Creepy - Big Jim Morgan's Chill and Thrills

Episode Date: November 11, 2024

Big Jim Morgan's Chill and Thrills***Written by: George Larson***A Family Curse ***Written by: Linda S Gambill and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Of Things That Go Howl in the Night***Written by: Rachael Hagarstrom and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***That Speleobox***Written by:  Rachel Henderson and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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And my hope will be to start getting new stories on there this Friday. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence

and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Big Jim Morgan's Thrills and Chills. Written by George Larson. Drax had been bashed to such an extent he was barely recognizable. He was Zach's first born and the one he adored more than any of his other children. He just turned ten when his mutilated body was discovered lying on the floor in the back of Zach's camper.

Now the puppets black tucks and redlined cape lay in tatters, shredded beyond repair. Count Dracula was no more. and Zach was devastated by his passing. As he later explained to me, he'd lovingly crafted Drax's creepy paper-miche head out of yellow to old bits pages taken from back issues of the Chicago Tribune he'd swipe from the local library. Then he reinforced that with chicken wire

to give it better form and substance. Next, he applied thin layers of vellum to finish the creature's striking, gruesome face, carefully shaping and molding the pieces into place until he was pleased with his handiwork. Paints and costuming followed until artistic perfection. Zach excelled in creating ghoulish hand puppets for his thrice daily performances at Morgan's side show of the weird and bizarre. Zach admitted his sense of sardonic humor was a little offbeat, but nonetheless he enjoyed the dark side of human nature.

The more morbid, the better. He said it suited his spooky off-putting persona as the puppet master of the macabre. Zachary Woolsey was a carnie through and through. He'd spent his adult life traversed in the country to places decided by Big Jim Morgan, the owner of Morgan's thrills and shill's amusements. As a child, Zach's father worked midways as some of the largest carnivals of all time. His dad usually worked as a shill because he was so damn good in the role. One blessed with an uncanny knack to easily spot the marks among the townies.

Like I'll work. workers, he was expected to do other jobs as well. In his father's case, that could mean operating the wheel, flying Jenny, or roller coaster as a ride jock, or working as a rousty putting up and taking down tents and rides. His mom worked out jobs in the towns they visited to help support the family. She homeschooled Zach. But he believed the carnival, with its quirky, insightful people, was the best education one could receive. Certainly the lessons in human behavior and psychology. It was the carnival's wandering

lifestyle that so appealed to him. This has been Zach's world and home. He never wanted to leave. Zach talked to his puppets more than he did with his friends and colleagues worked in the carny for Big Jim. That struck some people as odd, but the carny was home to many freaks and oddballs who generally got along well with each other. A high tolerance for quirkiness among the performers was the hallmark among those who made a career out of this low-brow form of entertainment. Zach was still considered by his co-workers to be at the far end of the spectrum of what might be considered normal.

He was a carnival kid, who was fully accepted in the community by his peers, despite his aloofness and solitariness. He simply didn't mix and mingle well with others. Maybe he was just shy, some thought. Maybe he was just downright crazy, others suggested. Regardless, he was one of them to the core of his being. Zach still mourned Jack's death like a loving father should. He didn't know who or why someone killed him in such a vicious, savage way.

Someone who held a grudge? Someone bent on closing down his act? Someone who was jealous of his talents? Zach didn't know, but his other puppets were whispering questions that he couldn't truthfully answer. Brusius, the spawn of Satan, asked if there would be more puppet deaths and if Zach could protect them. The worry and anxiety level is high among his troop. Brusius was a favorite who scared the bejesus out of the audiences with his demonic countenance and frightening demeanor. His stick was to warn mankind of the end of days coming to the last.

the plains of Megito, urging humans to choose wisely between the light and dark forces before the war to end all wars called Armageddon. Others as well expressed their concerns. Kyra, the she-wolf, mentioned similar worries for her safety and that of her fellow puppets. He acted as best to reassure him they were all safe with him, but he still had doubts that he didn't bother to mention. The truth was he simply didn't know what to expect. His children's voices rumbling through his head only confused his thoughts as he tried to sort out this most puzzling event in his mind. Dragg's death and its possible consequences for Zach going forward. Had someone learned of his harmless mind games involving brutal deaths? He pondered the answers

and couldn't make sense of any of him. Signed on with Big Jim straight out of college. Morgan's was encamped in a farmer's field on the far north side of DeKalb, Illinois. The Cal was best known for its corn seed and the place where Barb wire was invented. Perhaps one more thing, too. It was home to my alma mater, Northern Illinois University. I'd always been drawn to a carnival's shabby glitz and gritty glamour and Morgans didn't disappoint in those respects. I was unsure why they attracted me so much, but they did ever since I was a kid and Ben hooked ever since.

I never wanted to run away from home to join the circus, but I didn't want to pass up a chance to be a carney and satisfy my wanderlust and excitement for adventure. I wanted to wait a while before I had to grow up and jog the mind-dulling 9-to-5 treadmill like my fellow classmates. My name is Sven Larsen, a fourth generation Swede, who was raised as an only child on a small dairy farm about 20 or so miles west of DeKalb. In the Swedish communities in northern Illinois, there were many Sven's and I was just one more. Lars was another popular name. Thankfully, my parents didn't name me Lars. I always thought that particular pairing of names would have been too Scandahuvian. Even for them.

My first gig for Big Jim was as a 24-hour man or jumper, traveling ahead to the next lot and posting arrow signs directing traffic to the carnival site. I'd also place posters in storefront windows and tack handbills to telephone poles and the like. It was simply the carny way of advertising. The job didn't pay much, but on par with what I could make with my BA degree in psychology. except I got free meals and a bed to boot. So maybe it was a better deal after all. That was my first job as an honest-to-goodness Carney,

and many more would fall over the next couple of years as I moved upward in Big Jim's eclectic family. It was showtime, and Zach handled the first performance of the day as best he could under the circumstances without drag. He had been the master's ceremonies for Zach's side-show act in the puppet master of the macab. Now Zach had to improvise by selecting Magda, the Cron of Transylvania, as the new MC,

and changing the script to integrate her new role in the telling a spooky stories. She cackled with delight and waged her broomstick as she narrated two Grimm's fairy tales, albeit altered, darker renderings with more gruesome details to pump up the horror a notch or two for the audience. Rumpel Steltskyen was a ghoulish character,

more monster than human in appearance. Snow White was still beautiful, but the dwarves resembled scary-looking trolls. Zach had chosen well, and Magda was a big hit with the children, a po-dunk or whatever town the carnival might be in at the moment. Zach didn't remember anything, except for what he'd done the night before.

He remembered that particular play very clearly and savored the action over and over again in his mind. Those delicious memories, and the fond thoughts of his beloved children were what mattered in his life. Three hots and a cot. That's what floaters who moved from one carney to another called Big Jim's proffer bunkhouse, sleeping quarters and meal chits in the backyard of the lot. It was part of the benefits package that went along with the job, in addition to a little walking around money.

Money could last a while if you knew the right grifts, and I quickly learned. My favorite one was to put together a Michigan bank roll with a $10 bill wrapped around a watt of singles. I'd go into a fast food joint and flash the bundle so the cashier could easily see it, often laying down a 10 spot on the counter in plain view. As a cashier got my order, I replaced a 10 with a $1 bill in the same spot. Often I get changed for a 10. Those few extra dollars helped stretch my poke. My meeting and subsequent befriending of Zachary Woolsey began when I was assigned as the lecturer for the baby show, an auditorium located directly across from his puppet stage on sideshow alley.

