead creature laughed, "Have you noticed yet that your heart has stopped? You traveled into another dimension, all right. Care to guess which one?"

Stan touched his chest as the black men grabbed his arms. As he screamed, they tossed him into the black oval.

* * *

The next morning detective Jerome Giles stood between firefighters, and watched the condemned building burn. There wasn't much left of it, so Jerome walked about the edge of the scene. The old detective rubbed his scruffy gray beard and asked one of the policemen, "Well, what a deal! Anyone known to frequent that place?"

The officer shrugged. "Probably some homeless squatters trying to cool or stay warm. We did find one body in the alley. C'mon back here, sir, it is the damnedest thing!"

Jerome followed him to the alley where the officer pointed at a human skeleton.

"Damned if I know how this sucker got his flesh burned off his bones. Not a burn on the ground or bones, though."

Jerome shook his head and looked the small crowd of gapers over. Several young men wearing gang colors littered the group. Certain that one of them was the arsonist, Jerome cursed to himself. "Damned kids these days," Jerome spat, "No heart. No feelings. Ya would think none of them had a soul."

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