After the Gloaming - 7 - Arsenic & Old Men

Episode Date: August 19, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Arsenic & Old Men was written by Taija Morgan.Taija has been a professional fiction editor since she started her editing business in 2013, and she has been a writer all her life.A Canadian author, she is a member of Calgary Crime Writers and Crime Writers of Canada (CWC). Taija was the editor of CWC’s 40th Anniversary anthology Cold Canadian Crime (2022), as well as many other excellent novels by very talented authors, detailed on her editing page.Sign up for her newsletter at www.taijamorgan.com or visit https://linktr.ee/taijamorgan to follow on social media.Narrator was performed by Drew Sebesteny https://twitter.com/dr_nebulon?lang=en John was performed by Justin Fife https://www.podchaser.com/creators/justin-fife-107aIaawnC William was performed by Phoenix Fire https://www.youtube.com/@backtoashes_yt Mother was performed by Lauren Kong https://laurenkong.carrd.co/ Father was performed by Jerry Harris https://www.voicesbyjerry.com/ Witch was performed by Maddi Albregts https://www.maddialbregts.com/ Police Officer was performed by Lady Theta https://www.youtube.com/@LadyTheta  Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett http://www.jamesbarnettcreative.com Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett https://temporalrecordings.wordpress.com/ 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, and a bonus episode, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcast 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! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk, night falls, Gothic tales of the Macabra, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance, hold tight, and don't be lost you may become. Are you okay? It's just so tragic.

I have really enjoyed your stories, but they are very sad at times. Those are the ones that tend to linger, not willing to let go, echoes of disappointment as riveting as they may be. You know them so well. It is what I'm here for. It is my curse ever since. Well, ever since I lost my daughter. Oh, I'm sorry. How was she lost? She...

She was made a sacrifice. A formula to resolve a curse. She... She was the strongest young woman, one could find. The village pressure was immense. I felt an obligation. Uh... Henry?

Yes, dear. The village? Is that a rat? Oh, yes. The age of this house. It is as much their house, and how as it is mine. Forget what I said. You don't want to hear the ramblings of an old man.

Come, come, I have a special tale for you now. Let's sit back near the fire. This chill can get into your bones. The family curse runs rife in this one. It is titled, Arsenic and Old Men. 1950. John Toppen was four years old, when a witch spat in his father's eye

and cursed their family for swindling her out of vast golden fields of farmland. There's poison in your blood, mister. She'd said, as John peaked out from behind Ma's apron. Call me a witch. Here's a curse for the lot of you. Every topping shall die at a topping's hand.

His own or his kids. You bring your suffering on yourselves. John's older brother, William, hadn't been there to hear the witch's words, and to this day he didn't believe them, but they'd always come to pass. John was 70 now, and was 70 now, and was the little. With only the two Topin brothers left to bear the weight of the family name, he couldn't help suspecting how their cursed fates would come to pass. The sun-kissed Prairie Land withered under their father's care, long since barren.

Retirement from his beloved pharmacy kept John confined and atrophied in this ancient house. The wind-swept fields beyond the curtain windows were no balm to his soul. He had nothing but time to speculate on the role his brother would play in his demise. William peered over his glasses, setting his newspaper on their breakfast table. Retirement's not all bad. William said, the lie slipping past his lips with the ease of repetition. Take up needlework like maw. Women's work was always better suited to you.

Nothing too strenuous, lest you get your heart going. He poured himself some tea, black. Take care of yourself while I'm away, Johnny. Wouldn't want anything happening to you. You know how I'll worry about, my little brother. John narrowed his eyes. Of course. Wouldn't want an accident, would we?

I'm sure you'd be beside. yourself. William stared, unreadable. Get plenty of rest. It'll do you good. There it was. Rest. That must be part of a scheme. John didn't know the specifics, but William had something planned to get rid of him. They'd been at each other's throats for a month since John's forced retirement after his heart attack, longer if one counted the 70 years of sibling rivalry, which John did. You'd like that, wouldn't you?

Might put you in a better mood, brother dear. William slurped at the lip of his Paris green teacup, lifting the paper. John's breath caught at the distinctive sound. He slapped his hand on the table and tilted his head. His gaze slid to a while. toward the source, the cellar door. There, did you hear it? The scurrying, the scratching.

