After the Gloaming - 2 - Psyche Asunder

Episode Date: July 22, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Psyche Asunder was written by Andrew Rucker Jones.For more from Andrew Rucker Jones please head over to http://selfdefeatistnavelgazing.wordpress.com/This episode was narrated by Alvan Bolling II. He is a mixed-race (Black & Japanese) American Actor, Singer/Rapper, Social Justice Advocate, Virginia-Native, Voice Actor/Voiceover Artist and the Creator & Host of The Ghost Light Theater podcast. He is also a 2021 Graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University with a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Performance. Head to www.alvanthe2nd.com for more details on his projects. Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett.Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett.Music and sound effects were provided by: Epidemic Sound, Sound Stripe, and Freesound.org.If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a 5-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, ad-free, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcast This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons – Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. But by all means… share the hell out of it.Stay Horrific, everyone! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk, nightfalls exist. Gothic tales of the macabre, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance. Hold tight, lost you be. What a wonderfully scary story. There is a lot of sadness attached to it, But calm I came through in the end.

Not all tales end as such. I know. Are you warm enough, dear? Do you need me to stoke the hearth? I am a little chilly. Yes, please, thank you. It's been years since I've had a visitor. And even longer since someone has listened to my stories...

Oh, you have more? Many more, more than you could count. Oh, I would very much like to hear another one. Though, Harood of me, I know nothing of you. How have you come to live here? Oh, this is my ancestral home. It's not known how the Blackwoods came into possession of this land and this manner on it. Some rumors say that the man who built it, quite a few fathers back, was insane.

He designed the structure himself, built in so many secrets that one could not dare to find them all in their one lifetime. Another rumor whispers that, in fact, this property was one in a card game. I guess it is not something that we will ever know for certain. But this house is special. It always attracts the strangest stories. Interesting. You mentioned all of the staff were gone. What about family?

Let me freshen up your tea. They are also gone. Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be nosy. No, it's okay. Another tale for another time. How about we move on to another story I think you may enjoy? Wonderful. This one delves deep, deep into the mind and deep into a dark cellar.

The owner meeting with the tenant for a late-night chat. This one is titled, Psyche asunder. The house of my childhood survives from a mockish age, when it's three towering stories, wide eaves with sharp corners,

and portcullis like barge boards, odd occupants and guests alike. Something so imposing must possess higher significance, even if it merely, It keeps rain off one's head. A raven flying from the eastern gable toward the sinking sun would presently cross the overgrown family cemetery. The crooked wrought iron fence encircling the plot leans at odd angles, and the gate hangs open.

Allegible chipped tombstones, huddling pears, and a lichen-embossed stone angel in the center mourns the crumbling wings at her feet. The northwestern corner cradles one fresh grave With two coffins side by side Since I am an only child The house fell to me at my parents' deaths Only the matter of the tenant is unresolved The tenant and I agree to meet at the cellar entrance Abutting the east side of the house

The cellar hatch Now that is a fine thing piece of work. The red light of my torch's flame barely discovers the iron hinges through their layer of rust. The planks are rough, unadorned save the gradual pocking of rot. It is what a pauper's coffin would be. Could he but steal hinges? The hatch opens to admit it closes to seal in. No one fusses over its beauty or plainness. The hinges wide. The hinges wide. when I open the cellar. The planks crash and shiver against the cement frame

when I dropped the hatch to the side. An hour startles from a nearby branch into the wan moon night. The wooden stairs down are solid. But they groan when I step on them. As my head submerges into the cellar, a memory prompts me to gasp. When I was a three-year-old who couldn't swim, My father took me into the ocean over my head.

He wanted to drive my fear from me, but he drove me from the ocean instead. I sometimes wish I had had a brother to divert some of my parents' attentions. I wait on the bottom step for the tenant. I must be rid of him tonight. Hopefully he is only late and has not seen through the strained excuse I gave him for meeting me here. The bottom four steps bend beneath my feet as I measure the seconds, pacing up. A creature with short claws scrabbles over a cinder block at the wall.

My head soon spins from my frequent turns, or else from the cellar's predatory disposition. I stumble from the bottom step and land with one foot on the bare earthen floor. In the same moment the steps creak in staccato succession, and the tenant rushes to a breathless halt beside me. Whoa. Sorry. I was sorting through our parents' old belongings.

