Creepy - Day 16 - The 18th Floor & Friedman's Folly

Episode Date: October 16, 2023

The 18th Floor***Written by: Sean Roberson and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Bonus episode: "Friedman's Folly" Written by: Gordon Linzer***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.

Hey, Alicia. My thing's gone. I haven't seen you much lately. I'm fine. Just trying to mind my own business. What do you mean? We've known each other for a while. I know you're weird and you can handle a lot of weird things in stride without too much obvious psychological damage. Thank you. Still haven't seen one thing more unsettling than any random memory I have from high school. And that's great for you, but... Don't you ever think about what's going on here?

In what way? Well, we're telling other people's stories, stories that don't even make sense that we would know in the first place, let alone the ones that don't even seem like they should be in the house at all. Go on. It's just, what if there's more to it? What if it isn't just the story that the house is holding on to? What if it's a part of the storyteller that it's trapping here?

I think I understand what you're saying. And yeah, that would be pretty messed up. But we don't know what's going on here. You'll drive yourself crazy trying to figure out how all that works. That's the problem, John. What if we're being affected too? Alicia, look at us. We're standing here, safe and healthy.

We can only control what we can control. If we get too tied up in all the intangible, unknowable things in life or minds would probably snap. I think anyone else is still alive? Yeah, John, I know all that, but... What? What happens if part of us is trapped here? Like the stories we're telling.

And we're trapped inside some kind of infinite loop of horrors. And the more time we spend here, the more stories we tell, the closer we come to whatever that world is. Then I suppose I go to Plan B? Is plan B to kill us all? Burn this place to the ground? Claim it was a horrible accident. Blame Frederick on it all as an insurance scam and just hire new narrators?

No. No, if you'll excuse me. I think Nate has a story starting right about. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the movie. 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 The 31 Days of Horror Day 16, the 18th floor, written by Sean Robertson, and narrated by Nate Dufort. I remember the night I took my own life, or rather, the night I planned on ending it. I had the whole thing planned out. The note was written, my affairs were in order, everyone that had ever wronged me blessed me or fucked me over had messages delivered via social media

based on how they treated me in my soon-to-be past life some responded with the usual what does this mean are you okay mike whatever you're doing don't do it see you in hell asshole you get the idea everything was perfect for a not-so-perfect end i even had the men method. A bottle of whiskey with a smorgasbord of pills from everywhere imaginable. It was going to be a trippy ride down to the underworld. All that was left was getting the supplies. After my last shift at my going nowhere desk job, I went to the local grubby liquor store down the street from me. In there, I got the most expensive bottle of whiskey I could buy in a shiny bottle covered in fingerprints from patrons constantly looking at it and picking up this bottle, then putting it down.

When I say most expensive, what I really mean is a $60 bottle of John Dirtwater's whiskey, because this place doesn't have the good stuff that those wealthy CEOs have 12 bottles of in their offices. After some brief small talk with a dude behind the counter who seemed in a rather chipper mood to be working here, I went off for the last time. His words, Hope to see you again soon, rang in my ears as I chuckled to myself. I don't think so, pal.

Oh, the little he knew. By the time I got to my apartment building, my nerves were already getting to me. Maybe I shouldn't actually do this. Maybe this will be the push I need to get my life back together. I opened the bottle, took a gulp, and those thoughts slowly numbed, while in the rickety elevator of my rundown apartment complex.

I pulled the keys out of my coat and went to unlock my door when my eye caught something shoved into the trim of my door, almost at the very top, like it was supposed to be extremely well hidden. It was a postcard, a dirty and clear crumpled up postcard. I took it inside with me, perplexed, not with what was written on the postcard, but wondering who the hell still uses these. Everything's digital now.

I threw the card on the table, not bothering to read it, and opened the bottle again for another swig. I didn't bother grabbing a cup. What was the point? They were all nicely cleaned and put away. I didn't want to dirty another dish in the end. I started guzzling the brown liquor straight from the bottle as if I hadn't had water in years.

It burned sweetly as it flowed. down my gullet and directly into my veins. This was going to be a breeze. I sat down at the table and grabbed one of the bottles of pills that were sitting out. I think it was oxy, but I honestly can't remember at this point. I fiddled with the child's safety lock when I stopped, eyes fixated on the postcard. I put the bottle of pills down. Ah, what the hell? Beats the pill bottle being the last thing I'll ever read.

I say out loud to myself and the cockroach that scurried away with my sudden outburst of words, I reached for the missive, the effects of the alcohol already hitting me, as it felt like everything was a blur. Most of you'd know the feeling, that level of drunk already on an empty stomach when you are out when you clearly shouldn't be out.

