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Hey, welcome to Scary Stories in Rain. Do you want to listen ad free? Just subscribe on Spotify for $2.99 a month. Now turn out the lights, enjoy the stories, and enjoy the rain. For context and posterity. The current date is October 7, 2021. I am bringing you back to the year 1999. Over 20 years in the past, back when cellular phones meant nothing, the world thought an imminent Armageddon was coming on the night of December 31st at midnight. I was 16 years old. What I saw one cold October night is as fresh to me then as it is now. Bear with me as I set the stage for you. I grew up in a remote area of the Midwest. My home was on a hill all by its lonesome, surrounded by farmland on three sides and endless acres of woods. After the fields of wheat, corn or whatever we planted that season, the woods were dense and foreboding. We would not be out there after dark. A lonely two lane road was the only way in or out of our place. Old County Road 577 it was called. An amazing thing happened right around my 16th the Internet. We had a computer already, maybe for a few years or so. This was huge in my little area of the world. We didn't have much money, but I think my parents could foresee how important a PC would be for me and my brothers. They barely used it, but man, we were off to the races. I guess it must have been a Dell or a Gateway, which were huge back then. Windows 95 was the operating system for anyone born in my generation. Just remember when that Windows Brick Maze screensaver came on. The nostalgia is strong with that one. To the newer folks in the Gen Z crowd, just having a computer was a thrill. The Internet wasn't a thought quite yet. Not to us normal people at least. We had quite enough fun just playing PC games, typing silly stories and using Ms. Paint. If you had a printer, you could also make those giant banners with the clip art and funny fonts. I remember making a banner that said Broncos because I was rooting for them to win one of the Super Bowls. Around that time every letter took up one page. Those seven letters drained our printer of ink. Different times for sure. I might be getting off topic. Sorry, I was just drowning in late 90s feels. I guess the point I am getting at is that being in that era of owning the tuned up PCs was awesome. These weren't your 1980s computers that ran one program. They were easy to learn and could do many things. The Internet, however, changed everything. Yes, understatement of the century. I know. Another interesting thing is that we grew up without the finely tuned and polished search engines that we use today. You didn't google anything you couldn't type in sports, in Yahoo or whatever. Yes, the search engines were very soon to come. The ones you could use were very shoddy and hard to find. Anything not like the complete ease we enjoy today. My dad changed our entire living room around the computer. He built a computer desk with plenty of shelves and perfectly sized cutouts for the computer monitor, sliding drawer for the keyboard, etc. He also installed a sliding glass door close to where the computer was. So while playing one of the earliest point and click PC games, we could enjoy the vast outdoor landscape and have an easy exit from the home to take a leak. Hey, Our nearest neighbor was over two miles away and there were four of us boys in the home. The first time we tried getting online was painful. The only Internet provider in that time was just as new at this than anyone else. We sat and listened to that now iconic dial up dubstep tone hoping for magic. We got nothing. We tried for weeks to get connected. We didn't know what we were missing. It's not like now if your Internet goes down, you know. But once we got on man, it was on. The rest is history. Here I was staying up late at night surfing the web, finding websites that was accessing me information from around the world. And here at home in the US back then you might see a commercial on Saturday morning telling you to join them on the world wide web and provide their address. Like I said, you pretty much had to have the URL correct to find things. If there was a sports show on they might tell you to go to the Sports Illustrated site for kids and provide that long URL. Now we all know you could just google sikids or something like that and find it in.0001 seconds. Being connected felt great. Where I lived was vast, unforgiving, and kind of lonely. The worst thing that no one talked about was that it was just plain creepy. There was no street lights after dark where I lived. The long county roads were empty at night. When a car did travel up that road, I usually stayed still in my room. I hated seeing the reflection of their headlights slowly light up the upstairs window. No one should be on that road that late. Maybe besides truck drivers, but even then we were so out of the way of any major city or freeway. There shouldn't even be commercial drivers out there. I know you're probably confused by what the hell all this rambling is getting to it is all related. The advent of the Internet to my daily life as a young man brought with it a renewed interest in scary stories, movies and the like. I already loved renting horror movies from town about 20 minutes away. When I could, I rented scary books from the library. My friends and I made up our own urban legends for fun. Now I could access horror movie lore, serial killer stories, and anything my little teenage brain could think of. Being in such a secluded area, this didn't exactly help my anxiety about my scary surroundings. Sitting at that computer with the giant sliding door to my right, I only saw darkness. We didn't have curtains yet at that time. One night at around 1am If I had to guess, I saw something I think about almost every day of my life.
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in it and I am still terrified of it. I was online by myself. Everyone else was asleep. I was probably playing a flash game or looking up sports stats. I heard the low rumble of a vehicle coming in the distance that always got me on high alert. As I mentioned, I could get a sense of the vehicle coming and just hoped it would pass by the sliding door without any kind of incident. There was an incident. A small red pickup truck, maybe a Ford Ranger, skidded off the road maybe 100 or so yards from our house. I was looking at the rear of the vehicle. I quickly shut the living room light off and the computer monitor. I just knew this wasn't going to be good. I huddled close to the window, trying to hide as much myself as I could. Realistically, I am sure no one could see me from that far away. But I could see them. Two men busted out of the truck. The driver was a burly man. He wore a plaid long sleeve and a punch puffy vest over it. Typical looking northern hillbilly. He quickly moved to the passenger side, yanking the door open. He could have ripped the door off the hinges with the force he used. He grabbed a smaller man out of the truck by his collar and tossed him to the ground. At this point, my little heart was racing. The passenger was clearly the inferior man in the duo. The driver threw the tailgate and grabbed a shovel. He tossed it to the passenger, hitting him in the hands as the shovel fell to the ground. The passenger looked terrified. The driver grabbed what looked like a burlap sack out of the back. He tossed it to the passenger forcefully, but this time the smaller guy caught it. Even from this distance, I could see the look on the inferior man's face. His eyes were wide. He was probably crying with snot coming down from his nose. His expression said, please don't do this. He was pleading with exaggerated hand movements. He seemed to plead for some time. Please don't make me do this. Is what he was conveying. The burly man pointed at the ground. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but it seemed like he was saying dig. The passenger reluctantly started digging. After about five to 10 minutes, the burly man stopped his partner and pointed at the burlap sack that now sat on the ground. He then pointed at the ground. The now defeated digger kicked the sack into the fresh hole in the ground. The sack looked like it could hold a bowling ball or a human head. That's all I could think of. I am watching someone bury a human head on our property. The man with the shovel buried the head or sack, filling up the hole with the dirt he just excavated. The driver grabbed the man, pushing him back into the truck. He threw the shovel in the back of the pickup and sped off. After what seemed like an eternity, I took a huge breath, realizing I probably have been holding it in for the entire transaction. Gasping for air. I ran up to my room on the second floor of our house. I was dripping with sweat. I didn't even realize how terrified I was. Did they see me? Why did they choose to stop right there by one of the only houses within miles? I hope I was just overreacting, but what the hell else could these random guys be burying at this time of night? I remember it being cold, probably not winter because the ground would have been frozen, but it was not pleasant out. What drove these guys out here? I didn't want to know. I have only told this story to a few people and they all asked the same question. Did you go to see what it was the next day? The answer is simple. Hell no. I didn't have the stones to look that curiosity has always stayed with me. I couldn't say for sure who those guys were. Nothing like this happened before or after. I won't say the cliche thing of like it haunts me every single day or anything, but I do think of it often. I think the worst part is a few days after this happened, I saw a dirt covered shovel in our barn. A small amount of what looked like dry blood dotted the tip of the shovel. I never mentioned this, but my dad never allowed us to enter the barn. He said it wasn't safe. I shouldn't have seen what happened and I shouldn't have gone into the barn. I can't question my dad. He died a long time ago. Even worse is that my dad did own a small pickup truck at that time. I never put it together until much later. Maybe it's all a huge coincidence. My dad was a good man. He was a simple farmer. We were able to afford luxuries that most farm folk couldn't though, like expensive computers and Internet access before anyone else. Just a coincidence, right? The stranger was walking down the quiet rural street dressed in a suit and tie. It was midnight. I had just gotten home from a night out with my friends when I saw the stranger shuffling past my house. Hey buddy, you alright? I hollered from the front porch. The stranger ignored me and kept walking. I briefly considered shrugging off the oddity and heading indoors, but I could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. I know most of the people who live along the road. Some are even relatives, so I couldn't in good conscience ignore my gut. I climbed back into my car, thinking it would be a good barrier between the stranger and me if he were to try anything, and took off in pursuit. He hadn't gotten far when I rolled up to him, cracking the passenger window and asked, are you okay? The stranger was drenched in sweat and staring distantly through fogged glasses. He looked to be in his early 40s, maybe younger. Sir, I said, did your car break down somewhere? Without looking at me, the man quietly answered, no. Are you staying nearby? There was a momentary pause, followed by another quiet. No. I kept my car rolling at the stranger's pace, observing his shaking hands. He appeared anxious. Whether that was because of me or something else, I do not know, but his behavior did nothing but give further cause for concern. Do you need me to call someone? No. I watched him quietly for another moment, then asked him something that every fiber in me opposed. Do you need a ride? The man stopped walking. I pressed on the brakes and came to a halt beside him. He stood silent, his chest puffing in and out with each breath, then turned only his head and said, no. He turned his gaze back to the road ahead and continued walking. I did not follow. To put my mind at ease, I hurried back past my place and over to my cousin's. She lives only three houses down from me. Usually she and her family are in bed around 10 or so, but this time I was surprised to find that the lights were still on. I went up to the door and knocked a couple of times. Her husband, Dan, carefully cracked the door, saw that it was me, then relaxed. Hey, Scott. Hey, Dan, I said, looking at the shotgun hanging by his side. Something got you spooked? Dan sighed a little. Come on in. I stepped inside. Where's Katie? I'm right here, katie whispered as she crept out of the kids room and quietly shut the door. What are you doing here so late? Well, I scratched the back of my head. There is a guy dressed in a suit and tie walking down the road and acting kinda strange. Came from this way. I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay. Dan and Katie exchanged glances. Then Katie said, I think he might have been over here earlier. What do you mean? I was in the backyard with the dogs, letting them do their business before bed when I heard whistling. Whistling? Yeah, like a person whistling a tune. I glanced over at Dan and he nodded. You know we got that fence back there now so that the dogs don't wander off and so I couldn't see anyone. But I could hear that they were moving right along the perimeter of the fence. A chill ran through me. Did the dogs freak out? That's the weirdest part. They didn't. They bark at just about anything and any other time, but this time they just continued sniffing the grass like the whistling wasn't even happening. What did you do? I ran inside and told Dan and he went outside and looked. Searched the whole yard and didn't see anybody. Dan added. Did you check the road? Yep. Walked down to the end of the driveway and looked both ways. Nothing. Think it might have been a bird? Katie shook her head. No way this was a person. Maybe we should call the cops. Katie and Dan agreed and Dan pulled out his cell phone and called 911. We gave the dispatcher the stranger's description and they told us they would send a unit to check it out. I'm gonna get in my car and see if I can find him, I said after Dan hung up. Don't do anything stupid, Scott, katie begged. I'm not. I just want to get eyes on him. I headed over to the door and Katie stopped me. Why don't you stay here tonight? I turned and smiled. I'll be alright. Plus I've gotta go let the dog out. Bring him over here with you. I hugged Katie and stepped out to the car. I'll call you when I see him. Katie didn't argue any further and waved goodbye like I had taken her heart and wouldn't be bringing it back anytime soon. Once I reached my house, I once again continued past in search of the stranger. It was reasonable to assume he'd be well down the road by then, but I ended up driving much further than he would have gotten on foot without even finding the slightest hint of him. Instead, I found the deputy. I slowed down next to his car and rolled down my window. A mustached deputy looked back at me. I told him that we had been the ones who had called, and the stranger didn't seem to be on the road anymore. The deputy said he'd keep looking and then we parted ways. Wasn't much else for me to do but go home, so I did just that. I pulled up the gravel driveway, shut off the car, and headed inside. Opening the door spooked the dog. It usually does, but his barking subsided when I flicked on the lights. Hey, boy, I said, petting him. I held the door open and let him run outside to wet the grass. I stood beneath the starlit sky watching the dog sniff the earth when I heard a whistling tune come from behind the house. It carried through the air like a windswept song, but this was a night when the trees were still and there wasn't a breeze to be felt. The melody became clearer and floated around the house, seemingly to my side. It was indiscernibly human and the dog did not Bark. I hurried the dog inside, grabbed a baseball bat I keep by the door and went around the house, tense and ready to swing. Every shadow seemed a trespasser that night. Every falling branch and rustling leaf. Every hooting owl and chirping cricket. Popping rabbit and creeping raccoon. But none of it was the stranger in the suit. I had called Katie after I heard the whistle and told her as much. I said that the deputy was out looking. But by morning it became clear that the stranger was never found. And that was that. Or so we thought. Mr. Weston lived two houses down from me and for as long as I can remember, had been a paraplegic, wheelchair bound and all alone. Mr. Weston was the last person you'd expect to hang himself. But two days after we had heard the whistling, Mr. Weston was found hanging from a tree behind his house that he undoubtedly could not have reached on his own. Detectives said he looked like he had been hanging there for a couple of days. It doesn't end there. Two houses down from Mr. Weston's place lived a young man and his wife. They are both healthy as could be and both are Coast Guard veterans. Spent a lot of time in the water. And despite all that, they were found dead in their bathtub tub. The day after Mr. Weston was found hanging from a tree. Drowned and maybe you guessed, but from the looks of it, they had been in there for about three days. There's a commonality we discovered since then of those of us along the road who are still living. Someone in their household heard the whistling that night. They heard it, they investigated, and they found nothing. Could it be that the three who died never heard the whistling? I don't sleep well anymore. Too afraid I will miss the whistling tune. A whistle no dog hears. Did you know Sam's Club isn't a store? It's actually a club with cool finds. And like a whole community, it's a club.
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Of course, Jason. It's in the name. Sam's Club.
