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- [00:00]
Ryan Reynolds
Ryan Reynolds here from Mint Mobile with a message for everyone paying Big wireless way too much. Please, for the love of everything good in this world, stop with Mint. You can get Premium Wireless for just $15 a month. Of course if you enjoy overpaying. No judgments. But that's weird. Okay, one judgment anyway, give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch upfront payment of $45 for
- [00:23]
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- [00:29]
Narrator
See full terms@mintmobile.com hey, welcome back to the podcast. I really hope you enjoy this episode and if you'd like to hear more stories like these with a different background sound, please check the description to check out my other two podcasts and if you want to get rid of all of the ads, you can subscribe for just 2.99amonth. Last thing, I really appreciate you being here and I'd really love if you would follow the podcast and come back again soon. Thank you so much. I hope you enjoy. The painting had been put up for auction at a local event raising money for charity. It was an original, according to the auctioneer, by an obscure but talented artist from the early 1900s. It was almost the end of the day and I had yet to see anything that caught my fancy, but the moment the painting was unveiled I felt something stir in my chest and I knew I had to have it. Nobody else seemed quite as enthused as me about the portrait, and winning it had been a relatively simple affair. After countering a few other vaguely interested buyers, I managed to secure it for myself. I had it wrapped up in a piece of old moth eaten cloth that was found in the auction warehouse and I stowed it in the back of my car, excited to find a place for it in my home. I was a collector of sorts, mostly of antiques and other knick knacks, so it would fit right in with the assortment of old ceramic pots and tarnished clocks and statues that I had sitting in my display cabinet. On the way home from the auction, I started to feel restless. I wasn't sure if it was because the auction had lasted longer than I expected or because I was tired or something else, but I struggled to focus on driving and almost pulled out right in front of another car as I turned at the junction leading left towards my house. When I finally pulled into the driveway of my semi detached, I cut the engine and sat for a moment behind the wheel, taking a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind. When I flicked a glance up towards the rear view, I thought for just a moment that I had glimpsed a shadow pressed against the backseat of the car. Between one blink and the next, however, the shadow had disappeared and I rubbed my eyes. Realizing I must have been more tired than I thought. I twisted around to double check the backseat just in case, but there really was nothing there. I stepped out of the car. I headed round to the trunk of the car and popped it open. The painting was where I had left it, nestled safely in its bandage of thick yellow cloth. Gripping the edges of the frame, I hoisted it out of the car, careful not to knock the corners against the trunk. Balancing it on one knee, I used my free hand to slam the trunk closed and locked the car behind me, heading up the drive towards the front door. Somewhere behind me, I felt the strange sensation of being watched. Assuming it was one of my neighbors, I turned around to wave, but there was nobody there. The street was empty, deserted. I was the only one out here. Shrugging it off, I headed inside. Laying the covered painting down on the mahogany dining table, I carefully stripped the cloth away to unearth the portrait. It was even more beautiful seeing it up close instead of across the auction hall. I wasn't a painting connoisseur by any means, but even I could appreciate the balance of colors and the masterful brushstrokes used to to create the dichotomy between the subject's face and the backdrop. The signature in the corner, scrawled in black ink, read Thomas Mallory. That was the name of the painter. I had never heard of him before the auction, but the painting itself was a masterful piece of portraiture that held up against even more well known names. I wasn't entirely sure who the depicted subject was, but judging by the brush and palette he was holding and the easel in front of him, the subject must have been a painter too. Perhaps it was even a self portrait of Thomas Mallory himself. The frame was a deep brass with golden highlights, but there was a faint layer of dust and grime on the edges of the frame, suggesting it had been stored somewhere damp prior to the auction. So I got some low chemical cleaning supplies and tried my best to clean it up. By the time I was done, the frame was glistening in the swaths of the fading sun pouring in through the window. It wouldn't be long until dusk fell. I must have been sitting here for hours polishing the frame and my wrist had grown sore. Satisfied with my work, I took the painting over to the display cabinet in my sitting room. Despite the wide array of antiques I did dust regularly, and the air was
- [05:57]
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- [06:25]
Narrator