The postcard was clearly homemade, something a local business would make super quick to get out some content to rouse interest in the local community. I'm not going to fault them for that. Anything that catches some poor sucker's eye, right? The card was black, not black paper, mind you. It was as if someone took the card and dipped it in the darkest paint imaginable before writing or imprinting on it.

The text was an average font, large enough to catch your eyes but nothing off-putting. Maybe Times New Roman? The title was bright red. come to the scariest night of your life, the 18th floor. Below that in white it read, We are pleased to invite you to the 18th floor, the latest scariest and otherworldly haunted,

nightmarish, ghoulish experience of your entire life. An address was provided right below that, and even further down, at the very bottom in bright yellow, bolded and underlined. Please note, we are still in the process of building. This is an early screening to help us reach the full scary heights. We would love your support and bloody donation. I don't know if it was the booze or my ungodly love for horror,

but I let out a boisterous laugh and flipped the card over trying to see more. There was nothing else. Someone must be playing a prank on me. Maybe someone who got my message and freaked out, or rather reveled in my last message to them and wanted to give me something as a fuck you or a don't do it. My brain was racing through questions and reasonings while something in the very far back of my broken mind said,

Go! The address really wasn't that far from me. In fact, I walked past that area for work all the time. It's a long stretch-empty lot where the promise to build more jobs stayed fresh in everyone's minds as it became more and more run down. The politicians

pushing the projects ate their lobster dinners from proceeds and funding. The funny thing was, I just walked past that lot a few hours ago and it was still as dead and desolate as ever. I look over the cart again and think this is just plain dumb. Go, the voice in my head moaned again.

I chuckled, shook my head, guzzled the final drags and pocketed the postcard, making my way to the door. The cold air viciously assaulted my drunkenly warm face as I stepped out of my building onto the late-night streets. My watch read 1256. Damn, am I really doing this? I asked aloud to the crickets and mosquitoes.

I pulled the postcard out of my jacket pocket and re-read the address, blurily puzzling together the words. My words slurred the numbers together in a long string that would have caused a cop to instantly know you were past the point of driving. Luckily, I didn't have to drive. Not that I would. One, because of the sheer amount of adult caramel drink flowing through me right now, and two, because my car was stolen last week.

I began walking. I stumbled my way in the direction of the abandoned lot, a path I know well and have trudged many times before. Each foot felt like they had been slathered in cement and caused my steps to feel bogged down. My eyes were glued to my feet, and if anyone saw me on the streets, out at this hour, acting the way I was, they would have crossed the street to gain as much distance away from me. Sooner than I thought, my peripheral vision stopped noticing the concrete jungle and instead a dirt lot. I slowly raised my head, my vision two steps behind.

When my head was eye level, I felt three things. My stomach churned with bile from the drink and no food. My bladder about to burst. And amazement of a tall building standing in the middle of the once empty dirt lot. The so-called haunted house was typical. A sketchy-ass building with cheaply made signs all over the place with phrases like, "'Scare your socks off and the spookiest place on earth. I took this all in from the edge of the lot

and looked around to see if anyone else was out and seeing what I was seeing. But of course, there was no one around at this time. I cautiously approached. The other thing was that there wasn't anyone waiting in line either. Surely at this time there wouldn't be a lot of people on streets, but a new haunted house in early October, there should be at least a handful of people gawking at the haunted house and eager to scare themselves silly.

But no, this was a literal ghost town. I went to double or rather quadruple check the address to make sure I was in the right place. But the postcard was gone. I checked my coat pockets, inside and out, pants pockets, even in my pants if I somehow managed to do that. Nothing. I approached the building closer

to read a big neon sign above the door that exclaimed, the eighteenth floor. Before I knew it, my hand touched the door, and a clown jumped out from inside the smoke, almost knocking me over as he flung the door open. I stumbled back, startled not by the clown per se, but just the sudden jump scare. He looked like a stereotypical clown you'd see at Carnival,

a literal Google image search for circus clown. Ah, you must be our latest disappointment. The clown said in a typical silly clown voice, honking his stupid nose and all. Please, come in, come in. Our haunted tower is to die for. He laughed in a dry, crackly voice. Again, corny as hell, but I admired his dedication. The clown held the door open for me and ushered me into the dark building. And what I mean dark, I mean dark. There was no light anywhere. not even an exit sign.