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- [24:26]
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of $45 for three months, $90 for six months. Or $180 for a 12 month plan required $15 per month equivalent taxes and fees. Extra initial plan term only greater than 50 gigabytes. Me slow when network is busy. See terms that refresh you've been putting off until the right deal came along. It's here. Wayfair's Black Friday in July sale is happening now so you can finally get the style you've been waiting for for less. Get up to 80% off area rugs and up to 60% off outdoor and bedroom furniture. Shop Wayfair's huge selection of styles and find the pie style, budget and space plus free shipping. Black Friday in July ends July 27. Shop today at Wayfair.com Wayfair Every style,
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every home Warning they cannot give. I had just turned 21 and frequented the bars regularly. In hindsight, I probably spent too much time drinking with my friends. I didn't have a car or a cell phone and I lived on the outskirts of town. It was a 45 minute walk downtown. The town I live in is generally a very safe place. It is wealthy, well to do, white bred community. So walking home alone at night after drinking was nothing that bothered me other than the actual walking. It was a Tuesday night and that meant pints were cheap, so I wouldn't say I was completely wasted, but I certainly was more than tipsy. Instead of walking home along the sidewalk where I feared I'd be picked up by the police for being drunk in public, I decided to take the bike path that ran along the train tracks. This meant that the walk would take longer, but much safer and less likely I'd run into any sort of trouble. Or so I thought. The bike path was not very lit and knowing what I know now, I should have been a lot more nervous about walking alone in the complete darkness at 2 in the morning. Like I said, I had just turned 21 and was certainly an arrogant young male who was thinking about women and not minding my surroundings. I had taken this path many nights and coming across anybody else was rare. If I did perchance come across somebody this late at night, most of the time it was just another drunk college student who had the same thoughts as me. Either that or they were homeless, but if so, I'd say they were all harmless. So this night as I'm walking, I noticed further down the path was somebody walking towards me. He wore a large hiking backpack and his hoodie pulled over his head. It was so dark I couldn't see their face. I could really only just barely make out their outline. This person's gait unquestionably revealed him to be a male who I figured was probably just a transient. It was odd to see somebody walking towards downtown at 2 in the morning. When I got really close to him and we were about to cross paths, this person just stopped dead in his tracks and I could tell he was staring at me because his head just followed me as I walked by. It creeped me out a bit and I certainly felt like that was a bit odd. As I continued to walk, shrugging at the situation. I just didn't feel right. Something in my gut made me feel wrong. I stopped and turned around to see this person still staring at me. What? I asked him as I stopped walking and remained to stare back at him. That's when he hissed at me like a snake. A long vicious sounding hiss that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I had hoped that he was just being weird or perhaps was on meth or something. I nervously laughed a bit and said okay and continued to walk on. I made it a few more steps and turned to look back. He somehow managed watched to get closer to me without making a sound. He stood completely still. I figured perhaps I was just drunk and imagining things. I turned back around and walked. Taking a few more steps. I turned around once more. Now I knew he was closer. I couldn't believe I couldn't hear him approaching behind me. What unsettled me even more was how every time I turned around he had managed to stop and stand completely still. Are you following me buddy? Once again he let out this creepy hiss just staring at me. Now I was freaked out and had this strange sensation that I was some sort of prey. Hey screw you man. I now yelled. In hindsight this was a bad idea but because I already felt like I was some sort of target and the last thing I should have been wanting to do is provoke this sick twisted bastard. I started backing away at this point not taking my eyes off of him. He just stood there hissing. The hisses were getting longer, louder and more malice was apparent in him. He started to hiss louder and louder. He began to engage in some sort of pursuit. At first they were basic steps but the further I backed away the more he sped up taking bigger steps towards me. I said forget this to myself, I'm getting out of here. I noped it out of there and began into full fledged run. He started running after me. I could hear his heavy boots gaining on me, hissing like a cat, growling like a dog. I feel his spit hitting me in the back of the neck. Get Away from me. I yelled, I might have peed myself. I was so scared. All I could think to do was run as fast as I could and to get inside of my house as quickly as possible. I have always been a very fast runner, but this guy was much taller than me and his legs were really long so he was really cutting down the distance between him and me. I managed to keep a good five between us though, checking back behind me as I saw his arms reaching out in an attempt to grab me. I finally made it out of the bike path and onto the crossing sidewalk of the street that was lit up by street lamps and a few passing cars. I was so relieved to finally make it back to civilization. There was a gas station over by my house and I thought that I would run to the safety of its inside, only to see that the lights had been shut off and the doors were closed. It was closed. I had to make it to my house. As I got closer to my house, I could see that my roommate's lights were on through the window. Chris. Chris. I shouted. Chris. Open the door. Open the door. I am impressed. I yelled loud enough that he actually heard me. I saw the front door of my house open up and my roommate just standing at the doorway looking confused. I ran up the steps and almost jumped inside my house, slamming the door shut behind me. Dude, what are you running from? He asked you. You didn't see the guy chasing me? No. I ran to the window and looked outside. He was gone. I have no idea what happened to him, but I am sure that this really happened. Whoever that guy who hissed at me was, this really shook me up. And I never walk down that bike path after dark anymore. Years ago, when I first started to live alone, I hoped for only a few things. Reasonable rent, a decent landlord, and a set of normal neighbors. It turns out the last one was the hardest to ask for. The walls are thin in most of these old apartment buildings, some thinner than others. After I moved in, I noticed a distinct wailing from the unit next door each and every night. It sounded like an older woman in a great deal of distress. But it wouldn't go on forever. It would only last about two hours. Whether it was 8 to 10pm or 7 to 9, or even 6 to 8, it was always two hours. At first, I decided being a good neighbor meant leaving her alone to cry in peace. Maybe it was part of her daily routine. Cook and eat dinner, watch Matlock and weep for two hours. Crying is the only way some people know how to display emotion. It could have been cathartic for her, but only to a certain point. After almost a month, the wailing continued on and on. Eventually I was embarrassed to invite friends over, worried she would begin her miserable routine at any time. It was at this point I decided the way to be a good neighbor was to check in on her. On about the 15th night in that apartment, I muted my TV, took a deep breath, and headed one door down the hall to introduce myself. I delivered three consistent knocks with my knuckle on the wooden red door with the number 19 pinned to the center. As soon as the third knock rang out, the wailing stopped. For a moment there was just silence. Then a seemingly scripted commotion began. The woman started speaking to someone. Gerald, I think someone's at the door. Someone, presumably Gerald whispered back, Will you please get it? I've got a kettle on the stove. The whispers grew louder to beat out, the kettle's hissing. A television blared what sounded like a football game, but it was May at the time, maybe a rerun. The chatter continued and got short and guttural, as if they were arguing. Oh fine, one minute. I'll be right there, she called out in a shaky old voice. A few moments later, I heard a chain sliding and falling and a deadbolt clicking back. Then the door creaked open. I looked down to see my neighbor hunched over with a silky purple polka dot nightgown draped over her shapeless body and a strap around the back of her lumpy neck that connected to the thick reading glasses covering her eyes. Her face looked rather young for the rest of her hunched figure. Something smelled rancid, but I couldn't tell whether it was her or the apartment. At first it smelled like my parents basement right after that big flood from when I was five. Hello? She said in a sort of sweet grumble. Hi, I replied, suddenly at a loss for words. My name's Nick. I'm your neighbor. I. I just moved in next door, I mean a couple of weeks ago, and I heard some crying coming from your apartment. I just wanted to see if everything was okay. She waited a moment and sniffled. Oh, hello Nick. I'm Wilmac Quincy and I've lived here for she placed a hand on her chest, which caused her nightgown to ripple, and looked off pensively into the hallway as if remembering a lifetime of sorrows. Well, a long time. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Quincy. And is everything okay in here? Yes, of course. Why do you ask? It's just that I've been hearing crying every night for the last couple of weeks since I moved in and I wanted to make sure everything was okay. I looked over her ghostly nightgowned figure into the apartment to see very little. There was a brown leather couch in the middle of the room that had seen its fair share of years, with a cheap floor lamp beside it, craned over the far cushion. But other than that there was nothing. No pictures of family, no art on the walls, no coffee tables or end tables, or even a rug to cover up that warped wooden floor. Oh, that, she said with a dismissive click. Rick, I'm an old, old woman and sometimes I just forget things. I do apologize if my crying is keeping you awake. Not at all. But sometimes in my old age I forget things. A lot of things. And see, my kids live far away now, and my husband passed a long time ago, and when you get to be my age, you've seen a lot of people and things come and go. Now I just don't have much, see, and when I lose things, it's just one more thing I don't have. And then I worry if I lose the last thing I could rely on, my mind, I'll lose my independence, too. Then I'll have nothing. It may sound dramatic, but the sieve is my mind. In a way, they seem to be disappearing together. I was unexpectedly moved by her explanation. I almost wanted to cry, too. Your sieve. I could help you look for it. Pish posh. It's water off a duck's back. No, really, it's no problem. She thought for a moment, then tilted her head. Well, if you don't mind. Ms. Quincy focused hard on her feet as she shuffled aside to clear the doorway. I stepped into the apartment and a stronger waft of that putrid stench assaulted my nostrils when I spoke. I tried to keep my sentences short and use as little breath as possible in order to not breathe in more of it. What's a sieve? You know that thing, the one you use to drain water when you're done cooking pasta. I was just pressing my ravioli, and I swear I took the strainer out and placed it right on the cabinet over there. But by the time the water was done boiling, I couldn't find it anymore. I held the collar of my shirt over my nose and pinched it tightly, except when I was talking to her. Based on where she looked when we spoke, I got the sense that her vision wasn't too strong. She was staring at the wall. It was dark, but I thought I noticed a black spot on the wall. Okay, I'll look for it it's about this big, she said, using her hands and round and silver, and my sister's husband got it for me when he used to work at Williams Sonoma out in the mall in New Jersey. I've had it for 15 years. It's the same one I used to teach Katie, my granddaughter, how to cook spaghetti. We've had that recipe in my family for generations now. My mother's mother, her mother brought the recipe all the way from a chef she knew in Milano, and he was the sweetest guy. He got married to Alessandra from Napoli. She continued on like this for the whole 10 minutes I looked for the strainer, and for the whole 10 minutes she stared at that spot on the wall. But there was no strainer and frankly, not too many places to look. Her apartment was about the same size as mine, a one bed, one bath, only it was much less cluttered. The kitchen was small and crammed, so only one of us could be in there at a time, and most of the cabinets I opened had nothing in them. One had a few glasses, one had two plates, and the rest were empty. I wondered how she could cook anything with what she had, never mind the strainer and that smell became unbearable after a short while, and when it did, I finally said, I'm sorry, Ms. Quincy, I can't seem to find it. You and me both, she sighed. That's quite alright. You've been lovely company. Which apartment do you live in? 17, I said, halfway out the door. 17. If I lose anything else, could I trouble you to help me again? Sure, no problem, I said, relieved to breathe the fresher air in the hull. Alright, thank you, Mick. I hope we have better luck next time. You've been so kind. Have a lovely evening. Thanks. You too. And the door clicked shut. I took a gasp of fresh air in, and when I managed to collect myself, a few aspects of her apartment began to trouble me. It was similar in layout to mine, but empty. So, so empty. How could anyone live like that? Most old women I know have too much stuff, not too little. And then I remember that kettle she talked about before opening the door. It wasn't there. The stove was clean as a whistle and not even so much as a fork was left out. There was no sign of anyone had used the kitchen that night, if ever. And something else was missing, even more perplexing than the shrieking kettle. The other person. She was talking to someone before she opened that door. I know she was, but as far as I saw for the 10 minutes I was in There she lived alone. And then there was that black spot on the wall, not larger than a golf ball. She kept looking at it and studying it, but not in an I need to get that checked out way. She almost admired it. She smiled at it between sentences, held her heart over the nightgown as if she found it charming. I shivered at the thought, but eventually managed to shake it until I saw her again. Over the next few weeks, I received a number of knocks on my door. Ms. Quincy seemed to remember which apartment I lived in without a problem but could never get my name right. The first time she came over, she said she was missing her New Yorker magazine. We looked for it just as we did for the strainer, high and low. All the while she told me about how long she was subscribed to the New Yorker and how her late husband Gerald used to write for them, but we never found it. I asked her if she still paid for the subscription, and she stopped with a shaky finger suspended in the air and thought for an awkwardly long time before declaring, I don't remember. A few nights later, Ms. Quincy said she lost her Aricept prescription, a common medication to treat Alzheimer's. This time I found it, but only the empty orange bottle with the label shredded up in an animalistic manner. It was just beneath that black spot on the wall, which I swear was growing larger. If it was only the size of a golf ball the first time, it was closer to that of a basketball. When I found her pill bottle the next time she came over, Ms. Quincy was in tears. She told me that she had gone grocery shopping that morning, but when she got back from physical therapy, all her food was missing. Indeed, her pantry and refrigerator were both empty, aside from a year expired box of rice. This was the first time I can remember knowing rice could expire. But what was funny was I couldn't remember seeing the rice when I looked for the strainer. At the end of that short search, we concluded she hadn't been to the food store at all, and as I left, with that foul odor wrestling my nose, I caught a glimpse of that black spot. It was definitely larger. It couldn't be measured by the size of any sports ball anymore. It was closer to the size of a small child, the rough shape of one, too. It had to be water damage or something terrible to cause that kind of rot in the wall. I emailed our landlord that night for her, but he never responded. The next time Ms. Quincy showed up at my door, she was more panicked than ever. She was still wearing a nightgown but no glasses this time. She was shaking, freezing almost, and her droopy eyes darted side to side as she spoke. I lost my grandchildren, she said. What do you mean, Ms. Quincy? Where are your ears, Nathan? I lost my grandchildren, she snapped. I had never seen her so troubled. Were they visiting? Yes, yes. My granddaughter Katie was over and her brother Michael was in the other room playing with his trains. I was teaching her how to cook something. Something. Oh, I can't remember. And then they were gone. Please, please help me. I need to find them. Their parents will be so upset with me. I shut my door behind me and followed her next door. Don't worry, we'll find them, I told her. But how could she lose her grandchildren? I thought I was helping her gain some sort of peace of mind by helping her look for these missing items, but it only seemed to be getting worse. She thought she was losing people. Now I began to question how far was too far. Was I helping her or just entertaining the musings of a deteriorating mind? Again we went through the motions and looked