tinged with the scent of lemon and rose disinfectant. I hadn't quite decided where I would hang the painting yet, so instead I propped it up on the mantelpiece beside the cabinet above the bricked up fire that hadn't been used in years. Sometimes, when I hadn't dusted in a while, I could still smell the tinge of ash and smoke embedded within the bricks. Making sure the painting was secure between the wall and the mantel shelf, I stepped back and admired the portrait in the light of the fading sun. There was something almost melancholy about the painter's face. Those eyes that sparkled with an unusual, almost corporeal luster seemed to be filled with a longing of sorts, a yearning for something that was just out of reach. But maybe I was just seeing things that weren't really there, like the shadow in the car. The light outside was fading rapidly, but part of me couldn't draw my eyes away from the painting or the man's woeful expression. Why had the painter portrayed him this way? What was the story behind each stroke of the brush? I don't think I or anyone would ever truly understand what was going through the painter's mind as he created this piece of art. That, after all, was the beauty and pain of subjectivity, of art, of interpretation. Nobody shared the same idea of informing deference and understanding, especially when it came to something like this. But perhaps I was overthinking it. I shook myself out of my daze, realizing that the sun had already set, dusk painting the edges of the sky in shades of dark purple. I should get something to eat before I go to bed, I thought vaguely as I left the room, closing the door behind me. That night I awoke to darkness and the feeling that I wasn't alone. I lived on my own, as I had done since separating from my partner a few years ago, and didn't have any pets. There was no probable reason why I would feel like there was someone else here with me, but it was something I felt with a strange sort of certainty, that there was someone here in the Dark, lurking just out of sight. My heart began to flutter in my chest, panic rising up through my stomach, but I swallowed it down. I was being silly, of course. There was nobody else here. I had locked all the doors and windows before I went to bed, I was sure of it. But I still couldn't quite shake that feeling of unease that tiptoed along the back of my neck, making sweat bead along my skin. Breathing softly through my nose, I fumbled through the dark until my fingers closed around the light switch, clicking it on. Bright yellow light flooded the room, and I threw up a hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Squinting between my fingers, I looked around the room. Empty. As I expected, there really was nobody here. But then I noticed something that made my throat clench up once more. The bedroom door was open. I always slept with it closed, the way I had done since I was a child. I very rarely went to bed bed with it open, even by accident. Had someone really been in my room? Or was this one of those very rare occurrences where I had forgotten to close it? No, I was certain I had shut it. I remembered the creak and the click of the old door against the frame. It had become an almost bedtime ritual, and I would have felt something was off earlier in the night if I had left it open. I gazed at the crack in the door frame, shadows pooling around the edges, fear tightening in my chest. Was there someone in the house? Should I call the police? No, not without investigating first. I didn't want to waste their time if it really was just my imagination conjuring threats from nothing. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoed over to the open door, my fingers trembling as they gripped the handle, pulling it open wider. Light from the bedroom spilt out into the landing, illuminating the rest of the corridor. I couldn't see anything immediately out of place. I held my breath for a few seconds and listened to. Above the pounding of my own heart. I could hear nothing, just the faint moan of the wind and the rustle of the leaves. The house was deathly silent. Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I stepped out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs. I wanted to make sure there really was nobody else in the house before I went back to bed. Downstairs was silent, too, except for the faint, intermittent drip of the kitchen tap. I had gotten a glass of water before bed, so perhaps I hadn't twisted the faucet all the way. I padded into the kitchen, switching on the lights as I went, and tightened the leaky tap until it stopped dripping. Feeling somewhat less terrified, I went through each room, checking behind doorways and in closets to make sure nobody was hiding. Every room proved empty. The last place to check was the living room, where the painting was. In a brief lapse of judgment, I considered the possibility that a thief had broken into the house to steal the painting. But who would steal a painting by a less known artist after I'd only owned it for a day? Shaking away the thought, I approached the living room door and froze. It was one of those old fashioned doors with a frosted glass window. On the other side of the window stood a shadow. A shadow that wasn't supposed to be there. Fear stabbed my chest, my heart racing. Was there someone on the other side? The shadow wasn't moving. Maybe it was nothing after all, but I had never noticed it before, and I was sure there was nothing on the other side of the door that could be casting it. Heart thundering in my chest, I went back to