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- [00:01]
Ben
Every week here at Haunted Cosmos we release a special story driven show called the Dusty Tome just for our monthly supporters over at Supercast. But while we prepare a brand new season of the main show in the Haunted Cosmos Laboratory, we decided to give all of you a peek behind the paywall. So welcome to a special release of the Dusty Tome. It was the winter of 88 or 89 in Savannah, Georgia. In that part of the world, the winters are little more than what an early fall day might feel like in the higher mountains to the west. The sky was grayed over with clouds riding the wind off the chilled and tumultuous Atlantic during that day, and though it could not really be described as cold, the air was cool and breezy enough for the locals to justify the coats they loved but hardly ever got to wear. To be sure it was not warm after all, it was the dead of winter in a morning frost here and there painting the barren trees a sort of rosy pink in the morning sun over the ocean. It was night, and the echoing streets of the historic downtown rattled with the clinking of boots, the running and laughing of children, and the rumble of cars over the brick laden roads as the night became very dark with no moon and no stars to retard the darkness. Rain started to fall now, adding to the cold air thick with wetness. There was the chilled drops of southern snow, which is just rain. The previously tranquil streets seemed to churn under the quickened pace of people rushing home to escape that rain. Puddles formed in mere minutes, smoothing out the cracks between the cobblestones and making the whole town glow orange and yellow. As said puddles reflected and refracted the bright street lamps guiding the running family's home. It was dark, a wet dark and a vibrant dark because of that wetness, the evening wetness of the East. Through the streaming rain, there rode four bikes belonging to four friends with backs soaked through from the rear wheels, kicking up all the water the riders shirts could hold. The teenage friends stopped beneath a general store's overhang and propped their bikes up against the red brick. Though it being dry beneath the overhang, the brick looked a dingy brown compared to the almost oily, wet red bricks just beside them. They entered the store with a ring of the little bell atop the jam and stood just inside, being careful to wipe their shoes and drip as much excess water they could onto the welcome mat. The store's general manager and owner was a kindly old man, homely and gentle like the kind of person you might find well manning a general store in an idyllic southern town. The place was so quiet inside that it seemed to sing like faint traces of wind chimes times on a cold spring day. It was like all the greatest achievements of the antebellum south, without any of the vices to tarnish it. The old man greeted the boys with a smiling nod as he looked down through his glasses at the ledger for that day's sales. For their part, the boys waved and said hello before stepping right up to the counter to interrupt the man in his study. Finally, the two parties exchanged words. The apparent ringleader of the friends made friendly eye contact with the old man and held up a dollar bill. He asked for change and quarters. The old man, not at all confused at the request for change, but merely confused at the request for change at this hour of the day, asked the boys what they needed the quarters for. They were honest lads and told him straight, we're going to visit Gracie and want to leave her a presentation. At that, the man dutifully folded the single bill into his fold and counted out the quarters. He even threw in an extra with the parting request, Give her one from me, too, will you? The boys nodded and walked straight back out of the store into the rain, now properly pouring an increasingly bitter cold through the heavy darkness of the night. They rode and rode until their tires streaked patches of dry down a freshly tarmac side street that toed the line between the Savannah city limits and the adjacent town of Thunderbolt. In the midmost of the riding, the rain stopped and the wind off the coast gained more momentum. The clouds could be seen to grow thinner and thinner by the moment, as the same cycle of pressure that brought them so suddenly in also ushered them suddenly away. Soon enough the four boys were riding, their leader's pocket jingling with each turn of the pedal into a darkness soaked with water but now lightened ever so slightly by the silvery light of the moon shining above them. After riding for another quarter of an hour down that same road, one much less peppered with streetlights than those of downtown Savannah, the group finally skidded to a stop in front of a black iron gate blocking a grave road. They silently surveyed the gate and what lay beyond it, breathing heavy and with open mouths from the ride. Their breath looked like clouds of tin tinkling in the moonbeams, and they all took a moment to wipe the water from their faces. Over the course of the ride, the cold rain and cold wind had stopped having such a cooling effect. What remained caked on the boys was a most uncomfortable mixture of water and salty sweat that was sure not to simply dry off in the muggy nighttime air. So often this place felt like a cauldron to them. They took turns pushing one another and pulling one another up and over the thick and square stone posts that flanked either side of the tall fence. Once inside, the canopy of black tree branches looked like silhouettes of lightning or veins of tributaries of the Amazon against the backdrop of the