around, but once again there weren't many places to look. I told her I could call her daughter to see if the kids were alright and she eventually agreed, but when I picked up her landline, the number didn't dial. I still pretended to talk to her daughter Annie and get confirmation that the kids were alright in a one way conversation with dead air. Hi, I'm calling from Ms. Quincy's phone. Yes, yes, I'm her neighbor. We just wanted to check in to see how Katie and Michael are doing. Oh, they are with you. Okay, fantastic. Thank you. Thank you so much. Yes, have a great night. Great heavens, thank you. Thank you so much. Ms. Quincy said. I don't know what I'd do without you. I put the phone back on the receiver and just before I walked away I noticed it wasn't plugged in. And that black spot. That black spot was massive. Now she couldn't see it right. It overwhelmed the wall and bubbled in a few places. I cautiously poked at it and felt a wet, gooey texture that I wiped off on my shirt and said, Ms. Quincy. No response. I stared at its colossal nature. It towered over me and seemed to lean in as it made its way up towards the ceiling. I think you should get this spot checked out. It looks like it could be water damage or mold or something or I turned around to see her standing with a straighter back than she usually did, making her about three inches taller. I think you ought to leave now, she said, holding the disconnected phone in her hand. And so I did, and I never saw her again. No more late night knocks on the door, and soon no more crying. A few weeks later, a couple of movers came in and out of her apartment carrying that brown leather couch. I asked them where they were taking it, and they told me to a dump. Since the woman had moved to a nursing home, they told me her dementia had gotten so bad that her worst fears finally came true. She had lost her independence. And as I spoke with the movers, something crackled and then smashed into the floor inside the apartment, startling them enough to drop the couch in the hallway. I peered inside to see what all the commotion was about. At first I saw dust cascading over the floor, covering the spot of impact in a light haze. And when it cleared, I realized which wall had collapsed. The one with the black spot. It finally gave way. Flecks of moldy, blackened drywall covered the floor, along with fragments of something white, stained with black mold, but still white. I looked back towards the opened wall to find where it had come from. I hoped what I saw was fake at first. It was some kind of Halloween gag. I have seen posts online about this kind of thing before. Someone would hide a plastic skeleton inside the drywall and scare the next tenant who opened the wall. But it wasn't plastic. Bits of flesh still hung from its wrists, and its teeth were falling out and rotted around the hardened gums. Maggots crawled through miniature holes in its pelvic bones and eye sockets. It nestled into the insulation like it was laying peacefully in an upright bed. Then its bottom jawbone rocked and fell off, shattering against the wooden floor as the three of us stared on in horror. The drywall creaked again, then flaked some more. Soon the rest of the wall collapsed and crashed against the floor, followed by crackling and clattering and dust once again bellowing over the wreckage. The dust settled and my face went cold. I saw it all. The strainer, the magazines, a folding chair, a couple of paintings, a box of old letters, the legs of a coffee table, pots and pans, and even a television, all falling from the moldy wall. I stared at the jawless skull of that skeleton still propped up inside the wall, and it seemed to stare back at me. It seemed to mock me. I don't know how all misplaced Quincy's belongings ended up inside that wall, but the fact is they did. And I probably won't ever know. But for some reason, I'm sure that skeleton did. It didn't just know it did all those things too. I know it sounds crazy, but nothing can convince me it wasn't. Torturing her all that time, preying on her feeble mind. Maybe she wasn't as forgetful as she might have thought. In these old apartment buildings, some walls are thinner than others. But I still wondered about her grandchildren. If everything else was in the wall, where were they? And just as I turned back toward my apartment, the drywall creaked one final time. Look, darling, isn't the snow beautiful tonight? She said nothing, simply remaining stiff in the aged wooden chair. He smiled and continued to sip from his mug of hot chocolate. He found her cold, silent demeanor adorable, one of a number of things he had come to find irresistible about her. She just sat there staring with an expression of permanent fright back at him from in front of the window. Behind her he could see the white specks as they fell in the slow, soothing flurry. He looked up at the ancient grandfather clock. 11:30pm he smiled and whispered to her. Not much longer now, my sweet Delilah. He got up and made his way to the blaze in the hearth. He began pouring himself some more of the piping hot cocoa before looking back to the window, meeting gaze once more into her fading baby blue eyes. Why don't you have a mug, my love? Still, only silence served to answer his offer. He softly grunted in amusement before then closing the top of the kettle. He took another sip as he continued to watch her. God, how she looks so beautiful, Delilah. The sole warmth of his heart sitting silent and peaceful on the old chair of antique mahogany, shrouded in the old white gown he had seen on her since first setting his eyes on her. He always thought it made her look akin to the paintings of the Virgin Mary herself. God, if only he were a painter. He would sometimes think he'd create a masterpiece from this scene alone to rival Dolly or da Vinci. If he were a writer, he would craft a tale with more potent emotion than even Poe at his most dreary or bleak. As the snow continued to fall outside, he could feel the air in the small den area become colder, even if just ever so slightly. Why don't you come sit with me by the fire? He said as he started to stoke the blaze in the furnace until the heat from its dance upon the oak kindling returned. Still, she merely sat in her chair in front of the window. With a warm smile. He sat down his mug of hot chocolate and went over to the window. Here, he said as he began trying to push the chair from behind over to the hearth. Allow me about two or three feet from the hearth, Delilah began to slump forward until she had fallen from her chair. Oh, dear. He exclaimed, chuckling. He shivered again, feeling the unnatural chill pervade the room around. Come now, Delilah, there's no need to be upset. It'll all come together soon. Fixing her back upright, he continued to push the chair the rest of the way to the hearth. Now isn't that much better, dear? She was still as silent as ever, yet her face could say both everything and nothing at the same time. Her eyes glinted with the reflective glow of the flames wild dance which served to also illuminate the rest of her pale, distraught face. Even as it looked now defined in much of its morbid detail by the flames, he still felt hopelessly entranced by her face. He checked the clock again before rummaging around in his shirt pocket. 11:40. From his shirt pocket, he produced a small, wilted mistletoe. He sighed, the grim cloud of reality accentuating itself to him once again. He had come to both look forward to it as well as dread. This night, Christmas Eve. It wasn't quite time yet. Soon it would all be over. But not yet. Attempting to void this glass cloud from his mind, he stuffed the small mistletoe back into his pocket and walked over to the table beside the window and placed one of the untitled records onto the phonograph and placed the needle onto its third track. It was one of his favorite tunes that began playing, though for his own reasons unknown, he could never remember the name of the composition or its composer. Would you care to dance to pass the time, my love? He walked over to the chair and took her soft, cold hand before shifting her to her feet. Now standing before him, the cloud of anxiety tightened its grip on him. You look beautiful, my dearest Delilah, he said with a shaking voice. He could hear her voice resonate distantly within the back of his mind, sounding as though it were echoing from the peak of a mountain. In life or in death, I will always have your heart, Arthur. And my kiss will be the sole warmth of your body, your heart, and your soul. Slowly, carefully, he began to shuffle around the room with her limply hanging in his arms. He tried, of course, to keep her braced upright against his chest, to no effect. In spite of this, though, he merely waltzed on with her, still smiling warmly to her. The longer he stared into those two stiff, oceanic hued irises, the more those horrible, maddening memories returned to him. Memories of that first fateful night he lost himself to the lust of his dearest Delilah. The night that would spell the beginning of his own undoing. He could almost see it now in every exact detail, looking into her cold, frozen