the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer and hurried back. The shadow was still there. With a short, sharp breath, I shoved the door open and swung the knife around the edge of the door. Nothing. There was nothing there. A bead of sweat cooled on my brow. All that panic for nothing. Maybe I really was just overthinking it all. I checked the painting just to be sure, but it hadn't moved. Moved an inch. In the dark, the eyes seemed to glisten like obsidian, eerily realistic. I took a moment to calm my racing heart and rationalize the situation, then left the room, closing the door behind me. This time, when I glanced back, the shadow was gone. The next morning, I decided to do some research and see what I could dig up about Thomas Mallory and his work. I thought it odd that last night's experience had come right after bringing the painting into my home. Perhaps I was being paranoid and making connections where there weren't any, but I was still curious to see what I could find out. Surely someone, somewhere must know something about him. Even if he was was a more obscure name in the art world. I searched for the name on the Internet, but all I could immediately find were articles about Thomas Mallory, the writer, not the painter of the portrait sitting in my living room. After scrolling through countless websites and forums, I finally managed to find a page dedicated to the right Mallory. There was an old black and white depiction of him, and I recognized him immediately as the same figure in the painting. It was a self portrait after all. I was sitting with my laptop on the couch in the living room and my gaze lifted to the painting. Mallory gazed somberly down at me, making my chest pinch. Returning my attention to the webpage, I read through a brief history of his life. According to the text, Thomas Malory had never managed to succeed as a painter during life and had died in poverty without selling more than one or two of his works. Towards the end of his life, Mallory had begun to rant about how he had been able to find his muse and that he would keep searching for her even after death. He blamed the Muses for forsaking him as the reason he had been so unsuccessful and had apparently passed away in a state of bitter despair. When I scrolled down to the bottom, a soft gasp parted my lips. There was a section titled Mallory's Last Work, and the picture attached was the very same one that now sat on my mantel. Mallory Self Portrait, the last ever painting he created before his death. Was that the reason for his despondent look? Had he been unhappy with his career? At a loss? Abandoned by the Muses? Was that the message the portrait portrayed? I studied it from across the room, raking my eyes over the paintbrush poised against the painted canvas, the palette of muted colors almost drooping in his hand. Was this when he was on the verge of abandoning his passion altogether? Or was that searching, longing look in his eye a plea to the Muses to hear his desperate call? I shook my head, closing my laptop with a sigh. Thomas Mallory, despite being a wonderful artist, had suffered the same fate as so many artists had. Unappreciated, unrewarded, dying, nameless and poor. It was only after death that they truly found fame. The following night, I woke up once more to the feeling that I was being watched from the dark. The room was pitch dark. Through the netted curtains, there was not even a glimpse of the moon, only the dark, starless sky, like the open maw of a beast. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. It was just after 3 o' clock in the morning, according to my watch. Using one hand to switch on the lamp, I squeezed my eyes closed against the light, waiting a few seconds for my eyes to stop watering and finally adjust. The air in the room was still undisturbed. The door was closed. Nothing felt out of place except for the strange prickle of unease tiptoeing down my spine. I gazed around the room for a few minutes, waiting in silence for something to happen. But nothing did. Once again, it was all in my head. I reached for the lamp again, my fingers brushing the switch. The moment the room plunged into darkness was the moment I heard it. Footsteps soft, muted footsteps coming from somewhere deeper in the house. I held my breath, my pulse racing beneath my ribcage. Was I hearing things? There against the quiet of the night was the sound of retreating footfalls. Someone was inside the house. This time there was no mistake. Fighting the rising panic in my chest, I fumbled to switch on the light and slipped out of bed. The air was cold against my legs and I shivered. Tiptoeing towards the door, I wrapped my fingers around the handle and tugged it open. As quietly as I could, I peered out. Nothing. The footsteps grew fainter, moving further away, until eventually I could hear them no more. Had they already left? I didn't want to leave anything to chance. Keeping close to the wall, I padded down the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs, peering down. I couldn't see anything. Nothing stirred amongst the shadows. Silence pressed against me like something tangible, broken only by my short, panicked pants. Taking the stairs slowly, I reached the bottom and peered around the edge of the banister. My vision swam in the darkness and I tried to ignore the feeling that there was something crouched in the shadows, waiting to catch me off guard.
