Creepy - Day 28 - The King of Gourds & The Forgotten War

Episode Date: October 28, 2025

The King of Gourds***Written by: EM Otero and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***The Forgotten War***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***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.

Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 28. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. I can't believe we're even getting direction to perform general murmur.

This is ridiculous. Come on, can we have real dialogue? I mean, I know I have some old a bit later, but, man, Murmys. As I mentioned yesterday, I'd like to talk with you all a bit about your jobs and your relationship with your employer. I know it might seem a bit strange to be bringing this up now after all the time you've spent here, but I think it will help to provide some valuable insight into the progression of your dreams and nightmares. What do you want to know about him? Well, I suppose, what is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of him?

Fucking... I guess down a lo and a broken down. I mean, and leaves us dead to die in a swamp. I swear to God. I don't know. I guess I didn't expect to you all to speak at once. It seems like he definitely elicits some strong feelings from all of you. Mostly negative feelings.

Where do you think these feelings come from? How about how he never takes time off from the show? I can imagine that it would be difficult to be held at that kind of a workload. Oh, well, I mean, he doesn't make us work that much. Actually, he always tells us that if we have other things going on in life, that we should prioritize those things over the show. And that makes you feel like you can't take time off without risking losing your jobs? Well, no, he does say that we can take as much time off as we want,

and the door is always open. Hmm, I see. Then are you all feeling like there is an unspoken burden being put on you to constantly being making episodes? Not really. He does an okay job with the schedule so we usually don't have too much work at one time. Interesting. Do you think that maybe he seems like he is letting his ego drive the show forward without much thought? No, I don't think that's the case. He isn't really shy about telling him. people that he actually has a really bad imposter syndrome, and that the show being successful can make him feel like he can stop working because he doesn't want to take for granted how great it is

to be able to create horror content for a living. Okay. I'm hearing a lot of positive things about him as an employer. So there must be something about him that puts you all on edge. Have you ever felt like your feelings or safety aren't a priority? Yes, that's it. The feeling. The feelings and safety thing. Like how he dragged us out to camp every year and someone almost dies? I'm sorry? He does what? It's this whole thing. For the last few years, John got this idea that we should do these team-building trips, and he always finds us really weird, out-of-the-way place for us to hang out and tell scary stories for a month. He kidnaps you?

Sort of. I mean, at this point, we all kind of see it coming, but still. What about when he abandoned us out in the bayou? Well... What? You can't defend that. He literally drove away with us stuck out there. Yeah, but we kind of had it coming. He was out there all alone for most of the month

trying to build the summer camp that he thought would be a good place for us to stay in actually camp. And we ditched him and partied on Bourbon Street that whole month. Yeah, well, I mean, we kind of went out to check on him sometimes. It sounds like, and this is just my own initial interpretation of what you all are telling me, that John gives you all quite a bit of freedom and even encourages balance outside of the show. He doesn't overwork you and by your own accounts, he's transparent about his own struggles with self-doubt. So if we set those things aside, what I'm hearing is that the friction seems to come less from the work itself.

and more from the situations he puts you all in, outside of the show. On some level, maybe the resentment isn't because he's cruel or careless, but because he's fragile. He tries to prove himself, to prove that he can hold everything together, but by doing so, he pulls all of you into that struggle. And when someone else's fragility starts shaping your own, own experience, that can breed frustration, even if you care about him. It might feel like you're forced to shoulder the consequences of his insecurities. Did he write that for you to say to us or something?

Wouldn't surprise me. Okay. Let's say that's even a little bit true. I'm not saying it is. But if it is, then why is he at home, or wherever he spends his time? time, and we're stuck in here, having dreams like, the king of course. With a brush in my hand and a vision in my head, I can lose an entire day. Strokes of a hand create the bark of an oak. A flourish creates a shrub. Then there are the fine, almost needle-like brushes for the texture of grass and bark. Creating something from practically nothing is kind of an element.

alchemy that is truly special. Puddles of colored viscous liquid, manipulated, spread, and mixed, can create something that is greater than their parts. Cicadas buzz, their long, forlorn shriek cutting through the stillness of the August morning. And I step back and look at the canvas, swept beads and runs down the side of my face, detoured by the streaks of paint left from my constant fixing of my glasses. This painting is a commissioned piece by the Five Streams Historical Society. The subject is a local middle school, which used to be a fort.