Hey, I can't see shit before I could finish my sentence. The door slammed behind me. Hello? What the hell is this? I got this address from a postcard. Don't I need to sign something? Pay? There was no response.

The clown didn't follow me inside, and I heard his honking noise fade as it sounded like he walked away from the door. I made my way cautiously back to the door and felt around until I found. found the handle. Once I did, I tried pushing and pulling it with all my strength, but it was locked. That want to be it, fucker, locked me in here. I screamed with all-alcohol-stained air in my lungs, but there was no response. I reassured myself and realized, this is a haunted house, dumbass. Being on edge is the point. I chuckled to myself and then shouted,

Okay, nice try, guys. I see right through this trick. Trying to scare me from the start. Nice one. As if I said the secret word, a blinding green light shone in the distance. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the assaulting light, but I noticed it was an exit sign. However, upon fully adjusting to the light, I noticed it read, next. Slowly in making sure I didn't trip over anything, I made my way to the sign. There were stairs leading up into a barely brighter room. In the stairwell, there was a sign that read, room two. Huh, it was going to be easy if that was room one. I was barely scared, more shocked, I told myself, actually as a way to hype myself up, rather than boosting confidence.

The liquid courage was starting to seep from my body, and I could feel myself getting more on edge, bile still churning and rumbling from nothing but whiskey in my stomach. The second floor was, in the typical maze fashion, but there was a clear theme. Spiders. The maze walls of chain-link fencing and cheap cobwebs made that clear alongside tiny fake plastic spiders all over the place.

Unlike most people with the usual fear, I, luckily, never suffered from arachnophobia. The creepy multi-legged freaks actually interested me greatly, and I found depictions of them comical in horror movies. Once fully in the room, I heard a door closed behind me. The stairwell was replaced by a solid metal door that held a greeting sign that read, Keep Going with a cartoon ghost smiling at me.

I thought this was cute, and maybe this haunted house. was meant for little kids. I started making my way through the maze, touching the cobwebs and giving little ooze and ahs whenever I turned corners and larger cheap animatronics popped out for what I think were jump scares. I turned another corner and noticed things lowering from the ceiling.

Spider paratroopers, the size of rats, were coming down from above. Well, that's pretty neat. Wonder if that's animatronics or some shadow play or something, I said to the army coming down. down. I walked further and noticed more still descending. I reached a hand up and recoiled as it latched onto my hand, fangs digging deep into the soft spot between my thumb and index finger. I actually screamed now in pain. What the fuck? I hissed and smashed the oversight spider, legs and guts

exploding all over my hand and forearm. Another landed on my left shoulder and burning pain erupted there too. I cursed again and swatted at it, as if the first shot of a war, the others from above began to cascade on me faster. I didn't waste a beat and made a break through the maze running as fast as I could, trying not to find a dead end. Thankfully, I found the next sign, ran up the stairs, and closed the door to the next room myself, trying to catch my breath. The pain seared in my hand and shoulder. I promptly emptied the contents of my stomach all over the floor. The vile stench of bile and whiskey invaded my senses. I roared at the room trying to get the attention of anyone running this place to figure out what was going on. I got no response. Blood oozed down my hand and

shoulder, but besides that, I felt much better. I don't think they were venomous. I didn't want to go back down there, but the path of least resistance went through my head. Do I keep pushing forward, however many more floors of this, up to 18, or get the hell out now? I tried the door, but just like the front door, it was locked. The cartooned ghost on the door sent more positive affirmation to keep going. I decided I had no choice, and to just push through, except this room was worse than spiders and something I am afraid of. Snakes I wouldn't say I have opfidiophobia but those slithery bastards made my heart stop and skin crawl.

It wasn't a maze but rather a normal room layout clearly under construction. Thankfully I saw the next floor sign and it seemed a clear path. I wasted no time and just started running to the door, stopping. when I first heard it. A rattle. No freaking way, I say to the unpleasant melody. Sure enough in the dim light and flash of red that sparked the room sporadically I saw a rattlesnake, a rattlesnake, one of the deadliest snakes in the U.S. In a haunted house? It made no sense.

They couldn't actually put people's lives at risk, right? My heart was in my throat, and I decided I had no choice and just ran. I felt hot air hiss past my leg as I rounded a corner. It was 100% real. I began to hear more hissing and rattling as I booked it to the exit, wasting no time getting up the stairs and out of that hellhole. Once the door on the fourth floor closed, I wished I were back home, going to end it there on my own terms instead of here.