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- [22:20]
Narrator
It's all in your head this time I passed by the kitchen and the dining room and went straight to the living room, straight to the painting. The door was open. Inside, the darkness felt thick, suffocating. I reached blindly through the dark until I found the light switch, flipping it on. The room felt warmer than the rest of the house. The air felt disturbed, like someone had been here recently. There was nobody hiding behind the doorway, nobody crouched behind the sofa. Everything was in its place. Closing the door behind me, I walked up to the painting and gasped. My legs wobbled, feeling like they were about to give way. My head began to spin, not quite willing to believe what I was seeing. The painting had changed. The painter, Thomas Mallory, had disappeared, leaving an empty space, a dark, mottled void where he once stood. The paintbrush and palette had been discarded and the canvas that had before been turned the other way was now facing me, containing a new painting, a new portrait. A portrait that looked exactly like me. I have always had a morbid curiosity. From true crime podcasts to documentaries to books and spending hours online looking up killers both infamous and obscure. In fact, when I was in the fifth grade, my parents had to come in and talk to the teacher when I told the class about the body farms the FBI uses to teach future agents to identify how long corpses have been dead for. I devoured this kind of stuff and still do. But it wasn't until I met Matt, my roommate at college, that this hobby was taken up a notch. Like me, Matt was into the same things, only his parents were rich and gave him enough money so that he could go on what he called called death tours, where he could go see where murderers lived, where they worked, and even to the sites of their grisly murders. And since I was his friend and into the same things as he was, he would pay for my ticket and bring me along. The first place we went was where HH Holmes Murderer Castle once stood. Since it was no longer there, we both thought this was a bit of a letdown. A shame too, because he was my favorite serial killer. Lots of people look at me odd for claiming I have a favorite serial killer or when I explain that I love true crime and all its gory details. It's not like I am dangerous or anything. I just want to know how someone could go ahead and actually kill someone. Everyone has thought about it, but to actually go ahead and kill and do it is. Well, that's what I find fascinating. The summer break before our senior year, we decided to take off to Arizona to explore where Mateo Salazar hunted for nearly 20 years before he was caught and executed. When Matt suggested this destination, I didn't know who Mateo Salazar was, so Matt showed me his stats. All the people that he killed, how long he was active, etc. His crimes were so gruesome that I was surprised that I had never heard of him. He would abduct people, give them strange tattoos before skinning them alive, and then kill them. No one knows why he skinned people he forced tattoos on, but it's suspected that it was part of a strange and twisted religious ritual. Also, the exact number of people that he murdered is a topic of contention, but it is anywhere between 35 and 50. Shortly after he was caught, the area he hunted in became a ghost town. Not just because no one wanted to live in a place where that many murders happened, but because it was so isolated that there were no jobs to keep people around. Since then, it became a sort of grim tourist attraction dedicated to the man who killed so many. When we got there, I expected to see a tour guide. But other than the dust being kicked up by the wind and the abandoned buildings, there was very little to see. I would have thought that there would have been at least someone in the gift shop, which was the former post office, but that too was was empty. Most of the things in the small and dust covered gift shop were knickknacks and not interesting to either Matt or I. However, there was one thing that caused a cold shiver to creep up my spine. Under a glass counter was Mateo Salazar's death mask, taken shortly after his execution. Beneath it were the last words he spoke, and when I read them, it sounded more like a curse. My work is not finished. It will never be finished. I'll be back. Matt was not bothered by this, but for some reason that I cannot articulate, I was. I had to leave. But instead of telling Matt the mask made me feel uneasy. He would have teased me if I did. I just told him I'm going off to explore. Which was true. All over town there were plaques. Some gave a brief history of a building and others were about the people who lived or worked there. Most of them were either Salazar's victims or friends who were oblivious to the horrible things that he did when he was alive. Like always, I took tons of pictures while Matt ran off to see do his own thing. In