It was unmistakable. John shivered. If the cellar was compromised, it would destroy their emergency food stores for the winter. If they got snowed in, way out here in the prairies without their supplies, and the nearest neighbor miles away, catastrophe.

Was this Williams doing? William lowered the paper an inch. A drop of tea collected at the tip of his mustache and lingered, trembling, but didn't fall. The kitchen was silent. I don't hear anything. I'm telling you, there are mice in the cellar. William huffed, glaring. Paranoia is not a becoming trait, Johnny.

John clenched her. fist against his knee. I heard them. And I did not. William slammed his teacup onto its saucer. A porcelain chip flew across the table. If there are mice, I'll take care of them. You never mind.

I'll be cross if I return to find you've brought any foul chemicals into this house. You know I will. John looked away. You're always cross. I mean it. William returned to his paper, ignoring the drop of tea now staring at them from the polished tabletop. A faint titch, titch, scitch, echoed from the locked cellar. William was going deaf in his old age.

Or he planned this. Was that even possible? Could William have unleashed mice in the house just to torment, John? To make him ill, it would risk his own health too, his own food stores. He ground his teeth, filthy things. William was unconcerned, or a conspirator. If he wasn't conspiring with the mice, what would William do about them that John couldn't? William knew most traps were useless without poison.

These mice would laugh at them outright. It had been more than half a century since the unfortunate incident with the rat poison. Surely they could move past it by now. William hacked into his handkerchief. Honora will be by to clean today. Don't forget to pay the girl. Are you certain you'll be all right here without a vehicle while I'm gone? I'll survive.

Have a pleasant time, brother. As soon as William left, John grabbed his cane. He ambled around in search of something to use against the rodent invaders. He was certain they must have some rodent poison secreted away. A chill had pierced the air this last week, warning of the change of season upon them. John shuddered as he worked his way through the empty house, listening to the discordant serenade of the mice. Spring, 1888, age eight. A sharp line divided the light of the kitchen from the fearsome dark of the cellar.

Cold crawled up the steps, wrapping invisible fingers around John's bare ankles. He shivered. Put this in the cellar with those filthy mice, Johnny. We'll soon get rid of them. Ma cupped his cheek with a warm palm and smiled before smoothing out her apron. Purple flowers adorned its edges. Bella Donnas, like the ones in her special garden. The house smelled of fresh apple pie, and so did she.

But the cellar, there was always an awful smell down there. John stood at the open door. He had bait, traps, and a tin in hand, and strict instructions on how to use it. He was a big boy, and Ma trusted him even if no one else did. She'd doubt him about every herb in the garden, every medicine in the cabinet, and now every poison on the property. Ma had shared her passion for botany and chemistry and her respect for nature. He would make her proud.

This was a small task, a delivery of sorts. John thought of the boys last summer, poking sticks at a large dead mouse in a neighbor. barn. Its stiff body, limbs curled up in agony, lips pulled back over gnashing teeth, as if it had been trying to scream in its final moments as a human might. Its eyes had been empty holes, scooped right out. His stomach dropped. John had vomited into a pile of straw, and the boys teased them until William socked one of them in the mouth. Ma said the mice would eat all their food, and they'd starve or get sick.

So they had to protect the family. Protecting the family was everything. That's what Ma did when men came by asking for money when they couldn't pay a bill, and father was away a long time for work. She made them go away, made them stop asking questions, protected the family. It was a special secret she and John kept from full. father, and even William, because sometimes keeping secrets meant keeping people safe. Now, John had to protect them in a different way.

He wasn't killing the mice himself. He was setting the poison out and they were killing themselves, Ma said. He was not a murderer. Well, he was, but he wasn't. He was at Toppen, though. He knew about the curse. There was something bad in John, the witch had said so. His father hurt people, especially his family.

His uncles had seen the witch and then killed each other. There were lots of bad, dead, Toppins now. John didn't feel like he was bad, and William said folks in the nearby Hamlet of Nottington were wrong to call them cursed. But John didn't see any way around it. Those he loved would surely kill him, or he would kill them first. Ma glanced at him.

Well, go on. John shook his head. His feet wouldn't move. His heart raced, and he took a deep breath. It's too dark. Take a lamp, then, silly lamb. She nodded to the lamp on a ledge. She reached for a bell. box of matches. When she stood over him in the threshold, the warmth of her kept a chill at bay.