It's not my usual thing, but it pays the bills and it's for a good cause. The painting is going to be auctioned off at the Three Sisters Festival, and all proceeds are going to help preserve historic landmarks. The name of the festival gives me goosebumps, and I don't know why. Perhaps the anticipation of my booth? I rubbed my arms and get back to work and scan the painting for any areas that need fixing, any parts that are lacking depth, texture, or a touch-up to ensure accuracy. I check the photo I used as a reference,

and something is off. A bright orb of orange that I don't remember painting sits on the front steps of the school. I check the picture and the steps are clear. So I lean in close thinking that it might be a stray blob of paint from another project. Only it's just too defined, too purposeful. Because it isn't a random blob at all. It's a pumpkin. I must have inadvertently painted it there.

When August lurches to a close, my mind often drifts towards an autumnal treat. After all, it is the best season of the year, the only time I feel like myself. Like, I can actually be free. I keep searching, noting that the trees could use a bit more texture, and some of the grass could use work. but after covering the pumpkin with a swipe of brown, I call it quits for the day. I wash a streak of orange paint from my face and head out the door. Other than the painting, I have other projects needing to get done before the festival, such as the first purchase of several dozen pumpkins and other squashes to carve.

John Schultz always gives me a great deal, since he's a prominent supporter of the arts, and half of my pumpkin sales go to support the school's. art program. Even in the thick, humid air of late August, the signs of impending autumn are there. The corn is tall and labyrinthine, and to accompany this, the sweet corn stands are popping back up. I've seen none of that black corn lately. Never had the time to try it. Apparently, it was to die for. Other than the harvest activities, autumn shows up in the trees as the nights get cooler. I could see the change.

The vibrant green slowly turns, hinting at the change of fiery maple. Vibrant oak in the gold of ginkgo trees in the center of town. After exchanging pleasant trees, I fill my truck bed with two dozen pumpkins and squash of various sizes. Some will be practiced, only to be left around town on various steps. Others will be true art that will capture the essence of the season. I can't help but imagine as I drive back home that I carry a truck full of heads. I cut away the pumpkin's flesh to reveal the face below in orange relief. The first carving is a cartoonish caricature of an old man rolling his eyes in exasperation.

I had been told that I have such a knack for creating life-like carvings that it could almost be off-putting. So that's why I tend towards caricatures. A second carving is of a man with a sly smile. smile. Like, he is waiting for a friend to fall for his prank. The smell and feel of pumpkins are thrilling. And it is my favorite medium to create art with. As much as I love painting, drawing, and other forms, it's just a means of payment, while carving pumpkins is my genuine passion. I had tried carving a turnip before, the original jack-o-lanterns from Scotland. While the small-face was absolutely terrifying to behold. It didn't carry the same joy. In a pumpkin, I can create an emotion

and a likelihood unlike any other canvas. It is a perfect medium. My carvings are so popular in the town that I run a booth every year at the Three Sisters Festival, where I carve in front of everyone, dressed as the king of gourds, and then engage in the town. And then engage in the town, out of his stick pageant. I carve three more and place them around town. A few days pass and I look at the middle school commission and decide that I should work on it a bit more. I add some texture to the brick and to find a few shadows.