hindsight, I wish I had followed him around. Maybe things would have been different if I had. After a few hours had passed, I realized that I hadn't seen him around for a long time. It wasn't like the town was large enough to get lost in in an hour I had been down every major road and after two hours I saw mostly everything the town had to offer suffer. Yet there was no sign of Matt or anyone else. I wondered if this was one of his tricks, like he was going to jump out and try to scare me or something. If you know Matt, you would know that this would not have been a surprise. However, if he was going to jump out and scare me, he was displaying an uncharacteristically amount of patience because I hadn't seen seen any sign of him since leaving the gift shop. I called out to Matt after seeing all I could in that ghost town, but there was no reply. It's hard to explain how it felt having an entire town to myself. The best word I can come up with is eerie, but that falls short. Thankfully, Matt didn't jump out to scare me, but the look on his face hinted that he did something he should not have done. But I was too scared and cranky from walking all day to ask him about it. Driving back to the hotel, Matt asked me what I thought of the town and I told him that I was sort of let down by it. I was hoping that there was more to see, at least a tour guide that could have told us what the Internet couldn't. I assumed that Matt wouldn't have been disappointed with the my opinion, but it didn't bother him. After a long moment, I turned to look at him and saw a smile that did little to hide some mischievous deed. I asked what he did, but instead of answering, he said he would rather show me when we get back to the hotel. And I knew I was not going to like what he would say. Back at the hotel, he opened up the backpack that he had with the them all day and pulled out the death mask of Mato Salazar. He had stolen it from the gift shop with a smile. He said he was going to hang it up on the wall back at the dorm. Needless to say, I was upset about this. Even more so when he said it was all right because he looked and there were no cameras. As if I was mad that he might get caught and not because he stole something. Something I was tired and I didn't want to fight. It wasn't like it would have done either of us any favors if I did. So I decided to drink at the hotel bar for the remainder of the night. When we got back to the dorms, Matt stayed true to his word and hung up the death mask on the living room wall. There it served as an interesting conversation piece. When we had guests. It didn't take long before our guests claimed that they were getting a weird feeling from it. When asked about it, they said it wasn't so much as the feeling of being watched, which was also the case, but more like it was radiating evil. At first we considered this nonsense. No one had that feeling before we told them about its origins. So we chalked it up as the placebo effect. Effect. In truth, though, sometimes it gave me the creeps. I too would get the feeling of someone watching me when I was alone. In the weeks that followed, I would be doing something for class, reading a book, or researching something online. And in the corner of my eye, I could have sworn that its eyes were open. However, every time I looked, its eyes were shut. I told myself it was the trick of the light, my imagination, or that I should take it easy with the edibles. However, none of that explained how Matt's behavior changed. He started missing classes. He stayed out all night and hardly spoke to me. I should have done something, but at the time, the only thing I could think of was talking to his parents. Some. Sometimes when he thought I was asleep in my room, I could hear Matt talking to himself. One night I spied on him and discovered that he was actually talking to the death mask. I needed a break from this and decided to go to a party. I didn't go with Matt, not because of how much he changed, but because parties were never his scene. So I was a little surprised to see him standing in the corner looking at everyone at the party. The way he was looking at people wasn't like his usual self. It wasn't like he was trying to build up the nerves to talk to a girl that caught his eye. It reminded me of the way a reptile looked at something cold and unfeeling. Eyes calculating to decide if it was worth the effort to go after. Coming up with an excuse not to return to the dorm room was a no brainer. I needed a break from Matt. So that night I slept at my girlfriend's house. The next morning, I was reluctant to return. But when I did, I saw police cars in the parking lot and on the grass next to the doors. People were crying and holding each other. When I asked what happened, they told me my roommate killed a girl while I was gone. I refused to believe it, but then someone showed me a video on their phone of the police marching Matt out of the dorms as he was laughing. The police interviewed