He leaned into her, wanting to ask if poisoning the mice was murder, and would God think so too, but he knew it was silly to wonder. They were only mice. Father would smack him for asking, call him weak. His hand pressed against his chest. A horse galloped beneath. He was a horse galloped beneath. his rib gauge. Why is it so dark down there when it's so bright up there, Ma? He said instead, just to have something to talk about. Her shadow blurred the hard line of light on the floor as she moved, her dress wishing. Well...

She considered seriously, as she usually did when he asked her serious questions. The dark needs to go somewhere in the daytime. When we're awake, it goes deep down until the night time, when we're all asleep. Then it comes back out. She struck the match, scaring the darkness away like scattering mice. But it's always there, even when we can't see it, just waiting? I suppose. She nudged him down the steps.

Now go on. Flickering light in one hand, boy. poison and the other, John stepped into the darkness. Fall, 1950. By evening, John had made no progress dealing with the mice. He sat on the porch for a while, staring out at the bald, flat earth until the harsh winds forced him back inside. The maid delivered some pie on her visit, which lifted his mood. If William had left him the vehicle, he'd have gone into Nottington and picked up some rodent poison. But with his old bones as rickety as they were these days, John was confined to the property. He regretted not asking Honor for a favor, but it would get back to his brother if he did.

He'd found many half-empty blue bottles of Paragoric in the cupboards. The camphorated tincture of opium labels long faded, though John didn't need labels after a lifetime in the pharmacy. The use of the mixture often as an effective cure-all for anything from pain to diarrhea to a bad cough. William's brandy also lined the shelves and plenty of ointments, but no rodent poison. William refused to allow it on the property. John paced in the kitchen, wearing a hole through his slipper. His knee ached, but he didn't stop. He heard them. They were everywhere. If he found them, he'd... There!

Fists clenched, he froze in place, head tilted, eyes bright and alert. A sharp, unmistakable mouse squeak. He wasn't going mad. Turning toward the source of the noise, John glared at the cellar door. He unlocked it and swung it open with a bang, startling himself. The mice silenced. He'd checked the cellar first. No mice, no poisons.

But that was during the daylight. Things looked different at night. Perhaps he hadn't been thorough. He stared down into the darkness of the cellar below, but found his limbs stiff as though gripped in ice. Heartworking its way into a sluggish gallop, John lifted his hand to his chest and frowned. Then a laugh swelled up in his throat and spilled out.

Such childishness in his old age. Take a lamp then, silly lamb, he thought to himself, grabbing for the lamp on the table and heading deep down into the dark to rid the house of these nasty vermin once and for all. There it was in a cobwebbed corner. The rusted tin declared arsenic. After John laid the poison out, the house was quiet. Whatever William had planned to trick John into injury, or worse, in his absence, hadn't come to pass,

though John searched and avoided potential traps. When he slept, it was restful. Then his brother returned, and it was as if the mice sensed they were at liberty. to resume their conquest. William's voice boomed from the kitchen. Where did this come from? John froze in the drawing room,

a pipe dangling from his lips. When his brother stomped in, red-faced, the last words John expected were. Apple pie? You brought apple pie into this house? I didn't. Nora brought it when she came to clean.

William hacked into his handkerchief before pointing a finger. You know I hate apple pie. It's only pie? You're being unreasonable. William's fists clenched at his sides. John stared. In fits such as these, John was certain William would strike him down and kill him where he stood. He looked just like their father in these moments,

and John often wondered if he realized it, and if that was the only thing stopping him, the cold fear of being like the man they'd both grown up hating. Without another word, William stormed out, clanked around in the kitchen, and slammed a few doors before settling down. Hours later, William was buttering in the living room, humming Beethoven's fifth symphony under his breath, off-key, hacking up phlegm the whole time, allayed of his rage now that he had disposed of the offensive pie. John remembered the camphorated tincture of opium in the blue bottles he'd found earlier. A bit of medicine, John's special mixture, would do the trick on William's no doubt, sore throat, and tumultuous mood,

perhaps prevent him from conspiring for the next day or so. It would do his brother good to rest, as William so wanted John to. John slipped into the kitchen, a hearty dose of Paragoric and William's brandy, and a touch of arsenic, would combine perfectly to cure any ales. As Paracelsus said, it was only the dose, that made the poison, harmless and competent hands. He had been a pharmacist for decades,

and there were no more competent hands than his. He waited for William to hack into his handkerchief, then emerged with a tumbler. Your throat sounds dreadful to your brother. Must be getting sick. I made you my specialty. Can't even taste the medicine. William glanced down at the glass.