moon. Dead and waterlogged Spanish moss hung down from nearly every branch in this metropolis of weeping willow. The tufts of the witch's hair swayed slightly in the wind, pointing the boys along the gravel path that led deeper into the cemetery, for of course a cemetery is where they were. Gravestones with epitaph markings, many of them caked in moss, or at least stained a brownish green by the ivy hanging above, met the boy's widening eyes and gave all but one of them pause. Only the leader had done this before. Only he knew the potential harm of of all the whispering air floating just around them. The rest of them had not been to this place at night and had not visited Gracie with gifts. They all had heard her playing in the witching hours of night in the green grass of the park just outside of her family's old hotel. They had seen her cloudy and white dress leaving traces of itself on the bench she continuously sat in and got up from next to the park, too. But only the leader with the change had ever come to the place she was supposed to be resting in. A stone monolith akin to some old Roman arch for the Empire's glory rose from the ground, immovable and unfeeling, 10ft ahead of the boys. It gave them a sense of being intruders. They felt like divers in a school of swarming things deep underwater. It was as though the arch shouted silently at them to leave and let the dead be, to let the dead bury their dead. Of course they didn't heed the warning and pressed on deeper into the rows of headstones and mausoleums and plinths in the ground, until finally they stood before it. The light radiating from the dripping wet marble sculpture was like a thing painted by mercury. The boys wondered silently how each one was seeing what he himself was seeing, for each boy wondered how the drops of pert quicksilver falling from the wrinkles in the dress did not paint the pine straw around its base a shimmering white. The carving of the girl, Gracie, so lifelike in her dress and boots and curling locks, stared blankly out at them. The plump cheeks of the six year old face appeared anything but solid and the delicate fingers, some placed in her lap and others, propped with their hand on the handle of a wooden bench she sat on, looked at any moment as if they might move. As he studied the image, the boy in the rear of the group felt an impulsive shiver run up and down his spine, and he gave a start at the sound of a little girl giggling behind him. He jerked his head quickly around but saw nothing and heard nothing more. All tricks of the mind, he supposed. He was relieved to discover, once he turned back, that none of his friends had seen his short little episode. The leader reached into his pocket and pulled the quarters out. He kept two one for him and one for the store clerk, and handed each of his friends their own. The plan was very simple. They would leave the quarters at the base of Gracie's statue and then lock hands to walk in a circle around the grave three times. The stories said that upon completion of the third circle, the group could look down to see their quarters magically gone, accepted by the cheerful and still childish Gracie. And this is exactly what they did. Under the pale face of Luna, they spun around the grave together and then eagerly looked down at the same time to see, to their disappointment, that the quarters were all still where they had left them. They muttered the Christian teenage version of curses under their breath and wondered what they had done wrong. Perhaps they supposed it didn't work, since the old store clerk had not chosen joined them. He tried to leave a gift without making a trip. This, they figured, may have upset the sensitive girl inside of the marble. Thus it was that they filed back out of the narrow corridor of bushes guarding the grave from crowds and started the long and dark and wet walk back to the bikes, where they'd be in for a late and muggy ride back home. But the fourth boy, the one who had thought he heard the laughing, lingered behind. Just for a moment. He faced away from the grave and hesitated before turning back in a quick rush and taking his quarter back from the ground. He thought he may try again tomorrow night, but all on his own. But as he stood up and turned again until his back faced the statue, he noticed the night darken. Gone was the light of the moon and stars. Gone again was the silver hope making sparkles of the wet world. Gone was the gentle breeze, and in came a swirling gust of violence that made whatever cold he had felt before that night feel as warm as summer. He heard the rustling leaves behind him and could swear that somewhere beneath and in the midst of all those sounds, he heard the sound like that of weeping it was weeping. It was the sorry cries of a little girl. Slowly, and not one wanting to, he turned around to face the statue once more and was cut to the quick by the gory sight where the moon had lit Gracie up, an almost religious beauty just before she now sat dark in brooding, like a goddess of death and magic, surveying the subjects she was too immature to care about. Her mouth looked to be a chiseled frown filled with hate, and the once solid and white hair now shook like the stiff gray Spanish moss hanging above it. From the eyes cast down in anger, there flowed what looked like streams of blood, thick and warm. It fell to the earth and just kept pouring out of the despairing eyes. The weeping turned to screams and the screams turned to shrieks, and the boy, frozen up to then, was jolted into a run out of the cemetery by the image of a ghastly figure with bleeding eyes and golden hair jumping out at him from the statue.