eyes. The long walk down the icy road, the night sky, the gas lighted lamps that stood to sparsely pepper the white blanketed ground with their dim glows. It was deathly cold that night, only just over a month to the day before now, and he was walking alone from another evening toiling at the local market. He had made this very same walk many a night before, but this was different for him. How could he have not then known exactly? Nevertheless, something had changed in an almost supernatural manner in his mind that night. It had become very late when he saw her for the first time. There by the street lamp she stood, shrouded in a dress as white as the very snow. And oh, those eyes. Those baby blue eyes that immediately seized him and kept him spellbound. He felt a sense of tranquil warmth spread throughout his body with the image of that first shy smile she gave him when she saw him. That smile of fragile innocence and yet of a cunning nature. He saw that she was trying to hang something from the top of the post when he began to approach her. When he drew near, he could see that it was a mistletoe that she was attempting to hang. The very same one he now kept in his pocket as he danced on. Hello there. He greeted. Is it not just a tad early for these? She responded with that same playfully sly grin and replied, the heart doesn't lie and my heart tells me that the time is just right. The time for what? He asked. Confused, she giggled. The time for one's heart to be warmed by a lover's kiss. He wasn't quite sure what she meant, but he somehow felt she was right. He could see she was struggling to hang the mistletoe here. May I? She gave him that softly sweet smile and handed him the mistletoe. He then hung it from the top of the gas fueled street lamp. There we are. Hung where you and all others can see it. Her smile widened as she chuckled. You know what they say? She asked him in a balmy, almost seductive tone. He looked to her, intrigued. The mistletoe is deadly if you eat it, but the kiss is even deadlier if you mean it. He laughed before losing himself once again into her eyes. He felt an extreme sense of warmth pass through him. It was as though he were next to a bonfire and he even began to unfasten his winter garbs. Before he could do or say anything, she placed a slim, tender hand upon his chest. Instantly, a Cavalcade of emotions ran down in a torrential downpour inside of him. Suddenly, all perception of the world around him was lost. He continued to lose more of himself into her eyes, those light baby blue whirlpools. What's your name? He said nothing. He could only barely perceive the sound of her voice. What is your name, sir? Still transfixed in her stare, he gibbered out, uh, Arthur. She smiled and continued to caress his chest tenderly, now working her hands up and around his neck. She looked up to the mistletoe and then back to him, her grin growing. Will you kiss me, Arthur? She cooed. Kiss me neath the mistletoe. His body began to act before his mind would register their actions. Slowly, he began to lean down to her, his eyes feeling heavier and heavier with each inch. Finally, their lips met, and he felt as though he was locked in an angel's embrace. She would break the union first, turning away to leave with no words except to say, I'll be waiting for you, love. He stood frozen, still spellbound. Eventually his stupor broke and he found himself stupefied, unaware of where he was or what had happened in that moment. Only one thing was certain. He was extremely cold. Such would remain the case for the remainder of the eve. It was that night, curled under his comforter, that he would see her face again. He would hear her voice again, the ever so seductive sound. Kiss me, Arthur. Kiss me neath the mistletoe. Such feverish infatuation, mixed triflingly with a deathly cold, robbed him utterly of sleep that night and well into the coming morning. And this would carry on for the rest of that week, until eventually he no longer saw her in his dreams. Her face and her voice had faded into little more than an obscure set of features and sounds he never could quite put together. That was, until the Sunday evening when he was once again returning home from the market, passing by that very same street lamp. And as if expectantly, she stood again by the street lamp with mistletoe hanging from its top, shrouded in her same white gown, beckoning him to her with those eyes. And there it was again, that warmth that spread through his body, the earth that had felt entirely absent since that night for reasons he could never place. I knew you'd come, she said, bearing that same seductive smile from before. He froze, trapped once again in her stare. Absently, he began to trudge towards her. When he reached her, she once more unfastened his garbs and began caressing his chest. He could only stand and watch her, his mind completely Blank. My God, Arthur, you're so cold. Her voice, while still sultry and smooth, took on an almost motherly tone when she spoke. Indeed, he felt like a child again, warmed by her preternatural touch. Let me warm you with a kiss. Again her hands slithered up from his chest and around his neck, and he instinctively lowered himself again to meet her lips. And again did the overpowering heat inside him flare. She would break away again and again. He would be left alone by the street lamp with only a fragmented sense of recollection of what had transpired that night, too, resulted in restlessness. That night, writhing in his bed, Arthur would dream. Dream of snow, of the gas lamp, of her beautiful eyes, her beautiful face. Of the mistletoe. The mistletoe. Deadly if you eat it. Deadlier if you mean it. He could take it no more. He had to find this woman, this elusive temptress. Throwing on his heaviest winter garbs, he set out amid the bitter cold night air. The year's snowfall had begun to rain down earlier that afternoon and had by then formed into a thick white blanket upon the ground. Slowly, he staggered through the snow until he came once more upon the street lamp. His legs were unable to hold themselves up any longer, and he fell to his knees in front of it, the mistletoe hanging down, jeering at him. His sight began to blur, as with each fleeting, labored breath the winter air had done its damage. And now he would feel its bitter touch slowly pluck the life from him. First, he would lose any feelings he had in nearly every part of his body. Next, he would feel the ice slowly form over his eyes, shutting him out from his sight. Just before the vicious winter would have him, however, he began to see the vague outline of a figure gliding towards him. He, of course, couldn't distinguish any definition from the figure. Outside of the apparently human outline. The approaching figure almost seemed to blend with the surrounding snow. Only the long crimson hair braided around the figure's neck gave him clarity. It was her. Or was it? As the figure approached closer, he began to notice more and more details that differentiated it from the dame he so feverishly sought. This new woman, while very similar in many of her features to the other, had much more pale, almost desiccated style skin. Had he still the feeling in his body, Arthur would have began sprinting for dear life. He could only lie in wait for this gruesome specter to have her way with him. He could feel his heart thunder and quake against his chest with every inch she gracefully floated across the snow he wanted desperately to at least close his eyes, sparing himself the sight of whatever horror he would face at her whims. When she finally reached him, she froze before him, staring down to him with eyes that were only a faded resemblance of the baby blue gems he had been entranced by. The specter knelt down to him and placed its pale, bony index finger on his lips. To his amazement, the specter's finger wasn't cold or frigid as he would have expected from one who looked as gravely as she. Rather, he felt the wave of heat begin to pervade him again. She then seized Cupta's chin in her frail hands and leaned in to kiss him. Instantly, all feeling returned to his limbs. He then stood up as he watched the specter turn to leave. Wait. He exclaimed. She stopped and turned her pale, dead face to him once more. Who are you? She turned slowly before rushing to him in a startlingly fluid motion that was too quick for him to perceive. She was upon him again and, taking him firmly by the throat, whispered into his ear in almost too soft a whisper. I am Delilah. I am the warmth of your heart, the blazing fire, fire in your chest that you can never again live without. With that, she released him, and he watched her vanish far into the horizon before he could even blink. Just as before, he was left alone and bewildered, unable to remember what had just happened or why he had even come. The only thing he was able to remember were fragments of a face, the face of a beautiful woman as well as the face of a ghastly corpse. Along with this, Arthur could hear a soft, rasping whisper swim through his mind. The voice was, of course, utterly indeterminate, without any sort of identity or definition to its origin. A kiss from