me and I cooperated to the best of my ability. They didn't ask about Mateo Salazar's death mask, so I never mentioned it. After a few hours of interrogation, I was free to go, but I was warned not to leave town. The people in the dorms treated me like a leper and kept away from me. Not surprising. After all, it wasn't a secret that the two of us had the same interests, and it was only natural to assume that I was involved with the murders too. The details of Match crimes came out over the next few few days, and to me they sounded exactly like Mateo Salazar's. He abducted three people, two girls and a guy, and killed them. Rumor was he also gave them tattoos and skinned them. I couldn't help but to think of Salazar's death mask, if I wasn't already freaked out by it. Hearing the details of Matt's crimes was the straw that broke the camel's back, and I decided to get rid of it. However, before I could throw it in the trash, someone knocked on the door. When I answered it, I was surprised and confused to see two people who didn't look like they were police or FBI. Not only were they hairless, but they also had bright orange coveralls. After asking who they were and what they wanted, the shorter of the two answered in a monotone voice and said they just wanted the mask. I would have given it to them for free, but they pulled out a checkbook and asked me to name my price. When I said the number, I thought they would haggle me, but they didn't blink and wrote out the check. Surprised at this sudden windfall of money, I didn't say or do anything to stop them when they let themselves in in and took the mask off the wall. They left without a word after taking the mask, and I watched them depart down the hallway. On the back of their coveralls was the same name on the check the Catadesmos Museum. One night out with group chat getting quiet drop a TikTok clip trends, memes, Hot topics, instant reactions, endless replies.
- [36:55]
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Narrator
Download TikTok now. Some friends I was dared to go inside of a local abandoned house. Everyone from my school knew about this house. Being a young teenager, I said sure. I approached cautiously, stepped into the decrepit house, its creaking floorboards echoing through the dimly lit hallways. I ventured deeper. A chilling breeze whispered through the broken windows, sending shivers down my spine. Shadows danced on the peeling wallpaper, playing tricks on my imagination. A sense of foreboding gripped me as I entered the living room room. The air grew heavy with an unsettling silence broken only by the sound of my own heartbeat. Something wasn't right. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I made my way up the stairs, each step groaning beneath my weight. The musty scent of decay lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of fear. The hallway above seemed to stretch endlessly, its darkness swallowing the feeble light of my flashlight as I tiptoed. Further across from me stood a large, old wooden door. Against my better judgment, curiosity propelled me towards it. I pushed it open, revealing a room frozen in time. Dust covered furniture and faded photography lined the walls, but it was the mirror that caught my attention. Its surface was stained and cracked, reflecting a distorted version of myself. As I stared into its depths, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing there. The room was empty. Yet the feeling of being watched until intensified panic welled up within me as I realized that I was not alone in this house. Whispers filled the air, slightly faint and muffled. I strained to listen, my heart pounding in my ears. The voices grew louder, their chilling words crawling under my skin in a desperate attempt to escape. I turned to run, but. But the door slammed shut, trapping me within the room. The whispers became screams, echoing through the house, tormenting my mind. Shadows writhed and twisted, merging into a grotesque figure that advanced towards me. Fear consumed me as I realized I had stumbled into a realm of darkness beyond comprehension. It was a place where nightmares took form, where the line between reality and the supernatural blurred. As the dark figure closed in, a cold grip tightened around my throat, choking the life out of me. It was at this moment my eyes opened, only to realize it was all a dream. I have been homeless for a while, not helpless, nor without a home. I won't get into it because it serves no purpose to the story. I sleep under the stars every night, and I do not mind the the mist and the overcast weather. In the morning, I find it easy to rise. The light is not too overbearing as it breaches my eyelids. There is no heat, nor is there cold. The birds and the frogs and the crickets are the first sounds in the morning, and I find no equal in the extremity of events. Since I've chosen this lifestyle, there have been some events that stand out, some more than others. Time is