- [12:05]
Michael
In the middle of the 1990s, a man named Joe moved across the country from California to Georgia. He and his family had grown tired of the ever increasing cost of living, the liberalism and the hustle of living near some of the West Coast's biggest cities. Despite not having much in the way of family or another personal connection in the Peach State, Joe was able to find a good job opportunity in the quiet suburbs outside of Atlanta, and so without much hesitation made the move. Of course, at first things felt awkward. It took a minute for Joe and his wife to make adult friends, and their children had the usual amount of trouble adjusting to the new school and culture of youth they were stepping into. But after not too long, they had really engraced themselves to the place even sooner than they expected. Joe Georgia started to feel like home. Its history and rootedness and simplicity and general practice of Christianity made it seem comfortable and familiar to this small family who always felt like a fish flopping on the dock when they were in California. After a while of watching how well Joe liked the south, his brother Michael packed up his own family and moved to be near Joe. Even just right down the street, Michael had it a bit easier since he had the foothold of family already there, but even he was shocked at just how right it felt as he drove his caravan of people and possessions across the Alabama line and further east to the rolling pines of Georgia. From afar and without the counsel of his brother on the ground, Michael had signed a lease to rent a very old house on an especially quiet street. The house was by no means dingy. It had been remodeled by the owners in previous years and now shown with rich Southern charm. But it was old, and so it came with the noises and smells that you can imagine might accompany a place built in the early 1800s. The fresh facade of craftsmanship and paint and updated appliances cannot remove the history of a place or a thing. That much is certain. But as Michael and his family arrived and jumped out of the car to stretch their legs in the summer heat, no foreboding thoughts of doom like that entered into his mind. Instead, he smiled big at the already forming sweat on the small of his back, kissed his wife and hugged her with one of his arms and threw a baseball to his son with the other arm, delighted to see the boy chase the dog, laughing through the Bermuda grass and pine straw that painted the whole landscape with charm. His daughter, a little four year old girl, was far more sensitive than her older brother. She just stood there quietly staring at the new home. She even didn't turn when she heard her mom ask her what she thought about it all. Giving his wife a knowing nod and after watching her walk back to the car to start getting some of their things in order, Michael knelt down beside his little girl and gave her a big hug and kiss. He asked for a hug. She didn't respond. She asked her what she thought of the white fascia beneath the gutters that in the light almost appeared pink. She said nothing and diligently kept her face deadpan, if not a bit upset. That was when he finally asked her what was wrong. She'd been so excited for the move up to now, she even led the charge in singing the moving song Michael had made up at some point in Arkansas during their drive, but being four, she had not really understood what it meant. It wasn't until she saw the place and heard her people gawking over it and calling home that she realized she was never going back to the place she'd grown up thus far. This, to her, was not home. It was an imposter, a fake, a stranger. She had always been told never to talk to strangers, and now she was supposed to just run into this old house covered in makeup and treat it as the only place she'd ever known. Of course, she conveyed these feelings to her father in fewer words, but he understood them very clearly. He sympathized with his daughter, telling her soft stories about all the times he had moved growing up. He told her to the sound of crickets and bees humming somewhere in the background that his dad once helped him through moving by reminding him that the home was not so much the house as it is, the people that fill it. He told her that her people, her family, would still be with her in whatever place they lived. He told her that this is what made it home. This, he was glad to see, made her go from a frown to a soft smile. He knew it would still be some time before she was excited again. She was, after all, her mother's daughter. But he