For a dollar per rub, patrons could enter the tent and view stillborn babies and aborted fetuses, some with umbilical cords still attached, displayed in large glass bottles filled with formaldehyde. We insiders called it the Pickle the Punk Show. Little did the gullible realize that most of the jars contained nothing more than bouncers, rubberized reproductions of the real things. That helped keep the authorities off our backs with their pesky laws and regulations. The show's main attraction was the devil baby, a gaffed exhibit, ostensibly a freak, featuring hooved feet, horns, fangs, and claws. It was constructed to appear mummified, or otherwise age, to give it authenticity.

The Devil Baby was the centerpiece of the show, and the one the townies found most disgusting and exciting. He sometimes lost their lunch or dinner appearing at the faux creature. Unfortunately for me, I had to clean up their messes afterwards. I approached Zach after one of his shows and sincerely complimented him on the performance, and especially on the beautiful worksmanship that went into his puppets. They were works of art, or so it seemed to me. His mastery of manipulating the puppets in a choreographed sequence and moves, all the while telling a story was simply amazing.

I envied his ability to create the various characters from scratch and make him perform as perfectly as they did. The voices were equally impressive, switching seamlessly from falsetto, to baso profundo, to precisely match each puppet's lines. The range of his annotation was absolutely amazing. He was a master puppeteer in all respects, and I told him so. Although pleased, he bemoaned the fact that he was limited in his ability to do more with his hand puppets

since he only had two hands to operate them. I took the opening to offer my help, at least on a part-time basis. He readily accepted, and that's how I joined Zach, the puppet master of the macabre. Our relationship would only get more complicated and bizarre over time. Life at the carnival continued at a usual, hectic pace. The one-day shows were particularly brutal on everyone. Bring everything down and set it up in the next town and then do it all over again. These were 16-hour days with early morning lots.

calls for every member of the troop. No one was exempt from the punishing schedule. We all looked forward to a longer stand where we could settle back into a more normal routine, staying at least a week in one location before moving on once again. On those rare occasions when we had some downtime, I draw the awnings and helped Zach with his puppet show. He created a collection of 13, and even Baker's Dozen, and each was a work of art. He tutored me in the manipulation of the live hand puppets

saying that his hand puppets were his family and no one else could work them. Live hand puppets were larger than the hand variety and required two people to operate them. This was the type of puppeteer Zach wanted me to be since it would increase the breadth and range of his storytelling. I found Zach's comment about his family strange, but I didn't object since I was getting a free education in the art form.

I just believed he was a bit eccentric, even more so when he spoke to his children as if I wasn't present. All the carnies knew he was a loner and recluse, but never suspected he was much more than an ordinary puppeteer. Allison's body had been found a couple of days after Big Jim's Carnival had torn down and jumped to Cald for the next town. Reportedly, she was a beautiful 20-year-old sophomore at the same school from where I graduated. Her disappearance from her dorm room at Douglas Hall was reported to the police by her roommate. Her partially clothed body was discovered in a cornfield by a farmer who owned the patch. The location was only a quarter of a mile from her dorm, and the cops theorized she'd been forcibly taken to the spot, tortured, and then strangled the death with her own panties. Burn marks from lit cigarettes dotted her face and neck.

She hadn't been sexually assaulted, but the authorities were, were puzzled about her disfigurement, wondering about the underlying psychological motive for the vicious act. I first heard of her death from Jimbo, the A&S man. He was the age and scale operator just off the main arch who guessed the ages and weights of the chumps. I was reading the midway with my head down, looking for a ground score, a lost change, or other valuables. I'd gotten into this habit some time ago and it occasionally paid off with a piece of jewelry, or if I was really lucky, a fiver. He said the police had been asking questions around the lot about Allison's murder,

given that the carnival had recently showed there. I was surprised the cops hadn't questioned me, since I was an NIA grad who lived in the call before joining Big Jim. Allison's investigation went nowhere, and she soon faded from my thoughts. Every trooper who worked a full season had a unique handle. Mine was Sven Gali. A play on my given name.

It made sense to the other carnies. Zax was Woollie Bully, a play on his surname and popular 60's song by a Sam Nasham and the Faroes. My handle was abbreviated to just golly, and Zax was shortened to Woolley. That was simply how we addressed each other on the lot. No one used their real names for purposes of anonymity. Perhaps they were running from cops, creditors,

and or ex-wives. Nonetheless, it was a long-standing carnival tradition. So golly and woolly it would be until we parted ways. I sometimes dated towny girls who had made at the baby show. Surprisingly, female suckers outnumbered males about two to one. I wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was a maternal thing that drew him to the show. I'd hook up with them for one night's stand and maybe more if I was really lucky.

Woolly let me know that he wasn't pleased with the dating because it took me away from his tutelage and my practice sessions with his puppets. He was like a jealous, petulant lover, and I resented his peevishness. But I did pare back my dating to spend more time learning his craft. I really enjoyed working the puppets, and I had to admit that Woollie was a patient, first-rate teacher. One morning he mentioned I was almost ready for my first performance. I was pleased. But I'd already performed once to my satisfaction. Hopefully there would be an encore to follow.

We were operating a Sunday schooler. A toned down less raunchy show in Kokomo, Indiana on an April morning when it happened. An F-2 twister from the southwest popped up out of nowhere and cut a swath of destruction. as it slowly moved through the city. The sky had been overcast, but otherwise the weather was calm. Perhaps too calm, thinking back on the event. Just before we saw it, the sky turned a weird, greenish-gray color. We didn't have time to secure the tents, banners, or much of anything else before we took shelter.

Fortunately, we were closed to the public. It was the beginning of tornado season, and it was a beginning of tornado season, and it was the one thing that frightened all of us. It was over in just a few minutes, but with a blowdown left behind on the lot, was devastating. The arcade tent housing the coin-operated games was a complete loss.

Big Eli, the Ferris wheel, had tilted to one side, and its stanchions have been uprooted in the process. Tent canvases have been ripped and lifted off their anchors. The large, colorful bailey cloth, ones with text and drawings, suffered the most. Our living lot behind the show was damaged as well.

The sucker netting separating the two sites was completely gone. A stretch of line-up concession booths, located close to the arch, were blown apart as well. The only good news was no would have been killed or injured. That was a miracle in itself, and we rejoiced in our luck despite the property damage. It took us six long days working a soft lot to put the layout back together. Big Jim's commercial liability insurance covered most of the repairs, even the sundry fees from the blank days when we were closed for business. His legal mender would later go back and set the last bit of move out of the insurance company.

That was the way Big Jim operated. A tough taskmaster in some respects, but otherwise a decent and fair boss. The show must go on. And it did when we opened the weekend. after the tornado. It was my night to assist Woolley with a loose adaptation of Rapunzel. We'd work together to manipulate

the oversized puppet and practice long and hard to put on a great show. I even had a small voice part, a short line spoken in my normal voice. I'd enlisted Croc, the Gator Man, dispel me at the baby show. I really liked the guy,

as he was an affable, down-to-earth human being who'd been damned at birth with ichtiosis, giving his skin a scaly reptilian appearance. Croc was just one more freak and geek in a home that warmly welcomed them. I admitted to being a little anxious since I didn't want to disappoint Woolly or myself. As I recalled, Rapunzel grows up to be the most beautiful child in the world, with her long golden hair, or so the brother's grim story went.