And as I do, the faint damp smell of moldering leaves drifts through the window carried by a crisp, cool breeze. I look out into my yard and see the tops of tree, he's turning, a gentle touch of rust on the otherwise flawless green horizon. September is days away, and soon the green will be gone. I turn back to the painting and see that the original pumpkin I thought I covered up now as friends. There are now seven pumpkins along the steps of the middle school. How strange. I guess fall must really be on my mind. September rolls in and I card.

two or three pumpkins and a squash a day. Some people buy them for their store window displays. Others I place in jars filled with vinegar solution, like experiments in a mad scientist's lab. These I place on shelves around my studio to watch me as I create more and more. As I carve the product changes from cartoonish caricatures to a more realistic depiction of faces. I carve myself first, but it comes out wrong. My features are grotesque and distorted, as if I am in the middle of a monstrous transformation. I place it on my porch and pick up another to try again.

This time, I want to look in a mirror. I grab a mirror I've used for self-portraits before. Only the reflection looking back at me isn't familiar at all. The person looking back at me resembles the face. I carved and not actually what I look like. I turn to the sink and pour some cold water on my face and rub my eyes. And when I turn back to the mirror, my face is normal. I sit back at the pumpkin and start carving.

Only as the face takes shape in the orange flesh, mind changes as well. The reflection becomes less and less like the face I know. I try to course correct, to sculpt the face I remember. I swipe my tools to give a familiar jawline, except it comes out looking canine. The nose horribly crooked,

and as I try to carve to correct it, I end up leaving only a cavity. My glasses fall off my face, with nothing to hold them up. The eyes rendered in orange, my eyes stare back at me hungrily. I look away and finish the abomination. It's horrifying, grotesque, and exactly what people are going to want.

I place it on my porch and chucked the mirror into the woods. I place my glasses on the table in my studio. Strangely, I don't need them anymore. September sprints by, and the trees encroaching cacophony of oranges, reds and yellows overwhelms the green. I wear a surgical mask and sunglasses when I go into town now, since my facial disfigurement has only gotten worse with subsequent carvings. When anyone asks, I blame allergies or stubborn cold. But I see a startling fear and familiarity in their eyes. I buy the rest of the groceries in bulk and plan to stay in my nice remote property unless absolutely necessary.

It isn't just my face either. As the leaves change, so does my body. My arms are pale and hairless, corded with wiry muscle. My nails grow thick, dark, and long. While terrible to behold, it became a boon when carving. I no longer had to use the tools. My nails or claws now.

are sharp enough that I can carve easily with them. Susan from the Historical Society left messages wondering where the painting was. I decided it was time to finish it. I picked up my paints and become fully immersed. With each swipe, I create a new world. A vision comes to me as my brush dances along the canvas. I see a man sitting on a throne of brown vines, surrounded by jack-o-lanterns in various states of decay.

He steps down, his face shrouded in darkness, and he seems to inspect every pumpkin he comes across, appraising them like a jeweler mighted diamond. Some he gently places back down. Others he stomps and disgust. The vision fades and I stare at the canvas baffled. I painted more pumpkins and turned the trees from green to orange. I put the brush down knowing that I am obviously not in the right headspace to continue.

I noticed something else in the painting. Within a small copse of trees, a tall figure stands, its head shrouded by leaves. In the figure's massive hands, it holds a pumpkin. The nights turn cold. and it's finally October. My carvings become depictions of faces contorted in pain and fear. These likelihoods become far too familiar when I look at them once finished. They are no longer funny, silly faces that would make you chuckle.

Or rather I see Judy the pharmacist screaming in terror. Or Dennis, the mechanic looking like something horrifying, had just run. revealed itself to him. His jaw open, his eyes not understanding, and his heart pounding. Like before I dropped these all over town. Only this time at night, I find my vision has improved. So much so I don't need flashlight at all, still. I wish to keep the folks of five streams from seeing my deformities, and the mask isn't

enough. Signs around the town advertise a week-long Three Sisters Festival. The ad reads, a celebration of history, native culture, and our beautiful small town. Over a picture of the park in the center of the town that borders the forest. In that park are dozens of pumpkins, and people staring at a figure on the large stump at the edge of the woods. That figure The famed king of Gorns, with his pumpkin forehead, the eye and mouth holes glow, as if it filled with a radiant flame. That fills me with excitement. He is the town's dark harvest time mascot. It's strange that he appears at the Three Sisters Festival, since the local legend goes that he is a child of the evil brother Flint.