I feel fine Your voice is raspy And that cough I don't doubt you caught ill on your fishing trip Best to address it before it takes hold Hmm Well I suppose William did enjoy his brandy

The paragoric he didn't mind Though John may have overdone it The brandy would cover the taste The arsenic Well, he didn't need to know about that. William took the tumbler and drank. Thoughtful of you. He added with a note of suspicion.

John shrugged and smiled. You're always taking such good care of me. Can't say I'm feeling quite myself. William said at dinner the next night, one hand worrying at his belt buckle, while the other pushed food around his plate. Perhaps the fishing trip took it out of me. He declared this as a personal revelation,

as though John hadn't suggested it. I'm told there's a bad bout of stomach sickness making the rounds. Nothing to fret about so long as it's treated. William weezed into his handkerchief. Cold. By home. You never leave the house. You haven't any friends?

Mr. Shield said to, slew of parishioners are ill. The milkman. He's a fool. I wouldn't take his word for anything. He wiped fevered perspiration from his forehead. Are you all right? John placed a hand on William's shoulder.

You look pale. William pushed his plate away. John set out a double shot of his special solution for William later that night. Pleased when, 30 minutes later, the house was once again peaceful and silent. Even the mice slept through the night. John always imagined his parents' first meeting as something out of a storybook. Ma said their eyes met across a field of golden wheat,

father in a travel-wrinkled suit, ma on a flowing white dress, and theirs was love at first sight. That's not the story. Your memory is about as effective as capturing new, as a sieve is at capturing water. William chuckled at his joke, then groaned and clutched his stomach. Velvet curtains blocked out the sunlight and the silent prairies beyond the window,

obscuring the vine-patterned green and copper wallpaper inside. I don't know what you mean, John said from his bedside. The wallpaper peeled at the corners. This old house was falling apart, but they'd never changed it. It looked just as it did when their parents were alive more than a half century ago. John wondered if they'd ever leave this place, this poison witchland, the endless barren fields and lashing winds. He hated it here.

He hated that he loved it even more so. You never noticed father's wondering, I, Or Ma's gentleman friends frequenting the house when father was on the road? Ma had no gentleman friends? That you would even entertain such a thought as more of a reflection on your character than on her sainted memory. Ah, you were young then. You wouldn't have noticed. William slurped his tea. Behind the green wallpaper, the mice worked in the walls.

You forget I'm only three years younger till you. brother. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. And definitely more naive. He laughed, as though fouling the memory of their mother was a great entertainment for him. Mr. Gilman. Why, that was such a scandal. The poor bloke skipped town for good.

John stilled. You mean the taxman? He turned to look at his brother. Nah, yes. That's the one. That wasn't... Ma was taking care of us. The family.

You... You didn't know her like I did back then. You weren't there. You were always off with father. It wasn't like you think. Williams' brows knitted together. He leaned forward. What on earth are you going on about?

John glanced over at Ma's painting on the wall. She watched, listened. He thought of the cellar. No, they could never leave this land. Never mind. Forget I brought it up. How's your stomach today? John administered more of special medicine a little extra, and any unpleasant conversation fell asleep with William.

A sense of peace and control blanketed John as his brother slept, knowing that in the land of dreams no dark machinations were working against him. With William under his watchful eye, John was safe, the house quiet. But never for long. His brother had always been his most difficult patient when he took ill. Would you bring me some fresh tea, Johnny? He demanded the next morning. Hot, this time, if you will.

I'm so cold. You know how the kettle works, don't you? And at lunch, My God, this broth is terrible. I'd sooner starve. Oh, my ache and bones. He whined all evening. And my stomach.

I cannot stand this pain. Oh, I'm getting worse. Perhaps we should send for the doctor. John had suffered long enough. Nonsense. Haven't I always taken care of you when you're ill? William perked up at having elicited John's irritation. Dear brother, you were not a doctor.