I screamed as loud as I ever have before and begged for someone to end. end this and help me. Tears began streaming from my face, and my bladder released as I asked whoever set this up to let me go. I stood there with my back pressed up against the door, pant-lakes covered in foul piss, not wanting to take another step further into this nightmare. As if on cue, a man stepped out of the shadows of one of the walls. At first, I began to walk towards him, my heart racing with joy of his nightmare.

saving grace, but somehow dawned on me at the sight of his presence. He stepped out from the shadows of the wall, like actually from the shadows. This man had no features. It was a shadow. It approached, and I fell to the ground. This wasn't an actor. This wasn't a haunted house that your local church or community center puts up. This was real. The shadow walked up and kneeled down next to me. There were no eyes to fix on my face, and no expression could be found. I heard a voice, but not any voice I'd ever heard before. It sounded like a woman and a man mixed with the yowl of a cat. Oh, you poor, poor man, another of a soul on God's wasted earth. You should be here. I tried to whimper a reply, but couldn't muster up.

anything. I felt more tears streaming down my eyes at the sight of this absence of light. You must have been about to do something bad to end up here, huh? That's how we all get here, lost. But don't worry. I've found you now. And the horrors that await you here, they are worse than death. I have come to know this now, my child. The figure said, and reached a handout as if to wipe my face. I recoiled. What you will see here, what you will experience, will make you know that life is worth living. I hope you realize that now.

I will tell the others to let you pass unmolested. But go quick. They hunger for fresh meat. It has been so long. I was glued to the floor, but the words resonate with me that I do not have a lot of time. I choked out some form of a thank you, and it twisted its head like a dog does when you speak to it and pique its interest. I ran. I made it up the next set of stairs unharmed, just as the thing had promised.

However, the sounds I heard made it clear if I had waited a second more, I would have died. This was as real as it could be. I took the shadow's advice to heart and realized, sober now, and broken down for another reason, that I wanted to live. To do that, I needed to get out of this place. The next few floors were blurs of horrors I could only imagine in my wildest, most sick and twisted nightmares. One room I found myself ankle-deep in water,

with medium-sized sharks that were ravenous and mutated alligator people that screamed and snatched at the sharks and me. Another had living mannequins built, created, and assembled with body parts, ranging from men, women, and even pets that fumbled their way toward me and clawed at my coat, ripping it off as I ran up the stairs. Another room had a glass floor that cracked each step, showing a dark pit below, with the walls covered in a tripophobic nightmare filled with little people praying and pleading for help. It went on like this for four more floors, with each floor diving deeper into humanity's darkest fears. Upon coming out of another floor of ice-chilling wind and snow filled with creatures, indescribably terrifying that seemed like gaunt horrifying wolves mixed with starved people. I was outside of what I thought was the twelfth floor.

The cold, fresh air blessed my now sober and crippled mind. I fell to my knees and sobbed. I relished freedom and breathed in deeply taking long, laborious gulps. My world seemed brighter in the dark sky. New life rushed in my system. and soul. I finally realized what the point of this whole nightmare was, be it a blessing from God or a warning. I didn't want to kill myself anymore because the horrors after death seemed so much worse. The things in there had to be of death. They couldn't be real. There had to be more to life

than all the bad shit that we see in the news, media and on the streets. Even in the darkest of nights, there will always be a dawn and a new hope as preachy as that sounds. I checked my watch, but it was cracked beyond recognition. Something must have got it while I was still in there. I look back at the final door and couldn't imagine going back through that. Never again. No one should ever experience and go through that to realize they want to live. I raised my head up from the ground and sat on my knees. The fresh air was still being inhaled through my body and bringing new life into me. I looked around the roof when I noticed something. A sign read, New floors in progress. Thank you for experiencing the demo thus far to the 18th floor. I shuddered the thought of 18 floors

of the things I had experienced. There was no way that would even be possible. What other sick and twisted fresh hells would be on those floors. I didn't know, and I didn't care. I flung my head around to find a way down and saw two things. One, a fire escape leading down, the other, a little girl in a pink dress, with her hand on the back of a butler-looking man whose mouth was a gap, and eyes removed from his head. The little girl giggled. Then, as if through some fucked up and poorly performed ventriloquist act, spoke in a low voice to imitate a man. Congratulations, sport, and thank you for visiting the 18th floor.

We hope you enjoyed your visit and time. Hope we didn't scare you. Too bad? The girl broke character at that point and giggled again to herself. She looked like she was no older than ten years old. She continued her macabre act, blood slowly oozing from the dummy's eye holes. We are looking for new fresh faces and ideas for new scares all of the time. We are glad to announce that you are automatically entered in and part of the family since you completed what we have so far.