When she reaches her 12th year, the witch shuts her away in a tower with her long, neither stairs nor door. Only one room with one window. When the witch visits Rapunzel beneath the tower, she calls out, Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair so I may climb your stairs. Of course, Rapunzel does as commanded. So far, Wully's story pretty much hewed in the original version. Now a handsome prince rides by the tower and hears Rapunzel's lovely, ethereal singing,

and he's immediately smitten. He begged her to let down her hair so he could climb her stairs and see her beautiful visage. But when he reached the room and saw Rapunzel's face, he was repulsed. She was an ugly old hag.

It was something so horrible that he couldn't imagine her countenance in his worst nightmares. She then promptly pushed the prince out of the window and he fell to his death. It turned out, Rapunzel was a seductive siren who lured men to her room and their doom. She loved the witch, who was her surrogate mother and would never leave the tower without

her permission, an obedient good girl, but with a very wicked heart and perverted sense of humor. That was Wully's twist on the storyline. He constructed the castle tower out of plywood and cardboard, and it was a fabulous prop. I congratulated him on his work and storytelling, and thanks. thanked him for letting me participate in this most macabre fairy tale. I was still amazed at his many talents and told him I could relate to his Rapunzel because I'd been raised by an evil witch as well.

As I looked out across the alley, I could see the teaser curtain at the Coutts Show. Despite the pitchman's spiel, the woman's performances tonight would be rather tame. Really mundane. No real skin. Just flesh-colored tights to entice the male audience. It was a tease and nothing more. But the men still love their performance despite being shortchanged on the flesh. Just perhaps in another time and place, they might have seen the real thing and indulged

in their fantasies. But not tonight. That wouldn't happen to their collective dismay, because Big Jim had ordered the whole show to be operated on the up-and-up. No skin or prostitution, rigged games, or other gaffes. The local cops had refused his juice so the show couldn't operate wide open. The carnival's profits would have to suffer as a result. Big Jim would miss making his nut for a while.

The decalb detectives were back, and this time with a vengeance. They'd compiled a short list of their potential suspects and Woolley and I were on their radar screen. Apparently someone at the Carney had tipped her names to the cops. I worried how Woollie would hold up under the pressure of a woman. interrogation. He'd withdrawn further into himself, or should I say selves, since he'd carry on lengthy conversations and interactions with his puppet family. Those exchanges didn't have anything to do with the plays, but rather other topics that popped into his head. Frighteningly, many of them involved violent rape scenarios where the puppets, i.e. Woolly, acted out dark, disturbing scenes.

It seemed Willie's mind was being split into different parts. Sort of a multiple personality disorder, as I recalled, from studying the DSM-5 as an undergrad. Perhaps he was suffering from post-traumatic stress from the death of DRAC. My professional diagnosis was a Wully had gone bonkers. He was mentally impaired and vulnerable. A perfect patsy for him. for the cops. The note he'd received only worsened his state of mind.

Willie found the note one morning taped to the back of his small stage. The letters have been cut from the Carney's various handbills and pasted on a single sheet of paper. It's simply read, We know what you are. It was unsigned, which wasn't surprising. He showed it to me and asked what was going on. First tracks murder and now this. He was confused and scared, and I continued to worry about his sanity.

We discussed people who may have a grudge against Woolley for some slight or wronging in the past. He thought of a couple candidates, but couldn't believe they were responsible for the axe. He mentioned Carney people were family, and it would be like a brother or sister viciously turning on him. The first name he offered was needles, the human pincushion, who operated a person. got a nails joint down the other way. A few months back, Woolly had watched his show and then chatted with him afterwards.

For reasons unknown, Needles badly dissed Woolley and treated him like a rube when Willie asked how he'd done the trick. That was something very much against the unwritten Carney Code of Conduct.

Again, it was a family thing. Sort of like saying you don't bullshit a bullshitter. Perhaps Needles still harbored a beef. A second possibility was Madame Nina, the bearded lady who Woolley was romantically attracted to, but she didn't feel the same towards him. She finally told Woolley to quit hitting on her and that was that. I had a hard time understanding Woolley's love interest in a bearded lady.

Didn't seem to fit with the person I knew, but I didn't argue the point. I told them the needles might be the culprit, although I didn't believe it likely. A beef was usually settled by talking things out to square disputes rather than exacting revenge or resorting to violence. That was the way Carney's handled heat among themselves. Our separate interrogations with the club cops were held at the Kokomo Indiana police headquarters. I was asked the usual questions about my whereabouts at the time of her murder. Did I have an alibi? Did I know her? Did I attend class with her?

had I ever visited Douglas Hall. Did I kill her? Would I consent to a polygraph exam? I agreed to the exam. I suspected Wully was being asked similar questions and wondered how he was holding up emotionally. I'd later learned he didn't do so well. Fortunately, I wasn't told not to leave town

because our next jump was only a few days away. Wully told me he was flustered under police questioning. He said the two detectives did a mutton Jeff routine, the good cop and the bad cop. He wasn't sure what he'd told him, but he said he didn't kill Allison. Willie claimed they twisted his words and outright lied to him on occasion to elicit a confession. He was frightened of him and unsure if he could get through another interrogation. He mentioned he'd taken Valium and smoked a joint before reporting to the station and said his nerves were shot to hell. Drack, the note, and now the cops.

Heidi Carruthers was a lot lizard who operated a notch joint out of the back end of her beater minivan. Her burned-out van was found on the outskirts Kokomo with her inside. She'd been known to local police and been busted a couple of times for soliciting before she turned 19. The night of her murder, she was working the backyard lot of the show and probably bribed someone for the privilege of parking there. It was a lucrative business if you were young, blonde, pretty, and willing to take risks. By all accounts, she met all the criteria. Her autopsy disclosed her face was dissolved by formic acid post-mortem, but it was the crushing of her hyoi bone in her neck that was the presumptive cause of death.

She'd been strangled. Subsequent burning of her body was an attempt to eliminate any forensic evidence left by her murder, I learned that formic acid was used in leather production and in the processing of dyeing and finishing textiles. I'd seen a large bottle of it in Woolley's camper, and now pondered about reporting the fact to the cops. He'd been my friend, and I was torn about ratting him out. When I asked Woollie about the bottle of formic acid, he said he used it from time to time to tan leather accessories as well as on the fabrics to create the puppet costumes. He mentioned that he must use more than usual since the bottle was now two-thirds empty,

and he couldn't remember why he'd used such a large quantity. I knew, but he didn't have a clue why I asked him about it. Now believing Wully was guilty of the murders of two young women, given his mental condition, he'd likely blocked out the horrific events, sort of self-induced selective amnesia. I was also convinced he'd murdered Drac and wrote the note to himself while in an altered state of mind. Big Jim was understandably upset with the police attentionist carnival have been getting and urged every carney to report any relevant information to the cops.

This was very bad for business and only invited more scrutiny of his performers and his sketchy operations. He relied on anonymity to go. greased the palms of the local authorities to make an honest buck. After Heidi Cruthers' murder, attendance and gate receipts had fallen off. Big Jim couldn't wait to jump to the next town and put all this nastiness behind him. He rightly worried that his show could be embroiled in a scandal that might, just might, put him out of business. He'd worked too hard and long to let that happen.