my lips will now and always be what keeps thy heart warm and beating, lest it submit to a cold, bitter end. That night was when his dreams of her first became vivid and clear. He saw her again, standing amid the snow, giving him that same dubious smile indicative of sinful desire. And looking upon this face, he fell helplessly into her whims and slowly walked to her. The snow began to fall flurry from above, and he could feel the chill begin crippling him again. The temptress extended her hand and curled her finger to beckon him closer. Come, will you dance with me, Arthur? His pace quickened and his heart raced with both excitement and apprehension, until eventually he broke into a sprint to her, to him, she seemed so close. Close and at the same time so far away the further he sprinted. At last he reached her and was promptly seized into her embrace. And like he was now in his living room with her, they waltzed about amid the white expanse. All the while, his attention was fixed to her radiant smile, augmented by those baby blue irises. Kiss me, Arthur, she crooned to him with that angelic voice. He closed his eyes and leaned into her with anticipation. Likewise, she would yield her lips to him, and he felt the intensity of the sun burst within him. Slowly, however, he watched in growing fear as her face slowly devolved into that familiarly haunting necrotic visage that plagued his subconscious, conscious mind. Aghast, he shoved her away and attempted to flee. Something caught his feet and he fell prostrate into the snow. She was once more upon him, leering down to him with those cold, dead eyes. She knelt down and reached her hand down to him, clutching something small and frail in her withering hand. Shaking, he looked to see that it was a small mistletoe. You're so cold, Arthur. She rasped in a ghoulish hiss. Come warm your heart with my lips, love. N no, no. Go away. He exclaimed as he felt the crippling chill return once more, causing his blood to begin to freeze solid all throughout his body. He slowly lost all sensations of touch, and his eyes started to freeze over again. Her lips opened once more and she spoke. You can't deny me long. Without me, your heart, your soul will rot in a cold, icy bed. As darkness would have him, Arthur watched as the ghost poising the mistletoe high above them, leaned forward to his right ear and whispered, I'll be waiting, love. It was in that instant that he awoke, bolt upright with a frightened shriek. For a time, Arthur just sat there, gasping frantically, as though he were a fish being held above the water. Eventually, he was able to regain his composure, yet he still felt wrong. It was more of an empty sensation, like he had had something removed from within him. What, how, or why, however, were questions that continued to elude him. But whatever it was, it would cause him to feel perpetually cold for many days and nights to come. Regardless of what he wore or how close he would sit sit by the blazing hearth, one thing did slowly mold into at least a minute certainty to him. One way or another, this strange phenomena presently plaguing him was likely due to some sorcerous whim of this beautiful yet mysterious dame that dominated his subconscious mind. Unable to sleep, Arthur pondered how he might be able to rid himself of this apparently strange curse, eventually concluding that no matter how strong his desire for her was, he would not heed her summons. Such proved to not be as easy as he had thought, however. Every day, from rise until fall of the sun, the phantom chills would menace him without end. Constantly he felt as though his blood had been turned to solid ice. Despite at almost all all times wearing his heaviest of garbs, Arthur would spend most of each following afternoon over those next three and a half weeks huddled next to his hearth, constantly stoking the kindling to draw more heat from it. He would only eat scalding broth and lightly prepared stews with steaming cups of tea or coffee or cocoa. In spite of all of this, still he was always so deathly cold, inside and out. Eventually, on the Monday of the week before now, he ran out of these commodities and was forced to venture out against the wrath of the cold. He had very little money by then, having received word early that past weekend that he had lost his job at the market due to his seclusion. Still, he had to find some way to banish the bitter cold that was crippling him. It was as he was trudging through the snowbound streets of the market that amidst the many folks who had likewise gathered at the market that evening, his eyes fell upon her. She was standing at the bakery, her luscious crimson braided hair facing out to him, hanging down to her back. Almost instantly, a nauseating dread flooded through him. You need me, Arthur, he could hear from deep in the pit of his subconscious. You need my lips. I can feel it. Come, Arthur, Come to the mis.
- [77:57]
B
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- [78:27]
A
come hold me and kiss me. No. No more. He screamed. Almost all eyes from the present congregation were now fixed to him, frightened and bewildered, oblivious to the attention he had garnered, Arthur swiftly bolted to the young woman in front of the bakery. The seductress. The witch. With startling strength and intensity, he seized her by her shoulders and proceeded to violently shake her. What have you done with me? He barked to her frightened face. Her eyes were wide and afraid, welling to the brim with tears.
- [79:08]
B
Who.
- [79:09]
A
Who are you? Though he could see the Fear molded onto the young woman's face. He would not relent. What do you want from me, Devil. She screamed and struggled frantically to free herself to no use. Arthur was determined to end this madness that was robbing him of his body, mind and his very soul. It would end there and now, even if it meant the death of him. Answer me. Why have you plagued me like this? Let the lady go. Demanded a nearby bystander in a gruff voice. A broad shouldered man attired in Thor thick animal fur garbs indicative of woodland residency. Despite his hysterical frenzy, Arthur recognized the man to be none other than McDowell, the town's lumberjack. She's a witch. Arthur exclaimed to the crowd as McDowell pried him away from the distressed woman and began dragging him out of the market square. She's afflicted me with some form of curse. Please, you must believe me. She's trying to rob me of my soul. The crowd merely looked upon him with disgust and shame. Though as he was being forcefully towed away, he thought. No. He swore. He could see the young woman's shocked face twist into one of sinister exultation. His own flailing against McDowell's restraint was feeble at best, not impeding his iron grasp in the least. Finally, Arthur was cast face down into the snow. Stay down if you know would be good for you, he heard McDowell demand before turning and making his way back to the market square lane. In the frigid snow, Arthur's mind was lost in a milestone that bordered on confusion, fear and pure madness. Why is she doing this to me? What does she want from me? Why don't they believe me? Tried as he might, no answers came to him, pushing him further to the edge of complete collapse. Making the matter worse was that he felt the chill now with more potency than ever. It wasn't long before he'd succumb to the elements yet again, unconsciousness assuming full control over his mind. And the first image to assault his hollowed dream was of course, her, leering over and jeering. In life or in death, your heart will always be mine. Arthur. He desperately tried to rid her presence from his mind to no purpose. Regardless of how he would try to banish her from thought and memory, he would be met only with her pale, dead face. No. Stay away. She simply remained, curling a beckoning finger with one hand, the other holding the mistletoe aloft. Join me under the mistletoe, Arthur. Come. Come. Arthur's eyes went wide as he saw his body turn to ice. All too soon he was encased in a layer of frigid, unforgiving glacier. He could only watch in perpetual terror as the spectral woman approached him. You can't elude me, Arthur, teased the specter in its rasping whisper, poising her decayed index finger at his heart. Without me, you will only crumble. With a light tap of her finger upon his chest, the ice splintered and started to crumble and helpless, he could only watch, horrified, while he fell apart. Finally his body had been reduced to nothing more than shards of glassy ice, only his head remaining whole. Yet even still, he was forced to to watch as the specter picked up his head and, holding that damning mistletoe high above, brought her faded gray lips to meet his. Arthur awoke again with a scream. Frantically he patted all over his body to find that he was still whole and the specter was nowhere to be found. Even still, relief wouldn't find him, as he was still menaced by the chill. He could hardly move his limbs, and he was profusely trembling from hypothermia. He wanted to cry, both from the crippling madness as well as bitter fear, and he had no doubt would have done so had the air not been so cruel with its wintry wrath as to freeze the tears as they welled. With every minute reserve of strength he would have, Arthur found himself to his feet and began stiffly shambling to his house. It was as he crossed onto that familiar road to his house that he saw her again, walking all alone. Instantly, he could feel the urge again to rush to her and try again to force her to relieve him of whatever spell or curse she cast upon him. It was this frightful determination and this alone that seemed to fuel his stride. She didn't seem to notice him approaching. It was perfect, he thought. He could sneak upon her, ambush her and be on his way with none the wiser. He would be rid of this curse at last. Thoughts fell in an avalanche of how he could force her to relieve him his torment. He was prepared to even do the worst if it came to it. After all, she's all alone now. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just a quick snap of her fragile little neck and it'll all be over. And that was all he could care about. To finally be rid of this phantasmic witch and her damn, accursed mistletoe. It wasn't long before he was then upon her. Witch, I have you now. He ejaculated venomously. When she turned to him, exposing those all too familiar baby blues that appeared frozen in fright, he Knew he had her finally at his mercy. He knew he would finally end this madness. She quickly tried to hurry into her home and shut out her pursuer. But she was too little, too late. Arthur caught the door as it was about to close on him and forced his way inside. When she tried to run to the back of her house, he caught her and rudely threw her to the floor. He was then upon her again with his hands like pythons about her throat, forcing the air from her lungs and commanding her to undo her wicked sorcery. It was in more than one way, invigorating. He felt as though he were a wolf and she a cornered sheep. The look of utter fear in her eyes fueled him. Now he would bend her to his whim. Whatever you've done to me, witch, it ends now. I, I, I have haven't. She choked out. But it was no use. Arthur's strangulation had by then rendered her speech impotent. Frantically she claws like an animal at his face, trying to gouge his eyes. Nevertheless, Arthur's wrath was little impeded in her wild flailing. Her arm brushed the nearby drawer, knocking something off. Even amidst his primal state, he was able to see that it was a small, frail mistletoe. Mistletoe. He barked with lunatic laughter as he began forcing it down her throat. Deadly if you eat it. Slowly he watched the life leave her eyes. Yes, he knew he had won. Now it'll all be over. Just one quick snap. He rose up triumphantly, the adrenaline still poisoned coursing through him. He had done was over. It was all over. The witch was dead. He stopped. Suddenly his exultation died and was replaced with another feeling. Panic. He looked down again at the woman's inert body, now with a growing panic. What have I done? He tried to shake her, desperately hoping that she may yet still exhibit life. She did not. And Arthur now felt his head begin to spin. What was he to do? He killed her. He was now a murderer. The court would have him hanged for sure. He'd be condemned as a cold blooded monster. But no, no, that wasn't what happened, was it? She was a witch, was she not? Had she not wrought misery upon his life? What he did was for the good of his own soul, wasn't it? In a brief, devastating avalanche, he began to remember her eyes, those hypnotic irises, so wan with fear. All at once, dregs of recrimination and despair caused him to huddle himself into a fetal position, sobbing. Arthur. Arthur. He heard the voice only faintly, but enough to recognize it. Arthur. No. No, that's not possible, he stammered. All too soon, then, did he feel that haunting cold infect his body once more? Crippled once again, he listened in terror as the wraith's voice appeared to close in around him with its ghastly rasping hiss. In life or in death, I have your heart. I will keep it warm with me. Even in hell. It will belong to me and me alone, forever and always. Arthur's body was trembling more violently than ever before. Now. No. No. No. No. You're dead. As if on cue, he saw the woman's body suddenly bolt upright. Her face was now the very same as of the specter, with her vibrant blue eyes now forever faded in death. Kiss me, Arthur, she croaked as she began crawling toward him. With disjointed motion, Arthur opened his mouth. Yet not a sound was able to be uttered. Only pitiful croaks of fright were sounded before she was upon him. Pinning him to the wooden floor. Leering over him, she then began to open her mouth and croak as she painfully regurgitated the mistletoe onto him, now black and withered. Come, won't you kiss me, love? Before he could react, her pale, dead hands roughly seized his face and her cold lips forced their way to his. This time, the warm sensation from before was not present, only the frigid touch of death and decay. He struggled until finally, throwing her off of him, she was sent hurtling into the wall with a crash, and she was once again motionless, lifeless. He simply laid on his back, too frightened to move in spite of his spiking adrenaline, gasping frantically for breath. When he finally looked up, he was met with her dead face, forever chiseled in perpetual fright. Reflexively, he touched his own lips, finding that they still felt as they had before, cracked and chapped as they were from the exposure to the unforgiving cold. Still, he had felt her lips, hadn't he? Arthur clutched his head and howled as he began shoving his head into the wooden floor. Please. His mind screamed. Please, merciful Lord, make it end. Eventually, he could bring himself to pound the floor no more. And that was when he crawled like an animal to the woman's battered corpse. Why are you doing this to me? This time there was no answer. She merely stared back at him with stiff, faded eyes. He began shaking her, crying out for an answer. It was when he was again met with only silence that his terrified sobbing devolved into a fit of hysterical laughter. He collapsed onto his back, the corpse held firmly against him as the laughter soon escalated into Wailing cackles of raving madness that echoed throughout the house. In a morbid way, it was hilarious to him. What began with a simple kiss had now delved into the black recesses of insanity. He was once a man respected by the people. He was a well liked market clerk, adored by those he served. Now he was a madman, a lunatic, and now, worst of all, a murderer. He carried on in his demented cheer until his throat was shot and his breaths became labored. Slowly, he could feel the chill again. His mind now gone, forever, broken beyond all repair. He unfastened his shirt and trousers before clothes, climbing onto her, mounting the withering mistletoe above. If it was him she wanted, she would have him. All of him. It would be days before reality would finally break through his madness. He sat that night, the Eve of Christmas, staring into her dead eyes. He knew he couldn't live on like this, a prisoner to the curse of his own madness. To Delilah. The chill's grasp tightened and crippled him again. That was when it came to him of what he would have to do. He went into the basement of the house and retrieved a bucket of the kerosene meant for the lamps and set about all night, dousing every inch of the house with it. Every wall, every corner in every room was dredged, leaving none to be spared. As he toiled feverishly, her words continued to cycle incessantly, and the supernatural chill amplified in its ferocity. You need my lips. I can feel it. Come, Arthur. Come to the mistletoe. Despite this, he didn't stop until the breaking of the next sunrise, when he had finally completed his task. Tonight, he swore to himself, this will all end tonight. 12 loud chimes broke Arthur of his mad remiss. It was time. Steadily, he placed Delilah back into her chair and silenced the phonograph. He now felt more deathly cold than ever before. Still, this didn't deter him. With the last of the kerosene, he doused himself and her before stringing the mistletoe to the ceiling. He then stood her up once more, embracing her to him before using the poker to cast out a burning log, setting the floors alight. All too quick did the flames dance, consume the floors and the walls around them. Even amidst the inferno, however, Arthur still felt none of its warmth. He knew only one thing would, and it would be for the last time. Merry Christmas, Delilah, he said as he held her in an eternal embrace and brought his lips to hers. Even as the flames crept upon them, charring flesh and bone, he did not waver. He would die with his heart in eternal warmth. For even in death, she would always be the sole warmth of his heart.
- [98:47]
B
This episode is brought to you by Starbucks.
- [98:49]
A
That is fire. Whoa, that's good. This might be the drink of the summer. Okay, I like this one, too. I'm rocking with it.
- [98:56]
B
Okay, try it for yourself. Starbucks refreshers concentrates are coming home. Find them in the coffee aisle and make it yours.
- [112:32]
A
It's. It's.