I wave off his excuse. I wish you would help. I don't know what to do with my. Most of it. You wouldn't like my solution. The torch whispers against the air as I stride into the cellar. The stairs fade into darkness, and the humid smell of mold folds us into its mantle. You want to sell the house.

Why else would we inspect the foundation? I raised the torch as if to scrutinize the earth above us, but I quick at my pace. The guttering light throws shifting shadows across the uneven ceiling, making it royal like an inverted ocean suspended over our heads. It is the second ocean to drown my parents. But they will remain sunk here. A ruined foundation collapses unless one replaces decay with stronger materials. I found water damage at the far end.

But be rational. I can't sell. While you're here. We grew up here. Does that mean nothing? I swing the torch like a golf club, and a thump vibrates up my arm as I connect with something on the ground. The torch throws sparks in all directions,

but one clump shrieks and sketches away, leaving the stench of burnt hair and flesh behind. There is no more glimmer. nor scamper nor squeal, as if the cellar had clamped its jaws shut around the creature and swallowed. He lays a jittery hand on my shoulder. I don't like it. But ours is a relationship of mutual toleration. He catches his breath.

I know what you're thinking about. Our gerbils. The soil above and below smothered. are words, while the hollow on all sides hide something cloying and malicious. The smell just now lacked the charred wood chips you set on fire underneath them. It was a mistake. But it was only a mistake. Why didn't you help me that day?

Any time I tried and I thought of three ways to save them, Your panic put you in my way. I retreat from the smell that clings to the unmoving air farther into the cellar. You're always in my way when it matters. The tenant, my companion amid this darkness, must follow the light. Where's the far wall? The cellar seems wider than the house. Maybe we could do this tomorrow morning.

This cellar is different things at different times. and with different people. A mystery my companion has not discovered. And it would fail my purpose in the morning. I take the light with me. You'll never want to do this. Morning will find you whimpering in bed. Come now.

How is it their deaths don't affect you? When I continue walking, he scampers past. Forget it. The sooner we start, the sooner we start. finish. I'm so surprised by rational thought from my companion. I wonder if my plan is a good thing after all. But the tides of the mine deposit surprise as flotsam on a beach, only to wash it away in the next wave. Careful consideration has the permanence of bedrock. My companion falls into a meter-deep sinkhole and water guises around him as he swears and writes himself.

His voice cracks, and I expect him to blubber like the day at the pond When Alfonso stole his clothes, he thought Alfonso was his best friend, Though I had seen the signs and warned him otherwise, Alfonso invited three girls to watch, and they taunted my companion until he was blue and his teeth chattered. When he finally slogged out of the muddy water, his scrotum was shriveled, and his penis retracted like a turtle's head. The girls laughed until Alfonso turned to them and dropped his own pants for just a moment. Then they gaped and huddled while Alfonso used his whole hand to stuff it back in. Friendship has been difficult since.

My companion emerges from the sinkhole, dripping from the armpits down and stalks back the way we came. I may never get him back down here, so I yell. Are you as easily ruined by a little water as the foundation? Come, let's finish this and never return. Would you walk in my shoes? He calls over his shoulder. The torchlight tosses his fading outline like the restless ocean toys with a lost skiff on a moonless night. We'll both go barefoot.

The ground has lain undisturbed long enough for earthworms to churn it up. The thought of the subsource squelching up through my toes revolts me, but I can't let him leave. Do you remember walking barefoot through the garden as a child? He turns around at the edge of the torch's glow. The doubt on his face might be real, or a trick of the light. I'm surprised you remember playing. He prized his feet from his wet shoes with a squouch and sets off into the cellar.

I hold the torch aloft and elace my shoes one-handed. It's only for a short time. My bare feet sink further into the soil than I expect and I shiver. Just as I catch up to him, Something plops on the torch. The tiny thing slides off and flares to the air but burns out before it hits the ground. I raise the torch and cold, wriggly things land on my face and shoulders. titillating like the memory of Gwyn's fingers.