He was a pragmatic businessman when it came down to the box. bottom line and his carnival's financial viability. It was all about show business and not show art, as Big Jim liked to remind. I was the one who saved his carny from financial ruin and Jim been indebted to me ever since. I was to be his savior and Woolies, Judas. I contacted the DeKalb detectives and Kokomo police after I received Big Jim's plea for cooperation. The two organizations had joined together. to create a task force because of strong similarities between the two murders and the belief

someone at the carnival was responsible. I didn't enjoy the experience, but knew it had to be done to prevent future murders. Woolley needed to be stopped before he could kill again. It was a moral duty as I saw it, and one I couldn't shirk no matter how much it pained me. I had no choice but to report what I knew and believed about Woolley and his crimes. My story to the cops was pretty straightforward. Woolley was mentally unstable. He had a penchant for the macabre.

He was at the site to the two murders. He engaged in violent role playing with his puppets. He had a bottle of formic acid in his little trailer with a large portion of it unaccounted for. It was all circumstantial evidence, but sufficient for an arrest warrant. Woollie was placed under arrest and again questioned. But this time, more vigorously. Poor Schmuck didn't bother to ask for a lawyer. It was a slam-dunk situation for the cops.

After relentless badgering, Willie broke down and confessed what he'd done. He claimed he must have blocked out the events because he couldn't remember any specifics of the acts. He acknowledged what the police already knew. He was one very sick pup who needed help. I visited Woolley in jail once before he was extradited back to Illinois to face the charge of aggravated murder and the death of Allison. He was confused and not particularly lucid, which wasn't surprising given the circumstances. He'd been put through the ringer by the cops and it showed in his bloodshot eyes and haggard face.

The phrase, deer in headlights, came to mind when I looked at him. Willie said he didn't understand what was going on. He simply wanted to go home to his children. I told him that was impossible now, and maybe never. The best he could hope for was the judgment of insanity, and I thought he had an excellent shot at avoiding the death penalty. Before I left, he asked if I would adopt his family and care for his children as he would. I readily agreed.

It was the least I could too for my best friend at me. mentor. I wished him well. Woolley was such an easy mark to score and manipulate to my ends. Early on, I pegged him as having a borderline personality disorder giving his reclusive, almost paranoid behavior. He was emotionally unstable to begin with, and my plan was to push him over the edge into madness. Looking back, the strategy worked well and much faster than I expected. I was the one who broke into Woolley's camper and murdered.

drag after learning from other carnies he was Woolly's favorite puppet. I wrote the cryptic note to ratchet up the pressure on him and keep him off balance. I anonymously tip the police about Woollie and myself as person's interest. I stole the formic acid and used it for good purpose. Oh, by the way, I murdered the two young women and disfigured their faces. All in all, I'd done well Or so I thought We sociopaths have no compunctions about killing Because we lack the so-called qualities of empathy and remorse

Pathological lying was another of our virtues I didn't hesitate to submit to a polygraph test when asked by the cops I knew what the outcome would be ahead of time I passed with flying colors as the expression goes Most importantly I had successfully placed the blame for my crimes squarely on the shoulders of my good friend, Woolley. I needed to quickly get out of a call before the police discovered Allison's body and put out a dragnet to snare suspects.

Joining Big Jim Morgan's shrills and chills amusements was a perfect opportunity to escape. It worked well. But I expected the cops might eventually be able to place me at the scene of the crime through the use of some forensic mumbo-jumbo. I needed a plausible scapegoat, and Wully was the perfect candidate for the job. Allison was my second victim, having killed another young woman about a year before in Sycamore, Illinois,

and been questioned by the cops and released for lack evidence. I'd bashed her face in with a Louisville slugger until it turned to a messy pulp. The ceaseless battering of her head finally dissipated my fury. And I felt normal again. It took the coroner about a week to identify her. I couldn't take the chance they'd come after me again. It was my rage that got me into trouble.

When I reached the boiling point, I had to release it by killing attractive young women who reminded me of my mother. Oh, mommy dearest, what a miserable cunt you were. I didn't even bother attending her funeral some years ago since I didn't mourn her passing in the slightest. Good riddens to bad rubbish. Bitch deserved to die of painful, horrible death. Thankfully, that happened, as the cancer slowly ate away at her once beautiful body. But it was her dark, cold soul that I so well remembered as a child. My mom, Greta Larson, was gorgeous, a classic Swedish woman with a petite body, blue eyes, and blonde hair.

She was a looker, as the word was used back then. She was a slut, as the word is used now. She and my dad married straight out of high school, and I was born a year or so later. I was to be their only child. My father inherited the dairy farm from his parents. His life revolved around the cows. My mom's life revolved around the Randy farmhands. Thinking back, I wasn't sure who sired me.

It started when I was about four years old. Or that was the age I remembered her first servicing the farmhands. My loving mother locked me in the bedroom closet while given a quickie to one of the workers who lingered a while my dad and the other hands returned to the milking barn. I could hear the grunting, moans, and disgusting exclamations from their rudding even when I held my hands over my ears. I could still hear him today, in my mind. At first I thought someone was hurting my mother, but later learned the truth of the matter. I was confused and conflicted about what was happening on the other side of the door.

She'd forgotten the old door had a skeleton keyhole, and I watched her sexual escapades and cuckolding of my father. I came to learn my mother wasn't being punished, but rather pleasured by the man in bed with her. After each trist, she would beat my butt with a wire coat hanger until a well did to remind me not to tell my father about our little secret. Her duplicity and fucking continued for another couple of years until I went to kindergarten when she'd no longer have a co-conspirator or witness around to tattle on her. My dad was completely oblivious for extracurricular activities, and just as well because I think it would have killed him. He was truly in love with her.

On the other hand, she was truly in love with young stiff cocks. and there was no dearth of them on our farm, as a result of the physical scars and emotional trauma as a child. I grew up to be a bona fide over-the-top misogynist. I hated women, especially good-looking ones with yellow hair. My rage would wax and wane for reasons I didn't understand. Something or someone acted as a trigger and I'd boil over with irrepressible anger. It was then I felt the urge. You need to kill and obliterate the faces of my victims.

With practice, I was getting better and better at disfiguring and killing my mother. I should say over and over again about my homework. Sven, practice makes perfect. I didn't plan to disappoint her and looked forward to my next adventure. Big Jim was very appreciative of Murrow. removing the bothersome thorn from his side. Woolley and the negative publicity for the carnival following his arrest. Ironically, the press coverage drew more patrons than it turned away.

Always the showman. Jim built a new joint featuring Woolley and his murderous exploits as a serial killer of young women. It was a flashy, lured display in every respect, and the Roobes loved it. As for me, I was a very good. I was rewarded by taking over Woolly's show. I'd gotten pretty good with the puppets, although it would be a one-man show with Woolley gone. No matter, I was confident I could do it and do it well.

Eventually, I'd have to hire and train an assistant. But there was no hurry. I was no longer Golly, but back to Sven Gawley, the master of the macabre and puppeteer extraordinaire. I moved Willie's operation to a larger, more prominent venue along the alley of freaks and geeks. The spot was next door to the anatomical wonder-side show. Performers would do stuns such as The Man Without a Stomack. Where a freak pulled in his gut until the backbone showed or pulled themselves through a coat hang or tennis racket or other India rubber man tricks.

It was a solid attraction, and I'd get the overflow of Lucky Luz for my join. It was to be my first performance using Woolie's children to practice by fitting a puppet over each hand to get a feel for him. I did get a feel, actually a weird tingling sensation each time I put them on. Perhaps some of Woolley's karma or spirit or whatever remained. Regardless, I was happy to be finally working them. The first and last performance of the day began well. I had a good-sized crowd in the tent and looked forward to the take.

