We’d traveled hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of miles into the deepest recesses of the desert land to see the Bottomless Pit of Babies for ourselves. We all peered down into the abyss, my father holding me up over the edge for a better look.
“See, look over at those ones. They’re trying to climb out. Isn’t that the cutest?”
We all peered down into the seething, teeming bowl of fresh babies–mewling, crawling, naked, red, and raw, faces scrunched and fists balled, crying out for the mothers from which they’d be ripped away, screaming at the fathers that let them go.
Yeah, it was a bottomless pit of babies. That was for sure. And we all saw it. Paid for the pleasure, even.
Oh, and they even set one up for display up there. So we could all see what they looked like, up close.
But it was just a baby.
South Broadway Ghost Society 