knew that the hard part of this job was actually done. She was a low maintenance girl. She'd come around fine. He invited her to go and play with her brother in the yard and have him take her to skip rocks across the pond. She was terrible at it, of course, but she always asked to do it. In the meantime, Michael and his wife waited for Joe to arrive there to help them unload after work. The they waited to go inside until he got there, thinking it would be somehow fun or somehow special to all do it together. Joe arrived after a while and fell right into the family pleasantries of hugs and laughs before it was time to turn the key and finally go inside. The kids still played down by the pond. The door opened with a satisfying click and the squeak that came from the hinges was deep and welcoming. Of course it was dark inside, but the sunset light cast rich beams of gold through the windows and onto the floors. Dust could be seen dancing in the air inside of the beams. The trio of adults stepped into the family room that the front door gave way to and silently traipsed around, studying all of the corners of the room and peeking through the cased opening, through the dining room and into the kitchen. Or at least Michael and his wife did this. Joe was still standing just inside of the threshold. Upon his first step into the home, a wave of intense and nauseating fear came over him. He was sure another step would make him throw up from being so afraid. He felt like a dog watching a mailman approach his home for the first time. All the hair on his arms and neck stood at attention, alerting him that something was very, very wrong. He staggered from the force of it all and immediately wished with all his heart he had never come in here, that his brother had never moved, that this house had never been built. Even though it was just for a few minutes, the debilitating terror felt forever. He was sure that some threat would sweep out of the shadows and kill them all at any moment, maybe some demonic horror made out of shadow, but smiling with a bloody smile and piercing white eyes. Eventually the feeling passed, but Joe didn't forget it. He clenched his teeth and calmed his racing heart and built up the courage to help his brother start moving things in. He wondered how on earth he was the only one of the group feeling any of this. About an hour later, Joe found himself carrying a box up the ancient feeling stairs, completely alone. He had not ventured up there yet. Michael had told him to take the box up to the end of the upstairs hallway where the master bedroom was. Joe did not want to seem like a coward and so made off to do the job as quickly as he could. The top of the stairs, when he reached its landing, felt a mile away from the door at the end of the straight hallway. The hall itself appeared to stretch out before him until it was longer and darker than could possibly be natural. He was too in his own head, he thought. He closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth before taking a deep breath. He looked down at his shoes While he opened his eyes. He noticed a small dark stain on the otherwise new beige carpet and lifted his face once more to stare down the house, his new foe. He walked dutifully down the empty hallway, past the kids rooms and past the bathroom they would share, and finally into the bedroom. He put the box down and straightened back up to leave. But before he turned around, he heard the sound of aggressive whispering somewhere behind him and maybe even above him. It sounded like the bickering of two people who had known each other for far too long. Bickering might be too soft of a word, though. It was a real fight with real passion and real anger coming from both sides. It came from the ceiling and Joe looked up with fright and stepped backwards out of the bedroom door. Once out, he turned and sprinted down the hallway, down the stairs and out of the front door onto the wraparound porch. Even this, he left as quickly as he could, like a kid running up the stairs from a dark basement and shaking off the fright. Once he reaches the kitchen, sure that some monster is pursuing him, nipping at his heels. Michael asked Joe what was wrong, and his question opened the floodgates. Don't you feel it, Mike? Something's off about this. This place. Something's not right here. Didn't you feel it when you first went in? Yeah, I guess I felt a little weird. But it's a new place. It's bound to feel off. It's just not familiar yet. I never want to be familiar with this house. I just heard horrible whispers coming from the