About halfway through my gigged, it suddenly happened. It started with the tingling sensation, but quickly turned into something much more to my amazement and shock. Instead of following my Hansel and Gretel script, the puppets moved to their own volition, repeatedly punching me hard in the face. I tried to remove them, but couldn't since they'd compressed their costume sleeves around both my arms. like long blood pressure cuffs. They squeezed and squeezed some more until I lost all sensation between my wrists and elbows. They were viscite grips on my forearms and I couldn't shake them loose. The puppets had extraordinary strength, and the more I fought them, the harder they squeezed

until my blood pressure shot up and exploded through my brain. my body involuntarily shook once and I died of a stroke on the spot. However, it wasn't all bad news since it turned out to be one hell of a curtain call. With Big Jim, it was always about the entertainment value of an act, and I'd put on a great show. For once, the suckers got their money's worth and then some at Big Jim Morgan's thrills and chills amusements. Woolly's children believed in retribution. and now they had avenged their father's honor. As a dutiful son?

I'd done the same for my father. Creepy presents. A Family Curse, written by Linda S. Gamble and narrated by J.B. Hampton Van Sant. Everyone has heard of family curses, but nobody really believes in them. I never believed in them until last. Halloween. I come from a small family. It's just me, my older brother, my mom, and my dad. My dad loved early American literature, so he named my brother Nathaniel Hawthorne Prescott,

and he named me Henry Thoreau Prescott. Of course, my mom shortened those names to Nate and Hank. I had just turned 15, and my brother was only 17, when we learned about our family curse. In our family, the story of our curse was just that, another story we passed down through generations. It was something my grandpa told us when we were very young, and continued to repeat it often as we grew older. It was also a family tradition to tell a story every Halloween because it was the anniversary of when our family acquired our land. We dismissed it as just another old tale grandpa enjoyed telling. We have a lodge up in the north woods that we visit often, especially during the fall, so my dad could go deer hunting.

This had been a family tradition as long as I can remember. It is a great place to relax and to get away from the city. I have many great memories of those happier times. The lodge sits on a hilltop we call Prescott Point.

It has a panoramic view of the surrounding forest. Across the valley, you can see the small town that is also called Prescott. The distance between the lodge and town is a little over five miles. The road from the lodge winds down through the forest and into the valley before climbing the slope up to Prescott. Whenever we made a trip up to the lodge, there was one important rule our family has. had to remember. We were never to go out of the lodge at night.

The reason behind this rule came from the same story that Grandpa used to tell us while we were growing up. This story told how we got the land and about the circumstances that had made that rule necessary. When Grandpa was still with us, he would tell us how over a century. A century ago, our ancestor, Ernest Prescott, had started a small country store. The store became a focal point for the surrounding community. And as time passed, the town of Prescott grew around it.

With little entertainment available, the store became the location of a friendly poker game every Saturday night. Mistakes in these games were usually moderate until the infamous Saturday Night card game that took place one Halloween. That Halloween game changed everything. John Harper joined the game and began losing more and more as each hand was dealt. Finally, out of cash and desperate to recoup what he had already lost, Harper put his deed for 80 acres of, of forest land up as collateral. Ernest called Harper's Bluff and won.

Ernest had long admired this piece of land, but he didn't know that the prominent hill on the property was referred to as Devil's Folly by the Old Timers. The Folly had a bad reputation and was reputed to be the regular meeting place for a witch coven. When word spread about Harper's costly bet, the coven did not take kindly to the idea of a lodge being built on their sacred gathering place. In retaliation, the coven had met and laid a curse on Ernest Prescott and his descendants.

Eventually, Ernest heard about the curse, but did not believe it. He figured that Harper was a bad loser and was just trying to stir up trouble. Ernest wasn't taking the threat of the curse seriously, not until two days later, when Harper's body was found, gutted like a deer. The curse had been placed on anyone with Prescott blood. So the rule was made that no one could be outside the lodge during the night. Grandpa said the lodge itself was safe because Ernest had begun to take the curse as a serious threat against his family. He had brought in a priest to bless the lodge as it was being built.

Grandpa had loved telling this story and warning us, but he wasn't too clear on what the consequences would be if we broke the rule. He was adamant, though, that we should follow this rule no matter. matter what. So we continued to do so, even after Grandpa was gone. All we had been told was that, if we broke the rule, something from the dark would come for us and any other Prescott foolish enough to be found outside the lodge at night. We were a sad family when we came to the lodge at the end of last October. My dad had died very suddenly from a heart attack a couple weeks before. We were just trying to come together again as a family after losing him. My mom thought that, going to the lodge as we usually did, would help us through this difficult time.

As we drove through the town of Prescott, we noticed the town had decorations of up everywhere. Nearly every house displayed pumpkins or ghosts or skeletons. The decorations gave the town a festive air, but we weren't feeling it. Nate did talk Mom into stopping long enough to stock up on Halloween candy. He told her we needed the candy in case we had any trick-or-treaters the next night. Mom and I knew this wasn't a real. real reason. We had never had any one trick-or-treat at the lodge because it was too far from town. We also knew that Nate had been hitting the sweets hard ever since we lost dad.

We finally made it to the lodge, but we couldn't seem to shake this sense of foreboding hanging over us. We all tried acting as if everything was normal, but we were. But we didn't seem to shake the sense of foreboding as if everything was normal, but we knew it wasn't working. After we arrived at the lodge, Mom threw together a quick supper. We were all tired from the trip, so hoping that tomorrow would be better. We all turned in for the night. The next morning, it was cloudy, and Mom wondered whether the town's kids would be drenched that night while they were out. Lucky for them, the sky started clearing late that morning. By 11 that

morning, Nate had gone through most of our candy stash and decided that he and I should go into Prescott for the afternoon. We could get more candy, and while we were there, we could get pizza and play a few video games at the arcade. Mom gave us a list of things she needed. reminded us not to be late getting back. Everything went as planned up to a point. We spent way too long at the arcade. We realized we were late getting started back to the lodge. Even most of the trick-or-treaters had gone home.

The giant jack-o-lantern in the town square gave off an eerie orange glow as we hurried by it to the car and headed out. This still wouldn't have been a problem if we hadn't gotten a flat tire on the way back. Nate decided that since he was the driver, he should be the one to show me how to change a tire, as if I didn't already know it. It was one of the first things our dad taught us.

Since he was the oldest, Nate always thought he should take charge of everything, whether I was ready for him to or not. After arguing about the flat, we realized our minor problem had turned into a major problem. We realized there was no jack in the trunk. We were in the lowest spot in the valley, so we had no signal to call for any kind of roadside assistance. We also knew if we drove on a flat tire and ruined the rim, Mom would never let us use the car again. At this point, Nate told me we should go ahead and walk the two miles to the lodge.

He said he didn't want to spend the night in the car. When I mentioned the family rule about being out at night when we stayed at the lodge, Nate told me it was just, just so much bull that Grandpa liked to tell us. He told me not to be a baby, grabbed the candy, and pushed me towards the lodge. We started walking up the road to the lodge. It wasn't easy because there was just a sliver of moon that night, and it was hard to see the road.