I crouch and swat the worms off my face. The bile rises at my throat, but I clamp my mouth shut. A smattering of them slides from my hair down my shirt and onto my back. Gwyn's tongue flicks over the base of my neck. I gasp and brush away the worm that tickles there. The caresses trace my shoulder blades. Then a worm slides below my hips. I almost retch before I stand and clench my buttock.

Then tear my shirt over my head and push my pants down. With my pants around my ankles, I lose my balance and land on my back. Invertebrates writhe and the loose soil beneath me. I pull my legs in to remove my pants and accidentally dump worms over my gonads. They excite my scrotum like the tips of Gwyn's fingernails. And I dry heave. My companion's influence over me strengthens deep in the cellar. It was always thus.

But now I am stronger than he. These are only maggots. They move just as you move. They cannot harm you. Some cultures eat them. Panic will slow you. I cease all movement to breathe deeply. They inhale shudders, but the exhale is clean.

With precise movements, I slide my pants off, stand, switch the torch to my other hand, and toss my shirt on the pants. The cloth catches the flame from the torch I set against it, and larvae flail until they are ash. My companion grunts on the ground, kicking at his pants, but they cling to his ankles. the way he clung to Gwyn's the day she broke off the engagement. I grab his pants and yank, then toss them on the edge of the bonfire where the waterlog cloth sissoms. When he stands, he is as naked and pink as the maggots. Above us and a little farther on,

thousands of the plump smooth things twist like the damned in the lake of fire. Likely we're under the family graveyard, and my companion will retreat if he recognizes it. I can get us past that. He sneers and turns on his heel. Fine. Sell the damned house. He is already fading into the dark as I trot after him. That's...

Are you sure? You're over their deaths and we can move on. He stops before the sinkhole with his toes at the water's edge. A bubble rises and bursts on the surface as if the cellar were straining to hold its breath, waiting for him to stray closer. It's not something you get over. Comes a part of you. I don't need the house for that.

Such is his power in this place that I am almost satisfied with the wind. he thinks I want. But then he pushes past me as a careless owner might shove a dog. And I am reminded of my true purpose. I bar his way with the torch. There's clothing right up ahead. A trunk mother put away of the costumes we wore

for our band in high school. If his power and desire too great, I risk the cell. are fulfilling this lie, but I must lure him. He steps back from the heat. I'm not eager to wear that again after she told us we couldn't carry a tune. And yet she kept them. I think she regretted.

I put a finger to my lips. My eyes bulge. Do you hear breathing? Anion holds his breath and listens. Whether the power of my own suggestion of, affects even me or whether some distant crevice of the cellar broke ground to make a whistling cross-free's possible, I can't say. But there is indeed a sound like a long exhale, followed by panting low and slow. I grab my companion's arm. I can save us. Hurry!

Still he doesn't move, but he looks the direction I point the torch. I use his inattention to pinch his elbow between my fingernails. trying to draw blood and yell, watch out! He runs toward the patch of maggots. I run after him and hold the torch behind me. It is as I suspected. The larvae fall to the heat,

and we're left untouched. There, ahead, do you see it? My fingernail slashes at his flesh from behind, and he sprints faster. A simple concrete cell with an open iron gate, crouches flush against the back wall. The cellars sides with me in this subterfuge. My companion jumped clear from the ground onto the concrete floor and into the cell.

I dropped the torch on the concrete slab, slam the gate shut, and throw my weight against it. It stands open. The space is closed. The door jam's shadow bisects my companion's face where he huddles in the corner. His left eye gleams white and round as he understands my name. intent. But his right eye thrills and mortifies me. It is a whistled tune in a midnight graveyard. A thing sucked hollow by terror. The key hangs from a hook on the outside wall, and I scramble for it as he struggles to stand. I dash back just in time to slam the gate in his face.

The iron bars bash his forehead with a dull clang And knock him to the floor I undo the padlock and remove it from the gate Bleeding from his forehead My companion regains his feet and rushes again The impact tears my souls a hand's breath Across the raw concrete He reels back a step

I shut the gate and thread the padlock into place With an animal squeal my companion Shoves his hand between the shackle and the lock to prevent me from fastening it. He's surprised when I step away and tries to remove the lock through the gate. I swing my leg up and crush his fingers between the iron gate and my bloody heel.