ceiling upstairs. Oh, come on, Joe. You know that's insane. You have always let this stuff run wild in your head till you start hearing and Seeing things. Things. Look, I'm fine. We're fine. We're going to be happy here. Nah, man, I know what I heard. I'm sorry, Mikey, but I can't help you. I gotta get home. Look, we'll touch base tomorrow, but I've gotta get away from this place. Joe left, and he never went back to that house. That dark house inside the pines and overlooking the pond. For his part, Michael did start to notice odd feelings and odd noises here and there in the house, but he tried not to let it get to him. He was sure it was just his brother's fears creeping into his own head. He lived like that for a few weeks, but then something happened that turned the tide for the young father and sent him speeding away from that dark home just like his brother. It was by then the middle of autumn. The morning was especially cold and foggy mists from the north had swept through during the night, and it made the dark early morning fuzzy and almost dreamlike. Michael woke up and stretched his back on the edge of his bed before finally standing up and putting on his slippers. He lazily stepped out of his room and tried to quietly descend the stairs. Halfway down, though, he was jolted awake by a most worrying sight. The front door of their home, all alone on the quiet street, was propped slightly open, letting in the cool blue of the dark world outside. His heart raced. He remembered closing and locking it late the night before. He ran back up the stairs and noticed his daughter's bedroom door was also cracked ajar. He shuffled over to it and opened it wide to look inside. She was not there. Michael scrambled to calm down his shaking and then moved into action. He pulled on his coat, strapped on his boots, and left the house, closing the door behind him. Had he been less frantic, he may have jumped right into the car and sped off to the police station, but instead he just picked a direction of the road to run in and started shouting his daughter's name. Emma. Emma, can you hear me? He must have run a mile through the fog, shouting and shaking and crying for his little girl before he finally saw the silhouette of a shadow through the mist in front of him. He shouted more, and it seemed as though the shade of whatever it was stopped moving. He moved slower now, stepping forward with all the intrepid spirit gone through the fog and the gray light till he clearly saw it. The image was of his daughter, smiling and bundled up in her warm clothes, looking up as if at an unseen companion. Her left hand was raised above her head as if it was being held by one much taller than her. Michael screamed and charged at his girl, snatching her up despite protests and turning to run back for home. When he asked her what happened and why she had run away into that morning, she calmly told him that she had not run away, that the old lady who lived with them had woken her up to go for a morning walk, that the old woman had made sure she was wearing warm clothes so as not to catch cold. Michael asked how long the old woman had been living with him them. His daughter informed him that she was already here when they arrived. They left the house that day and never returned.
- [24:51]
Ben
Welcome to this second off season drop of the dusty tome. Hope you guys enjoyed those readings.
- [24:56]
Michael
Yeah, I know I did. And here's the thing. You know what I'm enjoying even more, listeners? I'm enjoying recording season six of Haunted Cosmos. While you guys are here in these dusty tomes, while you're toning the dust, we're out there digging content out of the minds of the haunted cosmos and carrying them up the mountain to be manufactured into. This is getting away. We're like.
- [25:20]
Ben
We're like.
- [25:20]
Michael
We're like dwarves.
- [25:22]
Ben
We're like Tolkien's dwarves in the depths of Khazad Dum. Just dig. Dig. Dude. We're like elves in Mori. We're like elves polishing, polishing these blades of. Dude.
- [25:31]
Michael
We're like, dude, we're looking in the mirror.
- [25:33]
Ben
We're like the Men of Numenor this season. Oh, season five.
- [25:38]
Michael
Whatever.
- [25:39]
Ben
Martina McBride just reminded us that we're actually in the midst of recording season five.
- [25:43]
Michael
How do they know we're not doing season six now?
- [25:45]
Ben
They know because I'm telling them.
- [25:46]
Michael
Well, season five, it's because we're not.
- [25:49]
Ben
But pretty soon it's going to be like season 10.
- [25:51]
Michael
Here's what I want.