You were a pharmacist, and now you're not. Forgive me if I'd like a professional opinion. Such a jive was vicious, even for William. John ground his teeth until his teeth until his jaw ached. He ignored the request. The mice, too, were growing bolder. As John gathered up a tray,

he glimpsed a tail slithering into the shadows. He checked the traps he laid out, only to find he hadn't killed a single mouse. He doubled his efforts. John set a tray of bland food on his brother's bedside table a few days later. He peaked out the window. No snow yet, but the gray skies threatened.

The lonesome fields shimmered in the dim overcast light, stiff with a thin crust of frost. Johnny? Yes, Morty? No, I was just thinking. William pulled his blankets to his chin and turned a look at John on the armchair. Do you remember winter skating on the lake?

I remember many such winters. The time we built those ice castles, remember how many hours we spent cold to the bone, fashioning our snow kingdom. William looked like a boy then, all wrapped up and tattersall quilts. John smirked. I remember.

I don't think I've ever had as much fun as I did then. The other boys wouldn't. come out to play. Their mothers wouldn't let them. Ours was dead. Father wasn't around much then. We were like two renegades. It's a wonder we survived.

Remember the stew I would make us? The same one every night for weeks. I thought you'd go on a hunger strike. John's lips curled at the memory. Oh, yes. Horrible. William chuckle, his face soft with good humor. We ate like kings when summer rolled around.

When did father return that year? Oh, not for a few months. It was when Aunt Ethel didn't show up to watch us. Father was so angry. But we managed on our own quite the pair of scamps back then finding trouble. I seem to recall five. finding more of that trouble than you did. Well, I was the oldest.

Someone had to look out for you. Oh, my. Do you recall the incident skating on the ice that winter? How could I forget? You were furious. A memory fluttered past the edges of his thoughts. Water, like shards of glass and his young lungs. and the haunting whisper of his dead mother's voice beneath the shock cold ice,

mouthing in his ear like a dream. My little lamb, it's so cold down here. Let's go home. William's hand reaching out, grabbing, pulling him back to the surface. John shook his head and the memory washed away. William was quiet for a long moment, and John wondered if he had fallen asleep. scared the devil out of me.

Almost lost you. Pulled me out by my bootstraps. Then you made us hot cocoa. Remember, he never tattled on me to father. William didn't answer. John looked over at him. His eyes were closed. William?

Silence. John's heart stuttered in his ribcage as he waited, waited, waited, waited for William's chest to rub. with air. When it did, John breathed out a long sigh, surprised to find himself relieved. Perhaps he was making a mistake, he realized, touring with his brother's life. William was all he had left in the world, and here he was, slipping poison into a drink. John had done this before to disastrous results, and William had been the one to cover for him.

Back him up, support him. William had always been his brother's keeper. How did he let this go on so long? John needed to stop. He would stop. Obsessing over a witch's curse was childish. This was the end. John returned the arsenic to a shelf in the cellar,

unlocked the door. Summer, 1890, age 10. protecting the family was everything, his parents always told him, until it wasn't. Ten-year-old John had been wrapped in dreams in a soft quilt when Ma's voice stirred him awake. Come, little lambs, I have a surprise. He pawed at sleep-crusted eyes and squinted into a glowing lamp. Ma? William asked from the bed next to his.

We're going on an adventure. Her smile pulled so tight It looked ready to snap. The crown of purple flowers adorned her head. He wouldn't notice the red puffiness of her eyes Until he looked back on that night much later. Just us under the stars. A picnic with apple pie and milk.

What do you say? John wished he could return to that moment. He'd say, "'What's wrong, Ma? "'Talk to us. We'll sort it.' "'He'd say, come to bed. "'Everything will look different in the morning. "'You'll see.'

"'But he was a child, "'and he had yet to put away his childish thoughts. "'So John had his shoes on "'as soon as she mentioned apple pie. "'Maw laughed like a ringing bell "'and his chest filled with sunshine in the darkness. "'She handed John the picnic back, basket and entrusted William with the light.

John skipped after her. His brother followed into more cautious pace. William eyed their mother as they trekked away from the house through the fields of golden wheat and out toward the lake. Ma sang lullabies. Bible verses hymns and poems, she sang anything and called it a lullaby. The lamp lit their way, but they hardly needed it. with the blanket of stars and the moon full to bursting above them.

When the house was out of sight, John remembered their father had been home when they'd gone to sleep. Where's father? Ma picked up her pace. He's gone. He left us, but don't worry, little lambs. We don't need him anymore. We'll soon be free as the stars. She spread her arms wide as if she could. pluck them right out of the sky. John stumbled. Is he coming back?

She halted. No. They stopped. She turned to stare at them. Her chin tipped toward the moon. Tears swelled in his throat, but William's warm hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed enough to hurt.

John glanced at his brother in the half dark and saw him shake his head without moving it, cold seriousness on his face. Brow's furrowed he looked at Maul, took in the bright wildness in her eyes he'd never seen directed toward him before. The first time her love ever held a condition. Her unsteady hands reached out to them in a limited invitation, marking this as their chance to pick sides. a frown pulled at the corners of her lips. Her shoulders threw themselves back as though she was about to snap, and they'd be the ones to break her.

He'd stood on the precipice of her love in that moment. With a deep breath, he took her hand, made his choice. Even then, a dizzying awareness of what might have been lost left his stomach under assault. his heart thumping. William did the same, and they continued toward the lake as their mothers smiled and sang from Corinthians.

Now we see through a glass, dark... A sinking dread, twisted, golden leaden, through his guts. He ignored it. Maugh danced with them under the stars, spinning them in circles until they laughed and toppled onto the long grass in heaps. For a while, they sat beneath the stars and watched the moon on the lake.

Then John's stomach rumbled. He fidgeted. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out a plate of pie. From nowhere, Ma slapped his hand, hard. The plate flew into the grass. John looked up at her, fingers burning, red and aching. His bottom, lids. but trembled. Her wide green eyes and parted lips mirrored his own. She brought her hand to her mouth. With the other, she tugged on a lock of her long, dark curls. In a frenzy, she grabbed the picnic basket and hurled it into the water with a splash. The boys watched in silence. A sob cut the night air like a knife in John's chest, a sharp keening sound,

closer to an animal's cry. He felt it as if it were his own, but it wasn't coming from his body. Ma dropped to her knees and curled in on herself. The basket bobbed, then sank. Her dark locks fell in front of her face in a veil as she shook her head. Sobbing, she said, Take your brother home, please.

William took his hand and obeyed the way good children obey without question. John never forgave him, never forgave himself. Father and a neighbor pulled her body from the lake the next morning after someone had noticed a single empty plate on the shore. And so the curse had claimed Bell Toppen. William once shared his suspicions about that night, when they were much older and very drunk, how he'd seen her earlier in the kitchen, grinding up flowers and plants while she baked, and what he thought she planned to do to them.

But John knew that was a wicked lie. He said so with a fist to William's jaw. That was the only time William ever took a hit, without fighting back. Winter, 1950. Late the next night it began to snow. Sharp polished flakes clung to the bleak fields as the wind battered the windows. And John remembered something he'd learned as a boy and forgotten. Sometimes it's too late to correct a mistake. No matter how good his intentions or how desperately he wished he could go back. William started shaking.

A shake that rattled first the bed, then the house, then John. It took him a minute to recognize the violent movements as convulsions, and by the time he figured out what to do, William was starting to come out of it. Blinking up at John in a daze, William coughed hard, a syrupy, red cough. When William pulled his trembling hand away from his mouth, his palm was spattered with blood. John wasn't sure if he'd bitten through his lip or if he was coughing. up blood. John stared, immobilized like a fool.

He had done this. This was his fault. He'd stopped, but not soon enough. William curled up on his side, wincing, and John was 15 again. He remembered his father writhing on the ground beside the poisoned coffee cup John had delivered after a night's beating. Father's limbs curled up in agony, lips pulled back over gnashing teeth like the dead mouse

John had seen in the neighbor's barn. John's blood had shivered in his veins then, a cold pulse of horrible satisfaction. He wondered at the sensation, thinking, is this the poison in me? When officers came, John had sat in his room at William's panicked instruction. listening through the door.

Arsenic, it would seem terribly painful. You know anything about that, son? And William's voice protecting him. No. My father likes his drink. Must have confused it with the sugar this morning. All these years later, William mirrored their father's agonized face exactly.