My leg acts as a prison, pounding my heel against his finger time and again. He screams ever louder and higher, but only when he tries to withdraw his fingers, do I relent? He cradles his hat. to his chest and staggers back. His scream broken by sharp inhales when he runs out of breath.

My face pressed to the bars. I look him in the eye and snap the padlock shut with a metallic twang. My companion bends over his fingers. His cry becomes a holler. He snakes his arm through the bars and around my neck, pinning me to the gate. I turn to escape, but this shifts my gullet under his arm. His injured hand gropes at the key, so I hold it past his reach. My air is running out.

But the body has bigger muscles than biceps. I brace myself against the bars, behind me with a foot and a hand, then push forward against his arm. My head throbs, and my vision. is going black at the edges. Her struggle is down to the question of who will tire first. A jerk of his arm twists my head sideways against the bars, and he sinks his canines into my ear.

He roars through clenched teeth. The breath rushes heavy and fast through his nose. His move was desperate and foolish. I can breathe again. A small-priced pay. He clamps his jaws, and warm blood trickles into my ear canal. With one mighty push, I rest myself free. Pain sears my ear, leaving me in a wide-eyed gape.

Blood drips down my companion's lips and off his chin. He spits a hunk of furrow. flesh and cartilage to the floor. When I probe my face with my fingertips, there are welts from his names. We stare at each other and pat. It's over. He slides down the bars until his bare knees rest on the reddened concrete. The torch flickers and goes out.

From the darkness, my companion whispers, Can't leave the house. You can't either. We... I grope along the wall to the pants, tunic, and cloak at the side of the cell. And remove flint and steel from my pocket. When I find the fresh mounted torch, I strike steel to flint and blow on the sparks that catch. Then dress by the light of the spreading fire.

I have been locked away with you and your traumata most of my life. If I don't marry you now, I will never be free of your grief with or without this house. You're wrong. One and the same. Oh, Plenty live without one or the other of us and hardly notice the loss. Most ignore me and are driven by their animal instincts instead. But a life without you only requires, I wince and pull a stiff leather boot over my lap. Cacerated foot.

Discipline. I round the corner with the torch to stand before him. I shouldn't have looked. Welts are forming on his forehead, and his fingers crook unnaturally. A wheeze lingers in his breathing that reminds me of a small rodent. I would have saved our gerbils if he had let me. He tatters to his feet and leans against the gate. My fingers throbbed like the swollen ones he holds to his chest.

You understand symbiosis? We can't exist without each other. The key finds my hand in my pocket. Its newly cut teeth are sharp against my fingers, and when I withdraw it, it slips easily into the lock. He sobs and nods his head. He grabs my forearm and squeezes it. Squeezes it like he would a brother.

I snap the key off in the lock. The head clatters across the floor into the cell, and he bounds after it on all fours, whimpering and drooling. I shake my own head to clear it of his influence. We're the kind of symbionts where one benefits and the other is harmed. I'm sure.

You know the name. The whales he casts at my retreating back reverberate up into the house. Let him continue as long as he can. Some buyers love a house with mystery and anguish. A haunted house stays haunted because no one descends into the cellar to find the ghost. After the Glaming is a production of dissonance media and the other stories. Psyche Asunder was written by Andrew Rucker Jones For more from Andrew Rucker Jones

Please head over to self-defeatist navelgazing.orgasing.com This episode was narrated by Alvin Bowling II He is a mixed race, black and Japanese, American actor, singer rapper, social justice advocate, Virginia native, voice actor, voiceover artist And the creator and host of the Ghost Light Theatre podcast He is also a 2021 graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University with a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Performance. Head to Alvinthe second.com for more details on his projects.

Henry Blackwood was performed by Xandes Swig. Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Elroy. After the gloaming script was written by James Barnett. Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett. Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced. by James Barnett. Music and sound effects were provided by Epidemic Sound, Soundstripe and FreeSound.org. If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it,

and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a five-star rating. To further support the show and gain access to all episodes now, add free. Head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. All work remains the property of the respective author. This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons Attribution, Non-Commercial, No Derivatives License. Don't change it. Don't sell it. But by all means, share the hell out of it. Stay horrific, everyone.