- [25:52]
Ben
We're like Easterlings.
- [25:54]
Michael
Here's what I want. Here's what I want. I want you to summarize that first story for me in a paragraph. Because if it is what I think happened.
- [26:03]
Ben
Yes?
- [26:03]
Michael
Then I have some thoughts.
- [26:04]
Ben
Okay.
- [26:05]
Michael
Ready? Yeah.
- [26:06]
Ben
Chat GPT Ben GPT.
- [26:12]
Michael
Well, consider this your official invite to join us here in ogden, Utah, from June 12th to the 14th this summer for our annual New Christendom press conference. And Haunted Cosmonauts. Ben and I are going to be doing a live Haunted Cosmos show with sound design and everything. There's going to be all sorts of great speakers, times to hang out. Long story short, guys, we want to see you there. Head to the link in the description. It's newchristenimpress.com 2025 for tickets and more information, but we hope to see you there.
- [26:49]
Ben
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- [27:53]
Michael
Hey Ben, I just read that our great grandparents probably experimented with butter on their dry skin as a moisturizer. Is that why you look so radiant?
- [28:02]
Ben
Maybe it's Grandma's Butter Recipe. Or maybe it's Gray Toad Tallow.
- [28:07]
Michael
Their tallow products are 100% organic and naturally container the good stuff your skin craves. No mystery there.
- [28:14]
Ben
So say Sayonara Sammy to kitchen experiments and say hello to healthier skin. Gray Toad Tallow Trusted by Skin Envied by Great Grandma's Butter Recipe.
- [28:27]
Michael
For more information and to get a sample pack, check out gray toad tallow.com don't forget to use the code COSMOS15. That's all caps COSMOS1 55 for 15% off your order.
- [28:44]
Ben
In Savannah, Georgia in the summer of 88 or 89. Which, by the way, yeah, if anyone gets the reference, the deepest cut reference.
- [28:51]
Michael
I lose like three notches of respect for you if you get the reference.
- [28:54]
Ben
If anyone gets that, it is such a deep cut. Did you if you get it, I and I'm not making this up, okay? No, if you can give you I will personally guarantee no that you have full access.
- [29:09]
Michael
No, that's not true. You've now said it. They could just google the sentence.
- [29:13]
Ben
It won't tell them. Dude, it's yes, it would.
- [29:15]
Michael
It's a lyric.
- [29:16]
Ben
I told you. Okay? What the heck.
- [29:18]
Michael
It's a lyric of a song. Of course it's gonna come up if they Google it.
- [29:22]
Ben
It's a paraphrased lyric of a song anyway. All right, so it was Summer. It was winter 88 or 89 in Savannah, Georgia. There was this legend in Savannah of a little girl named Gracie who tragically passed away. And apparently, if you go to her grave and offer her trinkets like quarters or toys and then dance around her grave like a witch, the trinket would vanish. And you would have, like, offered something to Grace. I don't know what the point was apart from the, like, the thing vanished. And that's crazy. And so that's what these boys were doing. They got the quarters from the store clerk. He was like, hey, give one to Gracie for me too, will ya? They all go. They offer them at the grave. They dance around the grave, and then nothing happens. And so they leave disappointed. And then the one kid turns around to take his quarter back. Everyone else had just left theirs. And when he does, this, like, horrible, grotesque demon impersonation of a little girl is like, lunging out at him and scaring him to death.
- [30:24]
Michael
This is why we can't have nice things. Why?
- [30:26]
Ben
What are you talking about?
- [30:27]
Michael
People have. Have. Have these people not listen to a single episode of Haunted.
- [30:31]
Ben
I thought you were still talking about the lyric thing.
- [30:33]
Michael
No, I'm saying.
- [30:34]
Ben
Okay, yeah, yeah, yeah. Have those boys not listening.
- [30:36]
Michael
Are you kidding me? After all the work we've done?
- [30:38]
Ben
We've done a time travel episode, specifically.
- [30:41]
Michael
Told people not to do everything, Sing every single thing that we just said that you just described.
- [30:46]
Ben
Dude, you sound like you shouldn't be.
- [30:47]
Michael
Doing, like, what are you doing? You're leaving sacrifices to demons, pretending to be little girls. You're just encouraging them.
- [30:54]
Ben
Yes. You're turning. First of all, there's something really messed up to me about turning tragedy, horrible tragedy, into this, like, novel accessory to a city. Savannah is one of the most haunted places in the world. By the way, the ghost tour there is very fascinating. I've been on it in sixth grade at a Christian school, but that's not the whole one. Yeah. I mean, all you do is ride around on the bus, and they're like, that building's haunted too.
- [31:17]
Michael
This is why we needed Haunted Cosmos.
- [31:19]
Ben
Yeah, dude, if my teachers wouldn't have. If my teachers had only listened to our time travel episode, they would have time traveled in the future. Listen to me. And they wouldn't have done this. Yes. But anyway, like, that. That's messed up. Turning this. This really bad tragedy into this sort of novelty thing.
- [31:33]
Michael
I love how, if we have time travel, the thing people are using it to do is go listen to Haunted Cosmos early.
- [31:41]
Ben
Is there anything that's the first thing.
- [31:44]
Michael
That would come to my mind.
- [31:45]
Ben
You don't do anything about Charlemagne. You don't do anything about, like, Hitler. You don't do anything about 9 11, which you couldn't have.
- [31:53]
Michael
Okay, okay.
- [31:55]
Ben
You would have warned people. It still would have happened.
- [31:57]
Michael
See our future work.
- [31:58]
Ben
Yes.
- [31:58]
Michael
Maybe. I don't know if we'll ever do an episode on it.
- [32:00]
Ben
Probably not. It would get nerfed so bad, so hard. Anyway, so that's what happened, people.
- [32:05]
Michael
Here. Here's the. Like, this is a dusty tone. We can't go on forever. But let me just. Let me just kind of round it out here by saying, don't do that.
- [32:12]
Ben
And the second story is one of the creepiest things.
- [32:17]
Michael
Yeah.
- [32:17]
Ben
Seriously. This old woman who was like, befriending this little girl. Who is it with ghosts and little girls.
- [32:23]
Michael
Classic demon behavior.
- [32:24]
Ben
That makes it creepy too. Cause they're like. So you think like a boy would be like, I'm gonna shoot it.
- [32:30]
Michael
Oh, if Ari. Or if my boyce saw old lady ghost. First of all, they've listened to all the hantecosmos.
- [32:37]
Ben
Yes.
- [32:37]
Michael
They'd be like.
- [32:38]
Ben
So anyway, I started blasting my sons every time. Every night I put them to bed and I'm like, what are you gonna dream about? And they're like, killing dragons and wolves and tyrants.
- [32:47]
Michael
Except now one of them says, yeah, killing rhin. Is it rhinoceroses?
- [32:52]
Ben
Oh. My oldest son at the time of recording thinks that rhinoceri are the biggest existential threat to humanity. He's like, well, rhinos are just bad and I need to kill all of them. I was like, well, do you know.
- [33:05]
Michael
Where this came from?
- [33:06]
Ben
No, I have no idea. I'm guessing that grandma may have had something to do with it.
- [33:10]
Michael
She was like, watch out for the rhinos.
- [33:12]
Ben
Yeah.
- [33:12]
Michael
Like, I don't know, grandparents sometimes, you know, sometimes you gotta keep an eye on them.
- [33:16]
Ben
Sometimes they like the children.
- [33:18]
Michael
You gotta keep an eye on them. Cause that, you know, the ghost thing in the house, the demon, it was pretending to be what, a grandmother.
- [33:24]
Ben
But think about it. Like the little girl, she already doesn't want to move into this new house.
- [33:28]
Michael
Yeah.
- [33:29]
Ben
And then this, you know, very gentle, helpful old woman is comforting her and making her see, like, it's not that bad. And then she's trying to take her heaven knows where, by the way, that morning, probably to like, drown in a lake or something.
- [33:44]
Michael
Probably to the fae kingdoms.
- [33:46]
Ben
Yeah, seriously.
- [33:47]
Michael
Under the mounds.
- [33:47]
Ben
So kudos to that dad for being so panicked a king that he just like, ran in A direction.
- [33:53]
Michael
First of all, they should have listened to the brother so true to Joe. Was that the Joe or Michael, Whichever of the two, they should have listened to the other one should have listened to the other 100, whether Joe or Michael or Michael or Joe or Mike. You know what I'm saying?
- [34:04]
Ben
So here's the takeaways from today's dusty tome.
- [34:06]
Michael
Don't go to Georgia ever.
- [34:10]
Ben
Yeah, I mean, that's fine. Don't offer things at the grave of anyone who's dead and then do a little witch's Sabbath dance around the grave to try and get the ghost demon that's inhabiting the grave to take them away. That's step one, I feel like.
- [34:24]
Michael
Did we have to say, like that had to be said is the problem.
- [34:28]
Ben
I know, I know. It's not fun. It's not funny. Don't do it. Step two, I don't know. I guess if you're a little girl, don't get taken by a demon. Grandma, do you see this?
- [34:42]
Michael
Hey, Ben, can you pass me the butter?
- [34:44]
Ben
Yeah, sure, man. Do you want the White Camel butter or the Golden Cow butter?
- [34:48]
Michael
No, not that butter.
- [34:49]
Ben
Well, what other butter is there?
- [34:51]
Michael
I'm talking about Design Butter who specialize in digital product design. Whether it's a mobile or web app, David at DesignButter can help make sure your product is best on the market. Design Butter helps you identify problems your users are having and makes the experience better, which results in more sales, return customers, and a level of trust that makes your brand memorable.
- [35:13]
Ben
Dang. Design Butter. I can't believe it's not actual butter. Cause it's so dang smooth.
- [35:18]
Michael
Sounds like they need to head to designbutter.com for more information. Man, Ben, I knew we were handsome, but I didn't know we were that handsome until I saw our recent Haunted Cosmos thumbnails.
- [35:34]
Ben
Yeah, your skin looks so velvety smooth.
- [35:38]
Michael
I mean, it's unbelievable. Chris at New Dominion Design Company did an absolutely fantastic job not only on those thumbnails, but on our recent book cover as well.
- [35:46]
Ben
Yeah, exactly. And if you need some design work, work from Chris, you should go to newdominondesignco.com get started there and he'll serve you right, man.
- [35:55]
Michael
He will make you look 50. As handsome as Ben, guaranteed. Ben's Tucker Carlson nicotine pouches are apparently have been behind our Martin Enhanced.
- [36:08]
Ben
Enhanced.
- [36:09]
Michael
This is not even a paid sponsor. Although, Tucker, let's talk.
- [36:14]
Ben
It could be.
- [36:15]
Michael
We could move some out for you because Ben personally buys.
- [36:18]
Ben
I have an alpen right now.
- [36:19]
Michael
90 pouches a day.
- [36:20]
Ben
Yeah.
- [36:21]
Michael
He has been dropping Alps and writing Cormac McCarthy purple prose for literally. He's been awake for 72 hours.
- [36:30]
Ben
I've been climbing the Matterhorn right now. It does.
- [36:33]
Michael
All right. I think that's probably good for this one.
- [36:36]
Ben
So goodbye, viewers.
- [36:37]
Michael
Yeah. In next dusty Tome, stay tuned for the big season. And hey, just as a reminder, we're going to be dropping the whole season early for literally the day that season five, episode one comes out publicly. Patrons at the top two tiers, we'll already have. We'll be able to stream the whole season on demand.
- [36:59]
Ben
So shout out.
- [37:01]
Michael
Rock it out to somebody. Keep it up. Summer 89.
- [37:06]
Ben
Summer 80.
- [37:07]
Michael
It was the summer of the sixth in.