Yay! You will begin training in introduction soon. The fuck I will! I swore as I rose to my feet. What you are doing here is sick, twisted, and illegal. I'm going to the police and making sure you never hurt anyone again, you disgusting monster. The little girl huffed and said in her own voice, Well, fine, just try and go back to your no-good life, that bottle of pills then. She dropped the man to the ground with a thick thud and skipped past me to the door, heading back inside the building.

The door slammed behind her like a child throwing a tantrum, and upon inspection was locked once more. I wanted to keep true to my threat and made my way to the fire escape. I wanted to get as far away from this building as I could, then find the police, then reach out to my family, my loved ones, and everyone I ever met, wronged, or cursed at in my life. I wanted a massive do-over. I approached the fire escape and noticed it was just a ladder leading all the way down.

I went to turn around and begin to climb down off the ledge both metaphorically and physically when I felt something slam into my body. It was the girl's dummy man thing. His holdout eyes bore into me as his gaping mouth revealed a gummy smile. In a second I fell alongside this corpse down the multi-story building. As my eyes adjusted up toward the sky, I saw the little girl waving. from the roof alongside the shadow from the fourth floor. I heard its voice again as if it were in my head.

We will see you soon in your new life. The realization hit me like a corpse throwing me off a building. After all of this, I was still going to die. The entire fall, the only thing that went through my head was, I want to live. But this fucking place took it from me. It gave me my reason to live, and just as fast, took it away. With that thought, I felt my body touched the ground,

but touch is the wrong word, more like shatter, explode, detonate. The force of gravity accelerating me down from such a high height caused me to not even have a chance of being crippled. I felt my bones shatter into a trillion pieces that they shot like buckshot through my skin, and launching miles on the concrete. Every rib and organ disintegrated, as my body crumpled like a thrown-away accordion,

until finally I felt all the blood shoot out of my mouth as my skull made contact, like a watermelon to a sledgehammer. Pop, I laid there in a pile of viscera and gore, a pile that should have never been, combined with parts that were not mine, but instead a living, dummy. Alas, this was always going to be my fate that night. It started once I picked up that stupid

postcard. No, it started before that. It started the second the notion that killing myself would have solved any of my problems. That's when this shit show started. What makes this all worse is I didn't die. Not how you think I would have. My soul or ghost or whatever you believe happens in the afterlife, Didn't go to heaven or hell. No, something even worse happened. I watched my pile of goo begin to be devoured by rats, maggis, and other verminous scum from inside the building. The building just gained a new resident,

a new floor, new torture to force someone else through. So, take my advice. If you were reading this, your life, is worth it. You are worth it. Life is worth living and you should make the most of every second of every day. Because the truth is, there are fates worse than death and horrors more unimaginable than anything you see in the news. If you ever get a postcard in the mail that reads, come to the scariest night of your life, the 18th floor. Don't trust it.

A postcard that only comes when you feel you have nothing left to live for, and you plan on doing the most heinous of acts. Seek help. Speak to someone. Live your life. And whatever you do, don't go to the 18th floor. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and how are we all doing? The usual.

varying states of paranoia and anxiety. Splendid. It's a little quiet around here. I trust you all are keeping busy. Yeah, I guess. It must be Sunday. So that means J.B.'s hunting for the screaming mice who tell us the exact date and time will each die. Megan's trying to serve a summons to the sirens she thinks is illegally covering one of her songs on YouTube. Nate and Heather are playing a game they invented called Raid and Whispers, which I'm terrified to play with them. I think most of the others are all curled up under one really big blanket eating popcorn and watching American Horror Stories.

Oh, and Owen is crying around here somewhere. Oh, my word, is he okay? He's fine. He just watches the notebook every Sunday for some reason. They couldn't live without each other. You know, Freddy. Frederick. You know, Freddy?

For a house you said wasn't haunted. It sure feels like everything about this place is trying to drive us insane. As I explained to you before, John. I won't have my stop screaming! I can feel them behind my eyes. Like butterfly kisses on my brain. Do you think anyone else is still alive? Don't forget.

Yeah, well, that may be, but between you and me, Freddie. I just want you to know, if you have some ulterior motive here that we don't know about, I suppose I'll have to deal with you, is that what you are going to say? Me. God, no. Danielle, she's from Boston, and even I'm scared of her. You know that happy hour is illegal in Boston? They literally outlawed. happiness there. John, you needn't worry about such things, I assure you I have no ulterior motives to any of this. Remember you are the one who contacted me about this house in the first place? And you are the one who requested the rooms be wired for sound, and you are the one who convinced me to rent this

house out for the entire month, when I have never had anyone stay. here for more than three days previously. That's not how I remember that conversation going. Hmm. Agree to disagree. Or I could play the recording. I record all my calls. Hey, this is the guy who owns a haunted house with all the rooms?

Yeah. Cool. Can I run it out this October? The whole month? Yeah. Well, that's longer than people usually do, but if you are willing to pay, go ahead. cool anything i should know in advance the house reconfigures itself at random the traumatic stories of previous lodgers replay themselves here inside the rooms i recommend everyone do a mental health screening and cats can before staying here and i take a twenty-five per cent down payment no pets Not that you've had time to think about it.

Anything else you might want to warn me of? Believe it or not, I'm a bit protective of my crew. Rest your mind, John, your narrators are in no danger. Experiencing one or two rooms is never shown to have any sort of lasting damage. Once they go home, they will be right as rain, and all of this will feel like little more than a distant memory. While I'm glad to hear they're safe, what about someone who's already been in 15 rooms this month? Have you been feeling differently lately?

I don't think so. Would you consider stopping? I still have 16 days to go. It's kind of been my thing every year. Well, then I suppose I'd say, in for a penny, in for a pound, hmm? What's going to happen? to me. I honestly can't say, but I think it would be in your and your narrator's best interest if you asked them to keep an eye on you. Is this podcast really worth your mental health? I ask myself that

all the time. Well, you have my number if you would like to depart early. Now let me know if there's anything I can do in the meantime. Good luck, John. Hey, was that Frederick I heard leaving? Yeah. You just left. Are you and Heather done with your game? No. She's still trying to solve the riddles three. I got time. You good? Yeah. Nate, I'm fine. Lots of work left to do. Speaking of which, I got a story to tell. For your bonus episode. Creepy Presence Friedman's Folly Written by Gordon Linser

Dr. William Friedman was quite successful at his work. He'd made enough in private practice to devote his time to experimental work in his cellar. He had made enough to own his home, several miles from the city. He'd made enough to marry Alice Howell, a very desirable woman five years ago. It soon became obvious she had married,

more for status and wealth than love. The doctor stood reflectively for a moment over the sleeping body of his wife, carefully fingering a hypodermic needle in his right hand. Poised delicately in his left was her forearm, a beautifully smooth and white expanse of flesh. The doctor moved his right hand, and the liquid contained in the hypodermic flowed quietly into Alice Friedman's bloodstream. When the last of the fluid had entered her vein, he removed the point and very carefully swabbed the puncture with a bit of alcohol-soaked cotton.

He allowed a sigh of relief to escape from his lips. The action he had taken was drastic, but necessary to his plans. He was sure his wife would never have consented to try a serum used only a few times before on small white mice in his basement laboratory. particularly a serum is absurd as an immortality serum. It was 12 years ago that the doctor first became interested in expanding man's lifespan. Experiment after experiment, stumbling block after stumbling block, interruption after interruption, until the final formula was found. His mice injected six years ago were still physically no old,

than they had been then. As a pleasant and unexpected side effect, they were 100% disease resistant. And tonight, he was satisfied it was safe for use on a human being. But not just any human being. It had to be someone deserving of immortality. Someone whose beauty should exist forever. It had to be Alice.

Although she had been acting, steadily cooler toward him, even hinting at divorce, he still found her a beautiful woman. And after she had learned of her husband's generous gift, she would be, out of gratitude, as gentle, warm, and loving as any man could hope his wife to be. Moonlight streaming through the window bounced gently along the curve of her blanket-covered body. Dr. Friedman sat in a red, slightly overstuffed armchair, so he could moment. momentarily contemplate her beauty and comfort. He tenderly stroked her face, marveling at its coolness.

He ran his hand along her arm, which was also cool, and stopped at the wrist. In the few seconds following, his eyes opened wide as fear crept into them. Alice Friedman had no pulse. That was a pure, cold, undisputed fact. She was dead. His lower lip trembled as he let her arm drop. The alabaster goddess had fallen off her golden pedestal. Not only this Venus, but the whole world had collapsed for the man in the armchair.

An anonymous doctor might have become the most important Nobel Prize winner in history. A vision floated in front of him. An image of himself being called to accept the award. He walked to the platform modestly. But as he reached for his prize, it turned to dust and eluded his grasp. Thousands seated to watch, laughed loudly at his predicament, and the sight slowly faded from his weary eyes. He was still in his wife's bedroom, staring at but not seeing her motionless corpse.

He bent his head and brought his hands up to his face. Tears rained down his cheeks and the salt water made slight stains on his white lab coat. Soon the tears stopped flowing and an irregular but much-needed sleep was obtained by the grief-stricken doctor. He remained in that position through the remainder of the night. The bright morning sun burned through his fingers into his dried eyes until he couldn't stand the pain anymore. He stood up weakly and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He half-heartedly opened a box of cereal and poured some into a bowl. milk and sugar had been added, but Dr. Friedman finished only half.

Then he laid across his bed and slept until mid-afternoon. After collecting his senses, Dr. Friedman decided to do as much as he could to salvage his broken dreams. Although the thoughts sickened him, he had to perform a delicate autopsy on his wife to discover what had gone wrong. Fortunately, he was able to locate the problem with his instruments before the autopsy knife had made its first incision. At this, his spirits immediately began to soar. A small blood clot was formed in a major artery. Some substance in her blood, not present in the mice's blood, had caused the serum to coagulate

during the passage through the bloodstream. bitterness began to creep into his mind. If only he hadn't been so grief-stricken, he could have saved her life. He looked out the window, contemplating suicide. From two stories up? No. He would only call attention to himself. That was the last thing he wanted.

There had to be a solution. Even if he removed the clot now, she'd be. dead. The starved red cells were past redemption. It would take a lot of new fresh blood to revive her. Would a blood bank give it to him? Not likely. An idea came to him so horrible that he put it aside several times. Suppose another person's blood was substituted for Alice's. If small transfusions were, why not a large one? All he needed was a donor. All he needed was a donor. Voluntary or in voluntary. Dr. Friedman's home was located approximately 45 minutes by car from the city. Since city dwellers were usually ignorant of their neighbors, it would be safer to find

his donor there. Although it wasn't necessary, he checked his watch against the kitchen clock. Having the correct time gave him a sense of security. He tossed the half bowl of cereal, soggy with soured milk into the sink and turned on the cold water tap. When the last of the spoiled food had been sucked down the hungry drain, he turned off the water and dried his hands. Then he extinguished the light and went out the back door toward the garage. His gray 63 Chevrolet refused to budge at first, but soon began purring like the proverbial kitten.

It backed out of the driveway until it blocked the deserted, street. It then straightened out and headed for the shining lights representing the nearby metropolis. As Dr. Friedman sped along the empty streets, his plan went through his mind over and over like a cartridge tape recording. He had planned the perfect crime but refused to think of it as a criminal act. It was simply transferring a life force of one person to another and more deserving person. Disposing of moral adversity with this decision, he was now completely obsessed with the idea of a human sacrifice for his goddess. A small light shone beneath his headlight, and the Chevrolet turned in that direction, following a path recently abandoned by rush hour drivers.

Every weeknight for the past two years at 8 o'clock, Salary Campbell entered Joe's bar and grill and occupied a stool which all but had her name on it. The bartender knew Sally well, enough not to call out a cheery greeting on a crowded night like tonight. It could only invite from her a verbal essay on the trials and tribulations of an unescorted career girl in the big city. She was attractive, but set against every man in the world is wanting something she wouldn't or couldn't give.

It would be a long time before her. Mr. Wright came along. The bartender concocted her usual beverage and left to wait on other customers. A sailor stumbled unsteadily into the establishment and spoke in a barely distinguishable slur. Sally was reminded of a joking truism. There's some sailor in every port and some port in every sailor. She smiled bitterly.

Sailor, soldier, Marine. What was the difference as long as it wore a uniform? They were all the same. Sally's father had been an unwilling private and a habitual alcoholic. He used to stumble into the house at 4 in the morning whenever he had leave to make a mess for her mom to clean up. Mom had never complained, but she wore a tired, lying face. After several years, there came one night that he didn't come home at all. Two months later, Mom left the earth for good.

Fortunately, Sally had just graduated from high school at that time and was able to support herself until the rent was raised. She soon found herself sharing an apartment with Mary Bryant, who also faced financial difficulties. Mary had tried to interest Sally and men, but since she grew resentful of the interference in her personal life, Mary gave up. Anyway, Sally was going to have to find a new roommate. Bob had finally proposed, and the date was set for next month. Sally patted her new purse, a gift from Bob after they had announced the engagement. Bob had given everybody gifts. He was really a great guy, thoughtful, generous, considerate, and gentle.

As she could meet someone like him. perhaps But Bob was one in a million Every other man she'd ever met was his exact opposite Except for Mr. Alistair, her employer Who was more of a demigod He was just someone for whom she had to take dictation sharpened pencils and flatter every once in a while

Flattery did get you somewhere Her eyes Which had been staring at nothing suddenly perceived the sailor coming toward her. The reassurance uttered by this loathsome beast did little to relieve her mind, and she shifted to the next stool. Further retreat was blocked by the Navyman's arm. The bartender had been watching this scene while rinsing out a few recently used glasses.

He knew she had given no encouragement to the white-clad figure beside her. He placed a glass he had just dried upside down, beneath the bar and walked over to the ill-suited couple. Sally was only too glad to lose sight of her unwanted companion, so she quietly paid for her drink and left the bartender and sailor to their own devices. This was fortunate, as the exchanges made between the two were not the type of young ladies should be exposed to. A few minutes later, an irate, inebriated sailor-occupied and unenviable position in front of Joe's bar and grill,

nursing a grudge, and a pain where a well-placed foot had recently been. A gray Chevrolet wandered aimlessly through the maze of dim street maps and bright theater advertisements illuminated by harsh lights surrounded by insects. As it turned one particular corner, its headlights caught an interesting shadow of a sailor accosting a young woman. The car stopped to let out a man who followed the shadow to the actual action. Reception. Grabbing the gobs shoulder, the newcomer forced him to turn around. The sailor received his second injury of the night, this one sending him into the blackness

of unconsciousness. The girl had also sunken into the aforementioned blackness, but she had arrived there through fainting. Not that employed by the sailor. Her rescuer, a doctor, immediately ascertained that no harm had come to her and he helped her into his car. After she was comfortable, or looked so, at any rate, he began searching her purse for a clue to her identity. Among the typical things that women carry in their purses, he discovered an identification card. Normally such a card would have given him all the information he needed, but this one was blank. Obviously the purse was new. A social security card yielded her name, but that was all.

The man was momentarily puzzled as to what he should do with her, but suddenly remembered what it brought him to the city. Smiling, he returned the card to her purse, placed it in Sally's lap, slammed the car door shut, and brought the docile motor back to life. Dr. Friedman's Chevrolet rolled through the quiet streets, seeking exit from the city. A groggy sailor watched hazily as the car disappeared into the distance. He tried several times to gain a footing, and when he finally stood up, he was looking at the dark blue uniform of a patrolman. The patrolman held a straight face, but his eyes betrayed the mirth he felt at the Navyman's plight.

He suggested that the sailor come with him to the station to sleep it off. The sailor was in no position to decline the offer and, once in his cell, dropped off for at least 80 winks. He was fortunate that his ship was docked for three days. Mary Bryant came out of Mr. Alistair's office at the Guard Insurance Company. Something odd was going on. If Sally had called in sick, why wasn't she at home? Mary would have called the apartment again, but she had only a few minutes left to her lunch hour.

She quickly hailed a cab and arrived at Eidth Robeson Productions, with two minutes to spare. She overtipped the driver and ran into her office a few seconds late. The phone rang. She answered it without taking off her hat. The voice on the other end was Bob's. They talked idly for a few seconds and then Mary expressed her concern for her room. roommate. She told him of the day's events and finally persuaded him to drive her to police headquarters, where she reported Sally missing. All doubts about the venture had completely

disappeared from Dr. Friedman's mind. He seemed to have gone insane, but the plan was working. The blood was deserting its warm home for a new body, a new abode which would warm up as soon as the blood really started circulating. The glad. The last jar on the night table filled and emptied, filled and emptied, its precious liquid. Pump, swish, swish, swish. The rouge shone brightly and mockingly on Sally's paling cheeks. Pump, pump, pump, swish, swish, swish.

The police chief asked the sailor if he knew the missing girl. The sailor stared at the photograph, then backed the chief. the chief. He shook his head, admitting he'd only seen her once, then went on in a bridge detail considering the events of the night before. He even managed to remember the first three numbers of the license plate of the Chevy.

Dr. Friedman disconnected the transfusion equipment and stood vigil in the chair which had so recently served his morning. After a long time, he thought he felt something. Was it? Yes, she was coming back to life. He wondered how it felt being dead. Well, she would soon be able to tell him.

He could hear the blood pounded through her veins. It was obvious to the police that he had performed this bizarre double murder, but impossible to give a rational reason. The sanitarium did all they could for him, but he just wasted away. He never spoke until on his deathbed. And then, in cryptic terms, only his fogged vision understood. See, Alice, I've made you immortal. You live while I die.

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