The road was rough gravel, but we were able to use the lights on our phones. whenever we hit bad patches. At least our phones were good for something. We kept trying to call but couldn't get any signal in the hollow we were in. As we walked, the noises of the forest around us began to slowly die off. Eventually, the only thing we could hear was the sound of our shoes crunching on the gravel. I thought this was very weird because as normally, you could hear something, like the wind flowing through the trees or animals

moving around in the woods. As we continued walking, the air seemed to grow heavy. Every step we took made it worse. The air was now so heavy and thick that it was hard to breathe. Growing worried, I put my hand on Nate's arm. Impatiently, he shook it off, still focused on getting home. I pointed my light away from my feet, shining it at the trees around us. It did no good because the darkness seemed to swallow the light.

A shiver went down my back when I realized that things weren't normal. My mouth went dry as I heard the movement of something large crashing through the undergrowth. As the sounds grew closer, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I could hear my blood pounding in my ears. I couldn't figure out what was moving so fast and sounded so scary. I started to say something to Nate when suddenly it burst out from the trees and it was on us. Nate screamed as he was swept off his feet by something. something huge and dark. As Nate struggled, the beast turned slightly, and I saw glowing red eyes. Even worse, I could now see giant teeth and claws. Nate yelled at me to run, but I couldn't.

My feet felt like they were stuck in cement. I couldn't go help Nate, and I couldn't run to save myself. All I could do was watch as Nate was ripped apart before me. This horrific memory still haunts me, and I still wake up screaming when I relive this in my dreams. Try to imagine the most horrible thing you can, then multiply it by ten and you won't even come close. I hated that I just stood there and did nothing. I still can't believe that I froze there and listened to my brother die screaming. I can't forget the tearing and snapping sounds that I heard that night, and how useless I felt.

Eventually, the beast, or the curse, or whatever you want to call it, finished its grisly task. It paused and looked directly at me. I stared back at the beast, but I knew my time had come. I braced for the worst. After what seemed like an eternity, the beast took a step backwards, and then slowly faded into the trees. I was left standing there, alone.

I still could have. I didn't move. I was still frozen to that one spot and would be that way the rest of my life. Gradually, I began hearing the normal sounds of the forest return. When I understood this meant the beast had truly gone, I was able to take a deep breath. As feeling returned to my body, I realized that my cell phone was still in my phone. my hand. I raised my phone and pointed the light at the spot where Nate had been standing. At first, all I could see was scattered Halloween candy on the ground.

As I moved the light, I saw more pieces of candy glistening with blood. The thought went through my mind that I would never, ever, ever, eat Halloween candy again. Tentatively, I swung the light in a wider circle. That's when I saw Nate, or I should say, part of Nate. He had literally been torn into pieces. The air left my lungs as I gasped and stumbled forward. Here was what remained of my brother, who had been my constant companion my whole life.

The grief that swept over me brought me to my knees. I do not remember how long I sat there. But the need to get home and tell my mom finally got me moving towards the lodge. As I walked, I had only one thought. I could not believe I was still alive. I don't know how long it took or how I made it back to the lodge. I know it took forever, and I passed out once I was through the front door. I woke up screaming the next morning.

I assumed I was in my bed, and my first thought upon waking up was that I had experienced the worst nightmare of my life. Then I realized I was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machinery. I knew then that I had not had a bad dream. Everything became very real again. My brother Nate was dead. Now nothing would ever be the same again. I still hoped I was wrong, though.

The door opened, and my mom stepped into the room. I took one look at her face and knew what had happened was real. Mom asked me how I felt and hugged me tightly. After a moment, she told me a police detective was waiting to question me. She told me that when I came into the lodge and collapsed, she immediately called for help. My mom told me that the police had found Nate and were investigating my brother's death.

I was taken to the hospital to be checked over. The doctor said I was still in shock and should be allowed to sleep until I woke up on my own. The police had been waiting to talk to me. I was not in the mood to relive my experience from the night before, but I thought I'd better get it over with. I told Mom I was ready for their questions. I was prepared for the disbelief I felt I would be facing.

I spoke with the detective and told him the whole story, everything that happened and everything I was. remembered. He was very skeptical of the description of the beast that attacked my brother. He was even more so, once he realized that I remained untouched. I answered all of his questions and hoped I wouldn't have to go through this story again. Finally, he relented. He admitted that some kind of wild animal had to be responsible. He left, and I was relieved to be left alone with my mom. Mom hugged me several times.

I think just to make sure that I was really there? We both cried. It was so hard to lose Nate this way, especially since we had just lost my dad. After a time, we both just sat and looked at one another. I thought now was the time to ask the question that had been foremost on my mind. Given that the family curse targeted any Prescott at the lodge that night, why was I still okay?

I mean, my brother was gone, but I was still here and untouched. Why? I finally said what I was thinking aloud. If it was possible, my mom blanched even paler than she had been. She took a breath and started to tell me why. She began by saying, that she had never told my dad, and had hoped never to tell me.

But now I needed to know the truth. After Nate was born, she and my dad had gone through a very rough time in their marriage. She had turned to a close family friend for comfort. One thing led to another, and eventually, it turned into an affair. She knew she had to stay in her marriage because of Nate

and because she loved my dad. Mom hoped they could work things out so our family could have a future. Shortly after she broke off the affair and reconciled with my dad, and then she discovered she was pregnant with me. She wanted to keep the marriage, marriage going, so she never told Dad the truth.

The reason I was left untouched by the curse on the Prescott family was because I wasn't truly a Prescott. Not a drop of Prescott blood runs through my veins, so there was nothing to draw the beast to me. I was very shocked when my mom told me the truth, but then she pointed out one good thing. One day, Prescott Lodge and its surrounding land would become mine. When that happens, I will never have to worry about the Prescott curse, and my descendants will never have to worry either. At this point, my emotions were very mixed. I was relieved to know that I would no, longer be a target. But the overwhelming sense of loss over my brother was the strongest feeling. As I sat there, I looked at my mom, and I knew I had to be strong for her. I had lost a brother

and a father, but she had lost a husband and a son. I knew if we support. We would make it through this. I rejoiced to know that any children I have in the future would never have to go through what I had experienced. With the death of the last Prescott, the family curse had come to an end. Creepy presents of things that go howl in the night, written by Rachel Hegerstrom. and narrated by Michelle Kane. There's a moment sometimes when you're trying to make a choice, the safe choice, you think, the right choice.

But what you do instead is somehow put yourself and your sleeping baby in some crazy, unlikely danger. You don't even realize this until the danger is upon you, sneaking up on fleet little feet and then announcing its presence. After you think, if you can still think about it, but it was so obvious. How did I not see that coming? This was that day for me. There was a point where I thought the two of us wouldn't make it.

That I would die. That he would die. That I wouldn't be able to save either of us. And you know the worst part about it? Our demise would be the kind of death where someone would later read about it in our local paper and maybe laugh and wince and then laugh again. And they'd then call out to their partner, honey, you're never going to believe how this woman bit the big one. So it is a gray and drizzly winter day. By the afternoon, all the roads have just enough black ice on them to be Vaseline slick.

Ambulances are cruising around town, helping out drivers after skidding slowly. and telephone poles and other cars and such. I am watching the roadways as the slow storm takes the neighborhood. I see an abandoned SUV with both airbags deployed after hitting a tree. A neighbor kid slides his Ford Fiesta sideways off his driveway and ends up vertically in a ditch. Vertically! He's walking back and forth in a t-shirt and shorts in the freezing rain, just staring at the thing.