I may be rusty on my native history, but everyone knows the three sisters, corn, squash, and beans. Then Flint and maple sampling are the heroic and evil twins that balance out man. As with all myths, there are always different interpretations depending on the religion. This county has its own local addition, and that's the inclusion of Flint's children. I remember bringing it up in college once, and my professor looked at me like I was crazy. I thought I was, too, but it's ever present here. The farmer of black corn that preys on gluttony. The uncontrollable.

The shadow of the bean vine that spreads when you're not watching. And of course the oldest sibling, the king of gourds. all of which by the way are malevolent spirits created by Flint to punish trespassers on native land in different ways the only way that the locals can appease the king of Gorns is to make a human offering for him to take back to his lair deep in the woods part of the festival is on Halloween itself the king of Gord chooses his offering in the myths He decorates his layer or castle in the woods with a woman's entrails while he uses their bones for various things. It never disturbed me before, but now I dread having to become him for my booth. And for the festival's choosing of the offering.

It feels wrong to pretend to be such a malevolent creature, to reenact the horrible human sacrifices that stain this very soil. but I do it every year. The pageantry, choosing of the victim, and all those dread foe rituals. The memories of the years past are hazy. Like the memory of a story someone told you.

Or like memory from early childhood. I know I play the role every year, but for whatever reason, the memories of these past festivals just aren't there. Remembering my growing. deformities. I am at least grateful that the pumpkin will hide my face. The glow from the king's gourd's eyes on the poster seems to brighten, and its face turns and looks at me. I turn away, and return to my isolation. I cover all the mirrors and reflective surfaces in my house,

so I don't have to see what is happening to me. My face has turned from unfortunate to downright offensive. And as my self-portrait carvings become more monstrous. So do I. As the festival comes closer, I pull myself away from carving to finish the painting. At first, I touch up some texture issues, correct some colors. But it doesn't take long before I step back and see that I am finished. It might complete enthralment to the muse.

I changed the entire color palette. Instead of vibrant greens contrasting the earthly brick of the school, there before are slashes of red, bursts of yellow, and lots of orange. The trees are in full bloom, and the grass has a blanket of bright fallen leaves, and pumpkins litter every surface. When I carry it to the truck, I bump my head on the top of my doorframe. I rubbed my forehead and wonder how I have gotten so tall, sudden. me. Haid has always eluded me, but it never really bothered my ego. I'm used to it. I noticed the pants I'm wearing barely cover my calves, and my shirt looks like it belongs to a child on my long, lanky frame. I rummaged through my closet and find something strange, long black pants,

and a large flannel. I don't immediately recognize. them, but when I try it on, it fits. I recall the scarecrow I made years back, and I'm pretty sure these were the clothes I used. How fortuitous did I keep them. The drive into town fills me with joy. Every porch has a pumpkin. Every tree is a blaze of color,

and the smell of fall is in the air. The smell of smoke from wood stow. mingles with the roasting of coffee from the cafe, then mixes in a smell of leaves to create a symphony of fall. It smells right. It stirs a feeling inside of me. I long for something. But the feeling isn't fully recognized.

Like a craving for something that you only have a faint memory of. Not so much a defined flavor. but an abstract feeling. After leaving the painting at the old train station that is now the local museum, I returned to my carvings. I stopped carving my likeness because it was becoming too horrifying. I close my eyes and let my hands do it on their own. What I end up with is the face of a woman,

kind eyes, and a half smile that implies wit. I ruminate on the face. It looks mildly familiar, although it doesn't align with any of the townful. I put the pumpkin aside and carve again. This time it's the same woman's face. