Host 1 (6:26)

What's going on?

Storyteller 1 (6:29)

You've been gone. Since when? I don't know. I think we left around 7:30. The movie started at 8:30, she said.

Host 1 (6:39)

Why?

Storyteller 1 (6:39)

What's wrong? I didn't know what to say. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Storyteller 2 (6:47)

N Nothing.

Storyteller 1 (6:49)

Nothing, I lied. I just couldn't get a hold of you and I was just a little worried. I don't know why. Just forget it. After I hung up, I sat there in silence, staring at my phone.

Storyteller 2 (7:02)

If they had been gone the whole.

Storyteller 1 (7:04)

Time, who picked up the phone when I called? And who turned off the living room light when I knocked on the front door? The next morning, I decided to go back to their house during the daytime. I told myself it would feel less scary in the sun, but as soon as I pulled into their driveway, that same feeling hit me again. The house looked normal, but it really felt like someone was in sight that.

Storyteller 2 (7:31)

Should not be there.

Storyteller 1 (7:33)

I went inside the house and checked every room, every closet, every corner. Everywhere. Everything was normal in its place. Nothing was out of the ordinary at all. But the air felt heavy, like the house was holding its breath. That probably doesn't make much sense, but that's how it felt. I walked down the hallway, and just.

Storyteller 2 (7:56)

For a moment, I thought I heard it again.

Storyteller 1 (7:59)

That faint, distorted whispering sound. I bolted out of there without looking back. I didn't tell my parents what happened. I didn't know how to explain it without sounding crazy. But I haven't been back there alone since. Whatever or whoever it was that answered the phone and whoever turned off that light, I don't think it wanted me to leave. But I'm glad I did. Sometimes, late at night, I lay in my bed and wonder what would have happened if I pulled that key out of my pocket and went inside that house. This happened recently, and even now it still gives me the chills. I was home alone with my dog, Max, and two of my friends, Sarah's dogs, Luna and Mikko. Sarah had begged me to watch them while she went on a weekend getaway, and since I had the space, I agreed. Three dogs at once was kind of a lot, but they were good company. It was supposed to be just another quiet evening at the house. That's what it was supposed to be, anyway. The dogs had been lounging in the living room with me while I scrolled. Max was curled up at my feet, like usual. Luna was stretched out by the couch, and Miko was snoring softly near the TV stand. Everything was fine. But then, all of a sudden, they all looked up at the same exact time. I looked up, too, a little startled, wondering what they were doing. All three dogs had their ears perked, their bodies looked tense, and they were staring up at the loft. I felt a small ripple of unease, but I brushed it off. What's the matter, guys? I said, my voice a little nervous. The loft was just a storage space, but it was dark and quiet up there. Just then, Max let out a low growl, and then suddenly followed by sharp, frantic barks from Luna and Miko. They were losing their minds, barking like they had seen something or someone. Hey, calm down.

Advertiser (10:16)

Stop.

Storyteller 1 (10:17)

Stop. I tried to get them to stop, but my own voice was shaky. I glanced up towards the loft again, but there was nothing there that I could see. Just shadows and the vague outline of boxes and furniture. The dogs did not care. They were fixated on something that I couldn't see, barking as if their lives depended on it. And then I heard it bark. The voice was soft and calm, almost amused, like someone was mocking them. Or mocking me, obviously. Yes, it came from the loft, clear as day. My breath caught in my throat and goosebumps appeared on my skin. I froze. Did I imagine this? There's no way. No, it was too real. The dogs heard it, too, because they absolutely lost their minds, barking even louder and backing away from the loft. They were scared, and seeing them scared was terrifying. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. There's no way that someone's up there. Maybe the sound carried from outside. Maybe it was some kind of echo. But deep down, I knew better. That voice wasn't mine, and there was no one else supposed to be in this house. Hello? I called out, hating how small my voice sounded. No response. The dogs kept barking, their eyes glued to the loft. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest, I thought I might have a heart attack. I felt like a kid again, afraid of the monster under the bed. Except now it was real. I didn't stick around to figure this out. I grabbed the dog's leashes with shaking hands.

Storyteller 2 (12:10)

We're going for a walk.

Storyteller 1 (12:11)

Come on.

Storyteller 2 (12:11)

We're going for a walk.

Storyteller 1 (12:13)

They didn't need convincing. We were out the door in less than a minute. Once we were outside, the cold air hit me hard. Hard, and I realized how fast I had been breathing. The street lights were casting shadows across the pavement. Every sound, I heard rustling Leaves, cars. They all made me jump, which was not normal. I was just so on edge. I kept glancing back at the house, half expecting to see someone watching us from the window. I walked for a long time, trying to shake off the fear, telling myself that I was being ridiculous. The dogs calmed down instantly as soon as we went outside. But I wasn't. That voice played over and over in my head. It wasn't just the word, it was the way it was said. Calm, playful, like whoever it was wanted me to know they were there. When I finally made my way back to the house, it was late. The house looked even darker than it did before. I hesitated at the door, debating whether I should just drive to a motel for the night or something. But I told myself, I'm being ridiculous. There's no one in there. I would lock all the doors, turn on all the lights, and everything would be just fine. Stepping inside, I immediately flew, flipped every switch I could reach, flooding the house with light. The dogs stuck close to me, their usual playful energy replaced with quiet nervousness. I stared up at the loft, my heart racing. But it was empty, at least as far as I could see. I grabbed a flashlight from the closet by the kitchen, and I forced myself to climb those stairs. My hands were soaking wet, and I felt like I was walking into a horror movie. The loft was just as it was supposed to be. Boxes, furniture, some old blankets stacked in the corner. Nothing seemed out of place, but it didn't feel right. The air up there was heavy, like something was watching me from somewhere. I didn't stay long. I hurried back downstairs, locked every door and window, and tried to convince myself that it was all in my head. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. I definitely heard someone say bark. Someone had been there. I didn't sleep well that night, as you can imagine. I don't think the dogs did either. The next morning, I called Sarah and told her that I couldn't walk watch her dogs anymore. I didn't explain why. How do you tell someone their dogs heard a voice in your house? She didn't ask many questions. She just picked them up later that day. Even now, I can't stop thinking about that voice. It wasn't angry or threatening. It was somehow worse. It was playful, which is somehow much more terrifying. They wanted me to know they were there, but they didn't need to.

Storyteller 2 (15:27)

So why did they?

Storyteller 1 (15:29)

I haven't been back there since, and Sarah has never mentioned that she experienced anything similar in her house. But still, I can't shake the feeling that there's something there or someone there waiting. And that's the scariest part. Part.

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Storyteller 1 (16:29)

My great aunt Grace was a remarkable woman. Though she had been blind since her 20s, she never let her lack of sight define her. Grace lived alone in a small house deep in the southern woods, not far from an old prison. She often joked that being blind made her world quieter, easier to manage. But she admitted that sometimes silence could be a curse. One summer evening, Grace sat in her favorite chair by the radio, her fingers resting lightly on the wooden armrest. The radio was her lifeline to the outside world, and she loved her evening programs. That night, however, her routine was interrupted by a sudden news bulletin. Authorities are warning residents to stay vigilant. A prisoner has escaped from a nearby penitentiary. The man is considered dangerous. Grace sat motionless as the words sank in. She couldn't see her surroundings, but she could feel the walls of her little house closing in. Her fingers gripped the armrests tighter as she leaned toward the radio, listening for more. When the broadcast ended, silence crept back into the room, but now it felt suffocating, filled with invisible weight. Taking a deep breath, she stood and moved to the front door, her hand brushing lightly against the familiar surface of her walking stick. She reached the door and felt for the deadbolt, sliding it into place. From there she went window to window, her fingers trailing along the frames to ensure every latch was secure. Her hands knew every inch of her home, and she relied on touch the way others relied on sight. She double checked each lock, her heart beating faster with each quiet click. When she was satisfied the house was secure, she went to her bedroom. The air felt heavy tonight. It was thicker somehow, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something felt off. She felt the edge of her bed with her hand and sat down slowly, the mattress sagging slow, lightly under her weight. But as soon as she sat, her heart stopped. She felt as if there was a shift beneath her. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable nonetheless. Something under the bed moved. Grace froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her ears strained against the the silence, listening for anything, any movement, any sound at all but all she could hear was her own shallow breathing. Her fingers brushed against her walking stick again, and she gripped it tightly. She stood, her movements deliberate and quiet, every muscle in her body tense. Her bare feet barely made a sound as she backed away from the the bed, her other hand brushing against the edge of the dresser until it found the smooth, familiar shape of the phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the operator. Hello, this is Grace Warner, she whispered, her voice steady despite the terror crawling up her spine. I need the police. There's someone in my house. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching into eternity. Grace stood motionless in the corner of the room, clutching her walking stick like a lifeline. She heard nothing. The silence pressed against her ears, but she could feel something, a presence, something in the room she didn't need her eyes to know. She was not alone. Finally, the sound of tires crunching on gravel broke the suffocating silence. Relief washed over her as she heard the heavy footsteps of the police entering the house. She called out to them, directing them to the bedroom. One of the officers knelt down and lifted the edge of the mattress. The room was silent for a moment, and then came the sharp, commanding voice of the officer. Come out with your hands where I can see them. There was a scuffle, followed by a clatter of handcuffs. Grace's legs buckled and she sank into a chair, her walking stick falling to the floor. She couldn't see what was happening, but the tension in the air told her enough. The officers escorted the man out of her house, and one of them returned to explain. I believe this is the man that disappeared from the prison, ma'am. I'm sure you know that he was under your bed. Is that right, ma'am?

Host 1 (21:32)

He.

Storyteller 1 (21:34)

It appears he took one of your kitchen knives. My guess is he was waiting for you to fall asleep, ma'am. The words sent a cold wave of terror through her body. Grace sat in stunned silence, gripping the armrests of her chair until her knuckles ached. The man had been right there, inches from where she had been standing. He must have heard her call the police, and yet he did nothing. She couldn't see him, but she could feel the echo of his presence the whole time. The police eventually left, and Grace closed the door behind them. She told herself it was over, that she was safe. But the house didn't feel like it should. It didn't feel like her comfortable safe haven anymore. The walls seemed to press in again. Grace eventually managed to lie down, exhaustion pulling her into a restless sleep. But her rest was shattered. Just a few hours later, when in the dead of night, she heard her front door open. The noise jolted her awake, her heart hammering in her chest. She quickly sat up, grabbed her walking stick, and stumbled out of bed, her feet finding the floor with urgent purpose. Her hands felt their way along the walls as she moved toward the front door, her ears straining for any sound. The door was wide open, the cold night air flowing through freely. Her fingers found the lock and she bolted the door, her movements shaky. She stood there for a moment, listening, but the house was silent. She heard nothing. Grace made her way to the kitchen, her hand trailing along the counter until it found the knife block. One by one, she ran her fingers over the knives, counting, making sure each.

Storyteller 2 (23:35)

One was in place.

Storyteller 1 (23:37)

And they all were, including the one that the police had returned to her earlier. She was flooded with relief, but it was fleeting. Something still felt wrong. She was sure she locked that door. She stood in the kitchen for what felt like forever, her fingers brushing over the counter, her ears searching for any hint of movement. Normally, even if somebody didn't make a move, her sense of hearing was so heightened that she could tell if someone was in the room with her. Eventually, she convinced herself it was her imagination and returned to her bedroom, blocking the door behind her once more. When morning came, the sunlight did little to ease her fears. Grace moved cautiously through the house, her fingers brushing up against familiar surfaces as she made her way back to the kitchen. She had breakfast on her mind. As she reached the counter, the radio crackled to life again with another news bulletin. The inmate who was apprehended last night has escaped custody. Once again, authorities are urging residents to remain on high alert. She froze, the blood draining from her face. Slowly, she reached for the knife block. Her fingers brushed the smooth wood and then moved to where the knives should have been. But they were not there. She felt the countertop and found that all of the knives were splayed out across the counter, each one lying in a different direction. All except one. The same knife the police had returned to her was missing. Grace's stomach churned as she backed away, her mind racing. She never found that knife. And as far as she knows, the man was never found either. But she could feel his presence lingering in the heavy silence of her little house.

Storyteller 2 (25:54)

If you've ever suffered a night terror before, you know it always leaves a mark in your mind, like trauma. Think of a nightmare that your mind makes real. Your wallpaper may start to move in a three dimensional space. You'll see flashes of distorted images, and sounds will be rushing through your ears and throbbing in your head. It's like the world's worst roller coaster. Worse still, they always hit their peak around Halloween. Maybe it's just the constant horror paraphernalia around an overactive imagination and reruns of old horror movies, but still. My first first was when I was three. I remember dreaming of fractured conversations with strange beings before unceremoniously waking up to shadowy figures standing over me and chanting. I screamed and weird sounds were rushing around me. It took my parents so long to coax me back into bed, but by the time I woke up, I was able to get on with it like nothing happened. A distant memory. Come the morning sunrise, this pattern would repeat with varying levels of effect over my life. Sometimes the creatures in my dream would talk to me and the whispers would persist when I woke up crying and vomiting. Other times I'd see them lurking in the shadows of my bedroom. But when I'd tell my mother, she would coldly tell me to ignore it, that nothing was there if I willed it to be. Eventually, as one often does when they get older, I found it easy to just get on with my life and accept the night terrors as just part of my life. When they did die down over my adolescence, they were still frequent enough when I hit my 20s to be noticeable to partners. I'd brush it off as just a weird quirk and hope that I didn't embarrass myself in front of them. But thankfully, through a combination of luck and short term flings, I never had one when they stayed over. It was when I started having bouts of sickness after successive terrors that I knew something was wrong. I don't know if there was a trigger per se, and if there was, I wouldn't be able to tell you what it was.

Host 1 (28:08)

But they became far more vivid, more.

Storyteller 2 (28:11)

Surreal, and the comedown from them seemed to take longer and longer to arrive. Now, as an adult living on my.

Storyteller 1 (28:19)

Own, it was even harder to calm.

Storyteller 2 (28:21)

Myself down without someone to reassure me. What I saw, heard and felt was a figment of my imagination. Naturally, I did what any rational person with too much time, paranoia and creativity would do. I started keeping a log of the experiences. I won't bore you all with every detail, but I will say summarize the last four experiences that inevitably led to me wanting to share this experience with you all, hoping for an answer. January 30, 2021 Entry 1 Birthday Night the terror consisted of a conversation with a large emaciated figure dressed in a Victorian widow's outfit, two tall, hooded figures stood motionless on either side of me. They did not react at all during this experience. The entire color scheme was grayscaled. The conversation was one sided. They spoke, I listened, and their face was hidden behind a thick black veil. The sound of sharpening utensils snapped through the experience and gave me a fright. When the figure reached out their hand to silence me, I woke up. Headache was a 5 out of 10 on the pain scale and after 30 minutes with some water it died down. February 13, 2021 Entry 2 A night terror on Friday the 13th. How typical. This time I was in my childhood bed and could see the same Victorian widow chained to the wall opposite it but making no attempt to reach me.

Host 1 (30:03)

This time the dream was in sepia.

Storyteller 2 (30:05)

The two hooded figures loomed outside my bedroom window and the Victorian widow put a finger to their lips to silence me. Though I couldn't hear anything save for a long drone, I felt the fear rise in me instinctively as the shadow of the figures passed my bedroom window and when sneezing, the fear that ripped through me coupled with the screeching sounds and bright red flashes sent me tumbling out of my bed in a haze. I smacked my head on the ground and my eyes throbbed in their sockets. Some strong medication and a soft piano playlist settled me after around 45 minutes, but I had to sleep in the guest room to avoid the windows. Something felt dangerous about them. March 30, 2021 entry number three the long gap between these two had me letting my guard down. When I woke up, I had full sensory awareness of my surroundings. I was my adult self and it was my childhood home. I was on the living room coffee table, of all places, but everything felt stale, as if the house hadn't been used in decades. I felt only minimal control of my body as it followed the urge to rush upstairs to my old parlor room and place an ear to the door. Inside, I could hear a conversation between my parents and an unknown woman. She was warning them of a sickness that plagued me that would need containing. Somehow. My mother sounded resolute and replied, whatever it takes, takes. I was so engrossed in the conversation that when a hand gripped my shoulder and an unfamiliar voice said, I'm getting closer, I felt my body grow cold. Before anything else could happen, I bit my hand and thankfully it woke me up in a sea of pain. One bandage later and a new round of painkillers, I am on the mend. But now I'm feeling that sensation on my shoulder intermittently. October 11, 2021 Entry Number 4 I forgot why I started making these. It's becoming harder to discern when I'm asleep or awake. The past few months have been an endless cycle of restless sleep and paranoid waking. Every time I feel at ease I am grateful, greeted by the widow threatening to remove her veil if I don't listen. But the disjointed nature of that world makes it so hard to focus on her for more than a few moments. Everything else I can manage, but not her. Like a defense mechanism, I have begun to see her and other things I dare not repeat here in places they shouldn't be. Mirror reflections. When I am not fully looking behind objects, furniture or landmarks, they sleep into obscurity when I cast my eyes in their direction. When I lay my head down and begin to sleep, they urge me to let myself relax so they can talk to me more. My head now feels like it's splitting open constantly and no normal painkillers alleviate it. I have some stronger ones coming coming in the mail tomorrow. I hope they can do the trick that neatly leads us to the last experience on the 28th this past Thursday. I haven't slept since then and in all honesty I do not plan to do so anytime soon, much to the detriment of my health, as I'm sure you're eager to remind me. Well, that is a small price to pay to keep whatever the hell is in my night terrors away from the waking world. Someone online said that there was a significance to Hallows Eve, the spirits of the dead and wayward souls looking for vulnerable bodies to inhabit. That it was a mind over matter situation and I simply needed to maintain a strong mental attitude in the face of such horror. Yeah, easier said than done. I took the pain medication in haste when it arrived and for a week.

Storyteller 1 (34:24)

It did the trick.

Storyteller 2 (34:26)

No more headaches, throbbing eyes or joint pain. And it seemed to give me largely uneventful dreams too. But then I ran out and read up on the effects of withdrawal from the type of pills I had been taking, among many stomach related ones. The key list this thing that stood out made my blood run cold and every part of me want to get on the floor and cry. Side effects may include extreme fatigue and increased sleep. I could practically feel the boldness of whatever lives in my dreams grow with every hour. I got more exhausted, stepping out of the shadows one toe at a time as I fought off sleep for as long as possible, but eventually we all succumbed to slumber. When I was aware again it was from the perspective of someone else. The color scheme was still grayscale and sounds were bouncing up and down like a drunken sound engineer fucking with the volume tab. It was disorienting, but not as much as the perspective which I was seeing from I was now in the parlor, nestled under the floorboards and keenly listening above me, every fraction of my body compacted and unable to move or see save for a spatter of light through the boards. What can we do about these incidents? Each time he wakes up he's violent, inconsolable, and and the voice of my mother broke down as my father continued. He kept on insisting that there was someone chained to the wall opposite his bed, that it gets stronger the closer we get to Hallows Eve. But we did what you advised and assured him it wasn't there. My dad finished hurriedly, an older woman's voice to the left, assuring him, very good. We can't have him getting distracted and focused on everything he sees, can we? She said with an audible smile, smile. But it didn't seem to alleviate my dad's concerns.

Host 2 (36:30)

And what if.

Storyteller 1 (36:31)

What if he.

Storyteller 2 (36:32)

If he does, you do as we instructed and you inform me as soon as possible. You came to me because you trust me. I ask that you continue that trust, she finished audibly prompting my parents to agree. Soon I felt the hairs on my neck stand stand up as what I could only guess was the widow sat behind me, whispering in my ear as the hot stench of rot filled my nostrils, a pair of hands gripping at my neck for a few moments before I shifted again. It was dark, my perspective was jarring. They were situated in the top corner of my childhood bedroom as a much younger me slept peacefully. I must have been about three years old at a glance, clad in Power Rangers pajamas and holding onto a blanket for dear life as I softly breathed. It took a few moments to realize what was wrong with the image I was seeing, like a camera focusing in or a really insidious spot. The difference game but with your old memories versus the recorded events. Maybe it was because it was dark and my eyes hadn't adjusted, or maybe I didn't want to know. But either side of my bed stood two hooded figures staring down at me without ceasing. Everything in the night terror fell silent as if on cue, and I could hear the two of them speaking. Is this what must be done? The left one asked, concern in their voice. It's what she said to do. I'd have never imagined this to be reality, but the right trailed off, shaking in their robes. But we know what this is, and we agreed whatever it takes for our boy, the left one pulling down her robe to reveal my mother's signature blonde hair and beautiful solemn eyes looking at me. My father across from her nodded, his hood staying up as he raised a knife, the vision blurring and my head threatening to split open at the sight. I woke up in a sweat, but when I tried to move, my body wouldn't obey me. I'd experienced this a few times, but it was always as terrifying with each iteration. Sleep paralysis. As I lay there, trying desperately to move my eyes for a better view off my back, I saw shapes shifting in the corners of my room, not towards me, but as if they were congregating with one another, many pairs of bulbous eyes staring back at me from sockets I could not make out at this distance. For so long we have been patient. For so long we have bided our time, but. But now I heard the bedroom door open, the dragging of limbs, the nails digging into the ground as they pulled the body forward, the smell of rot filling my nose as my heart began to race, the seemingly random noises unceasing in their efforts to jostle my body awake. With every flinch at each intonation, she rose up the side of my bed and every set of eyes followed her, mine included. She was taller than I remember, her stomach concave and her frock frayed beyond repair as her veil covered her face but not her malice. You are special. You have always been special. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment, for your maturity to manifest. She leaned over me and sat on my chest, the weight of her frame pushing down on me and constricting my lungs. We will persist when you're awake. You will help us find more just like you or she took her hands out and for a moment I was terrified she was going to wrap them around my neck again, but instead she brought them to her face and began to lift at the veil, torturously, slowly, as the sounds reached a cacophony of unspeakable recount. I have never tried harder to scream in my life for it to only come out as a feeble moan. I saw rotted flesh and so, so many weeping wounds on her lower jaw as it continued to reveal horrors to me. She stopped at the halfway point and what remained of her lips pulled into a sickening grin. I woke up a few moments later, the use of my limbs causing me to flail and scream. My apartment down. Same room, same feeling. It's been a few days since then and I can't stop seeing them. Everywhere I go, I can barely function beyond basic needs. It seems like they're all waiting for something, I just don't know what. It's the worst when I'm brushing my teeth or shaving my face, however, because when I look away from the bathroom mirror for a moment, she will be there when I look back, towering over me, hands pulling at the veil and frozen in place, a scathing grin cutting my fragile mental state to ribbons as I fall back every time I have nobody to talk to. My parents passed away a year ago and because of my inheritance I have isolated myself to the point where I don't know if anyone would notice for a long time if I were to. Well, you know. I am struggling to stay awake. I have tried caffeine pills, energy drinks and other substances I'll not mention in case the wrong people are listening, but nothing lasts forever and I am steadily catching myself nodding off, drifting for a moment into hellscape I cannot see. But here they tell me it's only a matter of time and that my special skills will finally be put to use before drones and screams fill my ears and I am brought back terrified. Which brings me to the present. To sharing this with all of you. Another Hallows Eve is descending and I no longer feel I have the power to contain whatever it is back. I hoped in some naive folly, that by sharing this over the airwaves someone would know what this was and assist me. But I realize now that's all for naught. So I did the next best thing. In an act of desperation I called my estranged grandfather and asked him to help me. He had always been a very difficult man and in all respects was the worst kind of boomer. Ignorant, petulant and unwilling to change his ideals. But he was family. I was despondent. What the hell do you want? After nearly two years, Ears not talking, his gruff voice bit through the speaker. Not enough. I lost my daughter and son in law, but I lost my grandson too. This better be good. Exhausted and overcome with emotion, I blurted out what had happened in a flurry and to his credit he listened without judgment or interruption. When I was done, he sighed. Well, I wish you'd have told me sooner, but here we are. I won't mince words here. You're a very lucid dreamer, Robby, to an unprecedented point. I paused and stared wide eyed as he explained further. You took the phrase make a dream a reality literally. It terrified your family and they were concerned you'd be taken to some government facility to dream up weaponry and doomsday devices so they enlisted outside help to help you manage what was wrong with you? She was older and she claimed to have met others like you. Seemed to us that it worked. You led a mostly normal life, and until now nothing bad happened. In fact, the only two things of any repute were you just dreamt up your old family dog, Benson, and He paused, trailing off for a moment as I sat there in abject silence. Say, Robbie, what exactly have you seen in your dreams? He asked, choosing his words carefully. Like, did you ever see. I heard a sh. Emanate from behind me.

Storyteller 1 (45:27)

Me.

Storyteller 2 (45:28)

And I knew who it was coming from. My back locked up and my knees felt weak. No, I usually just see shapes. Why? I felt every fiber of my body screaming to run, but I stayed still. Well, the person that helped them construct it in a ritual of sorts, she said it was good for containing old nightmares, things that had been there long before. But she didn't ever tell us what that meant, beyond a single warning that I suppose was meant for you. One day if things got dire. She said if your parents kept to it while you were a child, you'd be fine, and to ignore anything they might see or hear. But the more exposed you got to the supernatural and the closer it got to Hallows Eve. Hmm. He paused, sadness welling up in his voice. And since they died, I suppose that means whatever they did has lifted. It was stepping closer to me, the shushing sound getting louder and more distorted, but I stayed still and asked what I knew would be the answer I never wanted to hear. What was the warning? He hesitated before responding. But the answer has left me scrambling to tell my story to someone, anyone who may know what is wrong with me, to send them a warning of what may befall them if they too suffer with this malady. So here I am, exhausted beyond measure, and it's only a matter of time before I pass out. Whatever the widow is, she's been standing in the corner of my room, every pair of eyes fixated on her as she clasps the veil on her face with both hands, threatening to lift it at any moment. I don't want to see it. I can't see it. If anyone has had a night terror that they never got rid of, please reach out and give me some advice before sleep takes me. Or something else does. It whispers to me that if I just do as it asks, it will let me sleep peacefully. But I am not so certain because what the phrase my grandfather uttered to me has me scared, witless and terrified every moment I see this creature pulling its Hands upwards. Don't let it lift the veil.

Host 2 (48:13)

I could feel and hear my husband on my left and my cat's body on my right. I could hear my ambient sound box that I use every night to help me sleep. I could hear the fans of my.

Host 1 (48:24)

Air purifier and small electric heater.

Host 2 (48:28)

Then I felt sweats slipped down my face and neck. I could feel that my hair was completely soaked. My eyes are still closed, but it was like being out in the sun. Everything was red, not black. What's happening to me? I immediately began to instinctively rub my eyes, but nothing was changing. I opened my eyes and whoa. I got the chills and goosebumps plus a lovely pang of fear in my belly thinking about what happened last night. I then felt my hair and I couldn't believe that everywhere else in my body was dry except my head. I saw a red light coming from the furthest left corner of my room. It was so bizarre. Usually my room has a faint glow of yellow in that corner because of the nightlight I have in my bathroom. But why is it so red and bright now? Also, the far right corner is where I have my air purifier that admits a blue glow. And my heater has a faint glow that I can only see from my.

Storyteller 1 (49:31)

Bed when I walk past it.

Host 2 (49:33)

I rub my eyes again.

Storyteller 1 (49:35)

The red glow is still there.

Host 2 (49:38)

I scan the room and it's not my room. Why am I not in my room?

Storyteller 2 (49:43)

What is going on with me?

Host 2 (49:46)

I close my eyes in fear and I can see through my eyelids. The red light in the strange wooden dresser. A faint pattern on the wall like floral wallpaper. I blink and rub my eyes and try to distinguish whether they are closed or not. I can see this phantom room. Am I trapped here? Is this some glitch of quantum multiverse? A past life? Come on. I said to myself. I don't believe that. What's wrong with me?

Storyteller 1 (50:17)

What is happening?

Host 2 (50:19)

I was able to move myself completely, so I knew I wasn't dreaming. I rolled over and buried my face into my husband's armpit. Blackness. I was starting to panic. I could only hear my heartbeat. I lifted my head so I could look again. Surely everything will be back to nor normal, I thought. I am holding on to my husband. Everything will be fine, right? No. I gazed up slowly. I could still see the redness in the strange room.

Storyteller 2 (50:53)

What the hell?

Storyteller 1 (50:54)

Wait. What is that?

Host 2 (50:56)

I am going to try the best I can to describe this so that you can visualize. Now, even though there's this red glow of light and a different bedroom. It's still dark. And that darkness turned into these black, shiny, wiggly beings.

Storyteller 2 (51:12)

The thickest part was their head to.

Host 2 (51:14)

Hold their white, glowing eyes. And there's more than just a few.

Storyteller 1 (51:18)

Pairs of eyes looking at me.

Host 2 (51:20)

And the more I look, the closer they got. I closed my eyes. I couldn't see them, but I could still see the room through my eyelids. My blood feels like ice, but I can feel sweat on my face. The largest of the creatures, he is wavy, black, wispy, but shiny and has thick body, limbs.

Storyteller 2 (51:42)

It's right there.

Host 2 (51:44)

It's starting to move closer. I can see its body swirling onto my bed over the top of my husband.

Storyteller 2 (51:51)

This can't be real.

Host 2 (51:53)

I buried my face back into my husband and pulled the blanket up. I tried to calm myself down, tell myself that something must be wrong, I must be sick. I talked myself down and fell back asleep. I was woken up by my husband snoring multiple times. And each time I was awoken, the same red light, same strange bedroom, and my eyes are closed. I turned to my left and held onto my cat because her love feels like safety. I kept my eyes closed the whole time that I was moving myself. I held onto my cat, got comfortable and decided to open my eyes again. The bastards are still looking at me and swirling around in this strange room. My husband begins to snore again and I am saying to myself, I am never gonna sleep like this. It's complete chaos. He's waking me up and I am hallucinating. I kept my eyes as closed as I could and told him to go sleep on a couch.

Storyteller 1 (52:58)

This is a regular occurrence because his snoring is out of control.

Host 2 (53:02)

I am also a very light sleeper. I have two kids and I will admit I never felt like I had a good night's sleep since they were born and they are grown. He tells me okay and then leaves.

Storyteller 1 (53:16)

No more interruptions.

Host 2 (53:18)

It's 4:30am I will surely sleep until the sun comes up and this will all go away. I get comfortable and fall back asleep. 5.30am, I hear my name. The voice was human like and very monotone. Terra. Oh my God. This can't be happening. I started experiencing mild sleep paralysis, slowly waking up and feeling like I can't move. And I start screaming because that's it. This has gone too far. This thing is calling my name and swirling around. I have to get out of here. I scream and yell. I call my husband's name with my eyes tightly closed and he doesn't come. I Turn over, grab my cat again, pull the covers over my head and start to think. There has to be a logical explanation.

Storyteller 2 (54:19)

Wait.

Host 2 (54:20)

It has to be the medicine my doctor prescribed. Muscle relaxers to help me sleep with my back pain. I don't know what's in this medication. Whatever it is apparently does a lot.

Storyteller 1 (54:31)

More than relax muscles.

Host 2 (54:33)

I have taken acid and mushrooms and never experienced a complete visual takeover. Well, doc, I won't be taking this medication again.

Storyteller 1 (54:44)

Because whatever was happening to me last.

Host 2 (54:46)

Night, I never want to go there again. And I never want to meet those creatures again.

Host 1 (55:05)

Compelled, I completed a clandestine operation focused on cleaning the floor of this disgusting bathroom. I can't have a work of art like this overshadowed by a haven of feces and narcotic discards. I need the focus sent centered on my subject. The ivory floor perfectly complements the gray matter that is laying down in a Christ like pose. A now pristine layer of ivory greets the back of the man. The man whose maw is obscured by a lunar creature. A lunar moth, to be more specific. The absolute jubilation in these moments will never be knocked down, even if the authorities rem remove it. Gears are turning from the outside world. Restless public opinion, restless insanity and cognition. No one can understand what to make of this display of brutality, public or otherwise. I'll get right to the question at hand. Yes, I may be deranged. I may be thought of as a threat to society. I may even be considered antisocial. In fact, I have been officially diagnosed as being borderline personality and sociopathic. With a duo of diagnosis like that, I probably should have been locked up with the key thrown into an active volcano. I suppose it was easier and more lucrative to throw sacks of pills at me. Enough to incapacitate a horse. It never helped. It only made me wonder why I am the way I am. To be fair, I only took them for a short period of time. I realized they deadened the bliss inside me. Was I born like this? Or did something along my path push me towards this? Perhaps it's a mix of both. As most things in life are. There is no place plain black and white answer. But in the end, does it matter? They still die. I still obliterate. And we all go on. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your honor, I enjoy doing these things. You cannot scare me with incarceration or death. I live in death. And I wish for it every day. You are all too stupid and lame to find me. Deliver me from this evil. I beg you. I beg you. You won't. I have finally come to the end of the yellow brick road in accepting this. Two weeks ago my wife was beside me. She's a Marilyn Monroe type, a throwback to the most classic of beauties. She's too good for me. Not only did I know that, but her mother never let me forget it. I made a comfortable living as a consultant providing a nice two story four bedroom home. I was able to put our twins through private school. She never spent a dime on any of our expenses as she was a classical beauty. She also played the classical housewife. She did clean and cook. For that I was am thankful. But pressure had to be relieved. The pipes can only take so much. She and I found ourselves watching an alligator wrestler. An odd sentence I know I intended on explaining Florida Everglades. We haven't had a vacation since our children were born in tandem. Over 13 years to be exact. Her lovely mother happily agreed to watch the girls, allowing us to take a road trip down to the Sunshine State. Hey. Hey. Look honey, it's an alligator show. Let's go. Please, please, please. I tried to hide my contempt. I wasn't here to watch a redneck ride wrestle an alligator. I can barely contain my murderous self. I can barely contain acting human anymore. I find that the only human connection I do have, however, is my wife. She has somehow cut through my ice cold exterior. Turns out even sociopaths have breaks in their armor. Okay, I gritted, not taking my eyes off the road. You want to see the show?

Storyteller 1 (59:45)

We will see the show.

Host 1 (59:47)

I give her a robotic smile, again not taking my eyes off the road. There's another reason we are driving to the middle of Florida. One that no one else will find out about. Hopefully, but I'm happy to keep up appearances. We turned off the exit that boasted the supposed world famous alligator fighter. She looks up the showtimes on her phone. Luckily, the next one is only about 60 minutes away. She's so happy to see a man wrestle with a dinosaur. I'll admit my caveman brain somehow enjoyed it. It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't the some fat mulleted hillbilly slapping around a somewhat domesticated alligator. Goose, the owner of the alligator farm, had a headset on allowing him to speak to the crowd of 30 or so people. He gave some interesting facts about alligators and other Florida specific animals. It was educational entertaining too. Okay folks, say hi to Lily, the oldest lady on the farm. Goose yelled with glee. An assistant opened a door to the pit where Goose was in, allowing an absolute monster to come slithering in Lily was awesome, almost 12ft in length. Her green coloring was almost neon. I thought it had something to do with the way the sun hit her ancient scales. The crowd oohed and awed. I sat cross armed, watching the predator survey her surroundings. Goose did some more explaining about her hunting habits. Getting closer now. The crowd was getting a little uncomfortable. Goose gave one short glance toward us, trying to keep his composure. He did have a killer beast in front of him after all. Our host got uncomfortably close to Lily, reaching his hands in and out of her open jaws. In one short motion, he closed her jaws and jumped behind her. You see y'all, the alligator has an insane amount of pressure when biting. If you are caught in this lady's jaws, it's game over. However, they do have the power to open the door their jaws if any amount of pressure is placed on them. We watched then as he straddled the beast, reaching her massive head and placing it underneath his own chin. His arms extended. He was now in control of Lily.

Storyteller 1 (62:29)

Impressive.