precious, however, and it would be best if I summarized this story now as quickly and concisely as possible. Sleeping with the elements leads to many different outcomes, I must say, whether or not I choose to. I wake up every single day at 3:30 in the early morning. This is what I believe is considered the witching hour. For the most part it is silent and statuesque. There was one time where I awoke face to face with a raccoon peering back at me. We were both close enough to kiss each other's noses. I jumped up in a flurry and the raccoon scampered off. Still, it sent me into conniptions. Stories about raccoons are just child's play as far as I'm concerned. One night not too long ago, about three to five weeks ago, I woke up at the witching hour like I typically do, and rolled onto my back to peer into the black web of sky that entangled the stars within it, harassing the sky like a trickle of rainwater, blemishes the integrity of a window pane. A silver of light bolted across the sky. It was blurry and it was dim. To look upon it was as if to try to see something behind a wall of dark black ice. I really didn't get a good look at it because it moved so fast. The dim shooting star molested the carpet of stars amidst it and pierced the night, unquestioningly tearing the beautiful array of cosmos through and through. I peered further into the dark to see the stars and found myself dumbfounded and intrigued and stone still. All was silent, and at this point in time all was lost. I deemed that there was no more credence to give the occasion, since all that passed had lasted a mere 15 seconds and no alarms were raised, so to speak. I closed my eyes again, rolled over, and focused on keeping my eyes closed, on breathing and the position of my body. I am not vulnerable, I told myself with as much confidence as I could muster. After not too long, my body relaxed, my mind submitted, and once again I felt my body giving in to the necessities and allowing me to sleep once again for a few more hours. Then I woke up again. It seemed as if no time had passed at all. The air was just as solid, the sounds were silent, muted, morphed into oblivion, and I was the only one awake in this solitary world. I just can't get into my dreams now, or that would take a novel. But I will say this much. After lucid dreaming for a decade and a half, I know the difference. This was no dream. I was most surely awake, very awake, on edge. Yet it was so serene and tranquil there was no justification to be askew. As my eyes peered to my left and my right, laying on my side, the most untypical thing happened to me. To this very moment. I will never be able to completely describe it. The best I can do for you is to describe it as Take two tubas and have them attempt to hit a middle C and then have a few more French horns join in, only they are going to octave above and all of them are slightly out of tune with each other. It was definitely a chord of some sort. The difference being to a human being is this did not sound brassy, it sounded more metallic, if that makes sense. It was as if the tubas and French horns were not real. More realistically, it was a replication. That's the best way I could describe it. To me it sounded like the tuba was a middle C and the French horns were an octave above and they struggled to linger on this note. At first I thought something similar to what is that? Perhaps the folks down the way were having a party and they wanted to raise the roof with a good song, bad song to pick. It was just one long, breathing heavy note that seemingly came from nowhere. But then at five minutes or so there was silence once again, and then the notes shifted up half a note up the staff lingering ever so present and then faded out again. Odd, I said to myself. I closed my eyes again, delving deep into the idea I had a vivid imagination. But then it started again, these slow notes, just two notes wavering in the sky above like an out of tune rusty squeeze box. And loud, gargantuanly loud. The reverberation was maddening as it shook the concrete underneath me as I lay there defenseless. That moment right there, all that happening there, really wasn't much I could do. It didn't make very much sense to me, me. And I was rather sure I had just been imagining things. After another 10 minutes or so, the attempted melody picked up once again and repeated itself through and through while I just lay there thinking to myself, man, what is that? The strange melody from the Milky Way disappeared as discreetly as it had appeared, and there was no more. I had never heard it before and I certainly have not heard it since. I haven't the slightest clue what that song from the sky may have been. It lasted no more than 20 minutes and nothing worth writing home about happened. Being slightly out of the ordinary, however, it had my mind wandering and wondering and confused and convoluted about what had exactly transpired out on the misty night as I laid alone upon the grass.