A veil seemed to flutter across his mind. and John could scarcely believe the sight before him. John's legs shook, acid welled in his esophagus. William hadn't seen the witch spit her curse in their father's eye. John never thought it mattered, only that it made him a skeptic, but maybe William had never been a threat to John. He let the witch's curse, damn him. William looked at him, wiped the back of his hand across his cherry lips,

and chuckled. I suppose I've had more than my full three score in ten, haven't I, brother? Can't complain for want of a long life. Don't be absurd, William. You'll be fine. I'll send for the doctor. He turned to rush out, but his brother's word stopped him cold. Johnny, I'm afraid.

God, I am such a coward, but I am. Something pinched hard in John's chest, a pain as sharp as glass driven between his ribs. For a moment his vision wavered, and he remembered the sound of cracking ice beneath his feet. Johnny? William reached out, and John sat at his bedside, clutching his brother's hand. I'm so sorry, William. I... Oh, hush.

You have nothing to be sorry for. You've taken good care of me, and I've never been the easiest of patience. Thank you, brother, for everything. Coughing, William pushed John away. I'm to rest now. William was so pale, he disappeared into the white sheets. When William wouldn't wake up, John stumbled toward the kitchen, his cane catching on the carpet.

His steps lurched, but he didn't stop. If he reached the door, if he could drive to the neighbor's farm where they had a working telephone, or even into town through the snowstorm, fetch Dr. Marsh. The doctor would fix William, and everything would be fine. William would be fine. He would stop this curse. John halted in the kitchen. The locked cellar door was open.

He frowned, touched the key in his pocket. He inched forward, peeking down the steps. At the bottom of the steps, something large and looming darted out of sight. John jerked back. This was no mouse. Was someone inside their home? John stared into the shadows. The gaping darkness stared at him.

Beneath the titch, titch, screech of the vermin, a low-grown crawled up the steps. Visceral, pained. John cursed. His fingers trembled as he reached into his housecoat for a match. With stiff fingers he sparked the flame. He held his hand out to illuminate the cellar, but the light curled in on itself, collapsing under pressure until it snuffed out with a puff of smoke.

John tried again, his last match, reaching for a lamp and inching closer. He peered down the steps, ready to bolt. Certainly he was wasting precious time, but... Johnny? The echo of William's voice from deep in the heart of the cellar. so shook him that John stepped forward to meet the sound. Brother? His cane slipped from the edge of the landing,

and John slipped with it. All at once he was tumbling, crashing. The light smashed, but before his vision disappeared, he saw a face in the cellar he hadn't seen since he was a child, speaking out from behind Ma's apron. The witch. As quickly as her haunting features flashed into his sight, she was gone.

Darkness and the sickening, shivering pain of broken bones enveloped him. The cellar door creaked closed, snuffing out the last of the light. John stayed still, wondering if the witch watched him from the darkness, if he'd really seen her at all. His nostrils filled with the gistrills filled with the gregers. cloying scent of musty, damp earth, heavy with secrets. Some he knew and some he didn't, though he protected them just the same. He'd always been his mother's son.

John thought of Ma's garden, the one she planted down here in the cellar, the bodies beneath the soil that forever tempted the vermin into their home. The sacrifices his mother made to protect their family. the soul-destroying things she'd done for the man who'd been so ready to abandon her. Father never did discover the secrets she'd hidden from him to keep this land and family safe when he couldn't. John wondered if his poison, top in blood, seeped through the earth as he lay here now, intermingling with the bones of a hapless taxman, a bushy banker, a nosy neighbor, and someone he never met.

He still remembered seeing Mr. Gilman tip over at the kitchen table while drinking the special tea his mother made. Ma had looked John in the eyes and raised a finger to her lips. Hush, little lamb, this is our secret now. She forged Mr. Gilman's signature on some documents, then sent them off and planted him in the garden. This is God's punishment for my sins. John may have stopped there, but the thought came. The mice will feast on my flesh when I die. Perhaps even before I die, a shiver racked his body.

The chill of the cellar numbed his extremities. He assessed the damage, broken arm, likely head injury, bruised or fractured ribs, fairly minor cuts from falling upon a shelf of jars, and... John coughed, noticing a thickness to the air. As his sight adjusted, he saw the tin of arsenic he'd upended nearby, powder scattered and wafting. John shifted his broken arm and pulled the mouse trap from a mangled finger. He tried to find another match, but he'd used his last one. He fumbled with his unbroken arm until he found his cane and used it.

to pull himself up against the closest wall. He scouted the room blindly, still wary of what lurked there, watching from the shadows. William? John called, wondering if he had hurt his brother. How did William make it past him?