Host 1 (62:31)

A fire was being stoked in my belly here. I was not expecting to be a part of this in the first first place. And now ready to dismember these kids for interrupting Goose's show and disturbing the show. I looked toward my wife. She was visibly upset by the occurrence. This just won't do. Goose, for his outside appearance as a fat bumpkin, kept his composure and finished the show as a true professional. He finished the show by thanking us and explaining how tips were appreciated and merch could be found.

Storyteller 1 (63:08)

On our way out by the stand.

Host 1 (63:10)

Leading toward the exit, I gave my wife a $100 bill, telling her to grab us a couple of T shirts and hats. I had to use the restroom, I said. I followed the disruptor's path as they made their exit, still laughing and being idiots. I always try to be human, but as much as I fight to be normal, I never win. The young men were standing just outside the entrance to Gator World, smoking. They would never know this was the last cigarette they would ever smoke. Hey guys, I said, getting their attention. I dragged both boys separately into the edge of the swamp. Right outside the entrance, I tucked my garrote into my pockets, clothed in a Gator World napkin. Why do you make me do this? Back on the road again, glad she enjoyed the show. It's 5am My lovely Marilyn Monroe doppelganger is still sleeping. I slip outside the motel. I wandered, absorbing the humid swamp like surroundings. I discovered a wonderland garden park. I found a sun worn bench with my dark Ray Bans on, I surveyed the beautiful landscape. A lovely blonde would bounce by, accompanied by an excited young man. Boyfriend? Husband, maybe? Mr. And Mrs. Upbeat would be staying at what looked like an Airbnb at the edge of the park. Well dressed and full of youth, they exited the rental with coffees equipped with a bouquet of lilies and a disarming smile. I walked by them. I introduced myself as a charming businessman from the area. I was to meet a date, but she had to cancel due to a prior engagement. That slipped her mind. That was the story. At least. I explained why I had these gorgeous flowers and offered them to her with her friend's permission, of course. They were both flattered. I shook his hand, firm but soft. I then took her hand. It was soft, smooth. Her precious fingers were adorned with black cherry polish, her palm faint lines. A rush came over me. I had to constrict an embarrassing protrusion. They both thanked me again, saying they had to catch the next lift to their friend's place for brunch. I smiled and displayed my thankfulness for them taking those lilies off of my hands. I didn't get her name. She wasn't just a person. She was the one. The fire, the life. The one I had been looking for. I knew what I had to do. I quietly entered the key into our motel door. Marilyn was still sleeping. I quickly analyzed the what needed to be done. The pillow I had used to sleep just hours before would now be her instrument of death. Good night, Princess. I feel a slight feeling of melancholy, but I am not sorry. This was always how our story would end. My prior and future plans went awall. I was now engaged with plans, including being a part of this new duo I had just met and supplied flowers to. They invited me as a guest to have dinner with them that night. I happily agreed. I needed to feel her soft and supple hands again. I would be meeting them alone. I located them in an outdoor cafe near the beach. Dressed in all black with loafers and no socks, I smiled as I approached. My appearance was caught by their gaze. Greeted with a warm smile from the woman. A smile warmer than the Florida sun that we were under. The clock ticked. Laughter was heard. Early dinner was had. I spent most of the interaction admiring the woman's red jumpsuit. A romper is what it was most likely known as these days. A brief question of where my date was and a brief response that she was running late. People are so easily fooled. Or trusting. Her gentleman friend stated his desire to evacuate in the men's room. We both smiled as he left. Let me maybe get us another drink, I said playfully as I excused myself to approach the bar. She gave me a little wink and crossed her legs. I'm on fire. As I made my way back to our table, I took a moment to enjoy the salty smell coming from the sea. I don't know how I traveled this far from the middle of the state to the coast. I don't question my periods of darkness anymore. Oh, you got us another drink. Good on you, my friend, her man thing extorted. I winked and raised my own glass. We gave a little cheer with our late afternoon drinks. A thought raced to Marilyn. I wondered if anyone had called or found her yet. As we all took a generous sip, I suggested the Aphrodite and I take a look at the water. Would you order us another calamari? I asked the man. He was already spinning and happy to do so as she and I left. I'm sure I heard a faint cough, then the sound of his head hitting the table, rustling plates and glasses on the table we had just left. We were already on the beach when the this happened and her focus was on the crashing waves and circling seagulls. As long as I could get her as far away as possible from the scene, I would be okay. The wheels had been set in motion. This train would not be stopping. Look at her, a golden goddess, so oblivious to everything around her. Sadly, she does not realize the monster she is walking with barefoot on the beach. The bliss is filling my being from my feet to my brain. She must just be realizing that her friend has not made it out here. I have seen this look before, the realization when I'm hunting, when I'm closing in. All light and sound disappears. It's dark now. Her face reacts accordingly. Her decimating blue eyes look into mine. They grow wider and wider humorously. How big they become. The life being taken from her, constricted from her. I can't help what I am. It has been determined. I have no choice and I'm not sorry. Some people like one type of cola, Some people like the competitor and some actually prefer the citrus pops. I've always liked the pepper. The alternative it's just something different that you can't explain.

Storyteller 2 (71:17)

Why do we like what we like?

Host 1 (71:20)

I suppose we will always be searching for that elusive answer.

Narrator (71:36)

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