I guess he's waiting for his parents to come home and tell him what to do? My toddler, my youngest, a happy chunk of a guy who has just turned one, is home from daycare with a cough. It's around 3 p.m. or so, and we're staring down the last few hours until his brother returns from school. Until my husband brings them both home and we have dinner, the four of us together. I think the baby and I need to get outside. I think it's time for some fresh air for him and me.

And why not? The rain has mostly stopped. I want to go. I am dying to go. But I keep delaying and delaying. I call up my sister on the phone. I have three options, I tell her. Option one.

Put Ben in his carry pack. walk through the woods. Option two, put Ben in his carry pack and walk down the road. Option three, stay warm and inside. Option three, she says, definitely. Am I one to listen to good advice when it's given? No, I am not. Telling me to stay inside is what finally prods me into going out.

So I stuffed Ben into his bright blue snow suit. with him protesting the whole time, and then prop him in the carry pack that I carry like a backpack. Don't fall over, I tell him, reaching for my big gray coat with one arm and trying to steady him with the other. He starts a slow topple almost immediately. The playroom floor is padded over with foam for just this sort of thing, and I catch him right away. But he is bawling, and here I am awkwardly hugging a backpack and saying, Sh, shh, shh, everything's all right. As he quiets down, he gives me one of his classic looks. His face all squished up and mad at me, and red and wet. I slap a neon orange hat on my head for

hunter awareness, not that anyone will be out today, but us. And I pull the silly knit animal hat down around Ben's ears. I haul his backpack up, and then we're out the door and on our way, squishing down the field behind our house and into the woods. At the end of our property, I have to climb over the New England-style stone wall, built from small boulders dug out of the hillside. There are some little animal prints around on the ground, even here where it's wet and crusted with ice. I make my way under the dark arms of the winter trees.

The neighbor has done some logging across the way to clear out the undergrowth a little bit, so I head into the cut the loggers made, stepping over random logs and branches and other bits. I've bought a ski pole as a walking stick since Ben is a very heavy, chunky baby, and the ground is mud soft in places. We keep moseying down this woodsy hill until I find a stream in the place where it narrows. I jump over and we work our way up into the more dense growth on the other side. I've lost the logging trail now, so I'm following a little,

path through the woods that I assume has been made by a small herd of deer as they pass through. Or maybe some other animals? Probably deer, I think. What else would it be? Deer often come through these woods, stopping in our yard to lip crab apples under our trees in the fall. As I'm trekking along these little paths, bushes and branches plucking at my knees in my jacket making everything damp, Ben leans back in his bubbly raccoon hat and watches the gray sky. A bit of forest bathing, I tell him. I don't know what he says back because I've popped earphones in and I have started listening to a podcast. Podcasts are also where I learned the term forest bathing one time in a story about traveling in Japan. I skirt around a giant fallen pine. I can see

the lights of the neighbor's houses distantly through the trees. Ben is annoyed that his raccoon hat is over his eyes, so I pause to adjust. He goes back to his forest bathing, leaning back with his head back and his arms out, looking up at the sky. I pop an earphone out briefly to hear him sighing little baby sighs. Now deep in these woods, I spot a lone concrete wall. Maybe a foundation, basement, an old garage? There are soda cans lined up on one crumbly bit, but they're the old kind, with a teardrop shape where you pull the pop top off. They're also rusty. I leave them alone. No one has been here for a while. Our way takes us across the swamp and past a car graveyard. It's full of old Buick grills, one mighty forlorn snowmobile track, and a tangle of black metal car frames.

I continue on until I reach a field, which I know connects to the road. I am hoping to cross the field and come out onto solid ground, a shortcut home that I've been counting on. The rain has foiled these plans and blocked my path. There's only a giant pond where dry ground usually is. I guess it's the end of the line, buddy, I tell Ben. He's fallen asleep with his bobble pointing at the ground. Let's head back. We cross back through the swamp, pausing to backtrack for Ben's hat when it falls off, and I realize with a little jolt, the sky is now much darker than I'd realized. Should I go through the neighbor's yard? That seems too intrusive. I continue moving back along the little trail. Darkness is

settling in faster now. I'm struggling around the giant fallen pine again, pushing through dense undergrowth, I don't remember being there and trying not to decapitate Ben in the process. The trees press in and the bushes are low and dark. I am suddenly aware with every fiber of my being, how vulnerable a thing I am. All at once, I'm not this mom in a gray-down coat having a pleasant little forest adventure, but a very exposed, baby-burdened creature in the woods, where she's not supposed to be right now and where she can't see anything coming. A bit of mist is rolling in, which doesn't help matters very much. I'm swinging left and right, trying to keep eyes all around me, all the while muttering to myself about how the woods in my backyard are perfectly safe and

no animals are going to eat me and how I'm being very silly. The podcast voices are chatting cheerfully. I'm talking out loud to myself. No houses are visible now. I stare very hard at the humped dark shapes until they turn back into logs. Is that white flash a rock? I'm mostly sure it is. We are in rough logging terrain now, then and me, with stumbling. and rain-slick bits of trees and branches. In the distance, a dog begins to bark. Part of me is relieved. Dogs!

Oh, that means civilization, and that's good. I let out a shaky breath. Then the next dog begins, and the next, and the next. Until there's a whole chorus of them yipping and howling and singing. and I realize, holy baby Jesus, those aren't dogs. Those are coyotes. And boy does it sound like they're all around me in a wild, joyous pack. I've heard these coyotes before. How have I forgotten? There are many summer nights when I'll be home warm in bed and cuddling with my sweetie with the windows open. The local pack will be in the nearby woods and we'll start

up and begin howling at the moon, at their dinner, at each other, and my sweet husband and I will pick our heads up and listen. Maybe we smile. How wild and wonderful they sound. Has the pack caught something and are celebrating the kill? We'll spend a few pleasant idle minutes listening along. and then as they trail off we'll fall blissfully to sleep. That is my summer experience. That is also a hundred and eighty degrees emotionally from being in the full dark in the winter woods and having them speak and bark and howls so very, very close. Because do I know what delicious meat they might be after now?

It ain't no flea-footed deer, let me tell you. I'd like to say that this is when I keep my total cool and march myself out of the woods. No problem. I think we both know that that would be a big fat lie, though, right? My heart is thumping near out of my chest, and I'm thinking, could I fend off a pack of coyotes with a ski pole? I'm trying to beat feet right out of those woods, but there is so much more woods to go.

Where is my house? Where is the road? And why didn't I wear a headlamp for the love of God? How unlikely is it to be eaten by coyotes? I wonder to myself. Didn't I once hear that you can scare individual coyotes off by rattling something as terrifying as a can of dry beans? I am trying to argue with myself that I'm more likely to be

beamed by a champagne corg than bitten by coyote. That's the small, sensible part of me. The other parts are gibbering hysterically. You should not be here, in the woods, in the dark, says my loud, loud, primate brain. You should run. You should hide. You should climb something tall. Then the howling stops. And I start looking around, completely alarmed, left and right, right and left. This is about the moment that I reached the tiny stream that we had jumped over in previous, much calmer times. I take one look at this section in front of me, with its wide, deep water. I have a brief thought about finding a better place to forward the thing. Then panic takes the wheel and I jump toward the far bank, ending up right in the middle, of course.