Was he conscious? How did the door get unlocked? A voice reached out to him in the black, howling emptiness. Little Lamb? He dropped his cane, fingers shaking, as chest tightened. Ma? Blinking his burning eyes, he saw a dark silhouette. John limped deeper into the cellar.

It's so cold down here. She said, her voice tinkling like bells in the night. The skittering mice silenced. John's eyes welled with hot tears, even as he coughed and choked. He stumbled further into the darkness. He missed her so terribly. Ma, I did something awful. I'm so sorry.

It's William. I... Blagandir, dear brother. William's words preached him through the darkness. John spun, gasping. William! The shadows ate his voice, consumed him. John stumbled into the packed dirt of the wall and fell back, pain slicing through him.

He pressed his hand against his chest, but his fingers were too numb to feel the gallop of his heart. He was alone here, but not alone. William found him, rescued him like always. No, that couldn't be. You wouldn't wake up. I killed you. John wasn't sure where the stairs were anymore. He sank to the hard earth, shaking his head, chest as tight as a vice. And he'd felt this sensation before, knew it was bad.

He'd gone numb to the bite of the cold, and the sparks of pain dulled. When he glanced up, a warm wave of relief seized him. William stood over him, hail and strong. I feel fine, Johnny. On the mend, I believe. You fixed me right up. He smiled. Can you ever forgive me? John's lips formed the words, but the air didn't carry them. What a brother's four?

From the shadows, Father stepped forward. His countenance was softer than John remembered. under the bridge, right, son? Surely we can all be forgiven. But the curse, the poison in our blood, the witch. William laughed. You figured it out.

There is no curse. It's all you, brother dear. He tried to shake his head, but his muscles wouldn't listen. John wanted to deny it. But what if it were true? Maybe this evil had always been in him, lying in wait like the darkness in the cellar. A darkness he'd chosen.

Beside them, a young woman stepped from the shadows. John barely recognized her as the witch who terrified him as a boy. Her eyes were sad. You brought this suffering on yourselves, child. She said, though he hadn't been called a child for many years. years, he felt small now. Your brother is right. I don't know which. There's no curse. But your poisons all yours just the same. You live with your choices and you have to die with them too.

He knew in his veins their family was cursed. Which or no witch. But not the way he'd always believed. They'd brought it on themselves. A flash caught his eye. A mouse. John glanced to his left, but tucked behind the boxes nearby. John saw the glint came not from a rodent's teeth, but from an old ice skate. One of the same ones John had worn as a boy when William pulled him from the lake. The veil that had fluttered upon his mind blew free, and in a moment of brutal clarity he realized there were no mice in this cellar, and he could see stretches of wasted time with the brother who'd always protected him, even from himself.

John closed his eyes, tired and confused. A warm hand touched his cheek, melting through the numbing cold. His lashes fluttered open to meet his mother's green irises, so like his own. And he thought of her Bible verse lullabies. After The Gloaming is a production of dissonance media and the other stories. Arsenic and Old Men was written by Tasia Morgan. Tasia has been a professional fiction editor since she started her editing business in 2013, and she's been a writer all her life.

She has bachelor's degrees in psychology and sociology, criminology, from the University of Calgary, that contribute realism and insight to a dark, twisted fiction. A Canadian author, she is a member of Calgary Crime Writers and Crime Writers of Canada, CWC. Tasia was the editor of CWC's 40th anniversary anthology, Cold Canadian Crime, as well as many other excellent novels by very talented authors, details on her editing page. Sign up for a newsletter at TasiaMorgan.com or visit linktr.e.e. forward slash Tasia Morgan to follow on social media. narrator was performed by Drew Sebastini

From the Tales to Terrify podcast For more tales of horror in the macab Search Tales to Terrify Wherever You Listen to Podcasts John was performed by Justin Fife William was performed by Phoenix Fire Mother was performed by Lauren Kong Bartha was performed by Jerry Harris

Which was performed by Maddie Albright Police officer was performed by Lady Theta Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander Schweig Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Alroy 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

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