I promptly fall over. Because the only thing better than being easy prey of a mom hiking through the woods with a baby on her back is a mom who has trapped herself in mud and fallen over with a baby on her back. Never has a person shot out of a muddy stream as fast as I do then. I don't even think Ben realizes we have hit the ground. I can see the houselights far off, but we're still at the bottom of the hill in the woods. So I cross my fingers that my husband has made it home by then with our older son. As I break into as fast a jog as I can without tripping,

I text, walk outside with a big light. I'm about to get eaten by coyotes. Hopefully, I didn't give him any more specifics than that. What the message does, though, is make me realize that I've been holding my phone and that my phone is also a flashlight. This hole! So, I turn that on. Then I switch my phone from earbeds to speakers

and begin blasting my podcast into the woods. So that's how my son and I emerge from the field, in the dark, covered in mud, at a slow and terrified speed. I am holding my phone above my head and waving it and shouting. This all happens just in time to meet my four-year-old and my husband bursting from the basement with flashlights. They're having a lively discussion about how Mommy and Benny are potentially getting eaten in the woods by wild animals.

I will later realize I lost a glove somewhere along the way. It lives with the coyotes now. Creepy presents. That speleo box written by Rachel Henderson. And narrated. They don't. And narrated by Daniel Hewitt. I don't regret building that spielobox.

I say that spielobox. Not my spilio box. Because even though I built it, it's not really mine. The blueprint came from the Devil's Reach Grotto in Wyoming. We don't have a grotto in Omaha. No caves, no grotto. No point. which is why I wanted that spielo box.

It was bad enough we had to slink back to Nebraska after 15 years away, 15 years of freedom from cornfields and strip malls. The real problem is having no escape here. Caving is my escape. And maybe the most important thing in my life. I said those exact words to Mason, after he lost his job, after he made the unilateral decision

to sell our condo and move us back to Omaha. But he didn't give a shit. I wish he did. I blew so much energy trying to get him involved. Get him interested. Get him to participate. Nothing took. Mason was never a caver.

If you're a caver, and there's no caving nearby, a spilio box is the next best, thing. Basically a big wooden box, 12 feet by 12 feet made of tunnels. Those tunnels should be varied. Back, forward, up, down, crammed together like a honeycomb. So you get two, 300 feet of squeeze space. Squeeze space, not crawl space. If you can crawl through these tunnels, you're not in a Spelio Box. A spielo box should be so tight.

You feel like you're dying and being born at the same time. I needed a spilio box. Three months ago, I wrote to Devil's Reach, and their secretary sent me the blueprint. Blueprint was his word. It was more like a rough sketch, practically drawn in crayon. They got the plans from a defunct grotto on the East Coast, he said. but never bothered building anything. I bothered. I bothered right away.

Mason freaked when he saw the first load of supplies. Lumber, screws, sealant, glue, demanded to see the receipt. Every trip to the hardware store was a battle. Money was the issue. He claimed we needed to save until he found work. He claimed we were deep in debt. He claimed, but I knew the real issue. He hated seeing me get enjoyment out of something,

especially something he didn't understand. And I wasn't about to let his little temper tantrums get in my way. Best guess, it took six days to build the Spelio Box. I know I started on a Sunday afternoon, finished in the wee hours of a Saturday. Which Saturday, though, I'm not quite sure. If you could ask Mason, he'd say I can't remember how long it took because I was drinking too much. Not disputing the drinking, or the lost days, but the whiskey was incidental.

Confusion is what sucked those days away. Like I said, the blueprint was crap. Whoever designed it needs therapy, medication, or Jesus. Possibly all three. Its problems included tunnels that dead end, tunnels that loop back in on themselves, tunnels that impossibly do both. Incoherent route, chaotic near the walls, concentric near the center. Clear entrance, no exit whatsoever. And these were peanuts compared to the biggest design flaw.

The blueprint wouldn't stop changing. Extra tunnel here, disappearing turned there. One time I looked at it, and I swear to God, the floor was gone. Not gone forever. Not long enough to stop the build. Just long enough to make me doubt my eyes. Or wonder if Mason was right about the drinking. He was not.

Confusion sucked those days away. Six days, 12, 24, however many. Mason didn't offer to help, of course. It was all me. I built that spielo box alone, and I built it well. I made something beautiful. Before even going inside, you can feel the spillo box. A heaviness travels through your torso, wrapping around your organs,

settling above your solar plexus, and the air around the entrance is rich and buzzy. comforting, whole-body anesthesia. You barely notice the first squeeze. Squeeze may be the wrong word. More like pinch or scrape. The scraping is a surprise, if I'm honest. I used 30 cans of varnish,

made sure the wood was glass slick before construction, but it's a different ballgame inside. At least for the first few minutes. minutes in the outer tunnels. Like dragging yourself across a cheese grater. Once you're past the scraping, the tunnels change again. I know I built them out of wood. I bought the wood.

Mason screamed at me about the wood. But Lord help me, those second layer tunnels are soft. Dirt soft. It makes the journey easier. Some of the worst curves and flips, are in these tunnels, where the ceiling drops to six inches in height. I find the best method here is to go head first, arms at your sides, frog kicking your feet. The tunnel helps you along, feels its way around you, nudges you forward. The softness isn't unpleasant, a bit wormy,

but also warm. The warmth is weird, very uncave-like. It gets warmer the first. It gets warmer the further you go, warmer and wetter, then the softness loses its grit, and the tunnel finally smooths out. And right around this point, it gets hard to breathe. What little air is left is syrup thick, reeks of sweet cheese and sour old eggs, it coagulates in your lungs. If there's anything worth seeing in this inner layer of the tunnels, too bad, you're blind. You lose yourself completely. As it turns out, the no-exit problem isn't a problem at all. I've gone into the spielio box every night since building it, and every morning I wake up inside my house, sometimes in bed, sometimes on the couch, sometimes underneath the kitchen table. I double-checked that I didn't

miss a trap door or a hidden hatch, if I still had the blueprint, but it's the long gone. Don't ask where. It disappeared right after I finished building. I'd blame Mason if I could. But this isn't his fault. Couldn't possibly be his fault. It's just gone. Exit aside. I wish I could have another look at the blueprints to see the dead center tunnels, the core of the spielo box. I know the drawings were a shifting mess. But I need to stop this terrible, nagging thought that I've never actually made it to the core. Will never make it to the core. Because somehow, I built the core for single use, like one of those spring-loaded mouse traps.

One mouse, one snap. Perseverance is key. I'll try again tonight, tomorrow night, every night for the rest of my life if I have to. But the idea that I'll never experience. the full artistry of the spielo box. The idea that something this beautiful was wasted on Mason is unbearable. He didn't want to go into the spielo box. He cried.

I remember that. He cried when I pushed him toward it, babbled about love and leaving Omaha on how things would be different if I just put down the knife. He cried as he folded into the entrance, folded like his bones were liquid. He cried the whole way through, back, forward, up, down. Two months later, he's still crying. That's the bad thing about the Spelio Box. The part I don't like talking about.

It starts in the outer tunnels, a ways behind you, like an ambulance stuck in traffic. Eventually it wraps around your ankles and slithers up your legs. The closer you get to the core, The further it moves up your body. Little sobs tickling your skin, pressing against your neck, nibbling at your earlobes. By the time you black out, the cries are suffocating.

You're in a coffin made of sound. Mason didn't want to go in, but he didn't have a choice. I didn't have a choice. His name appeared on the blueprint, clear as anything, right in the middle. Not my name, his. And as much as I hate the crying, as much as it kills me, that I may never reach the dead center, I can still appreciate the fact that I built that spielo box. All by myself, and I built it well.

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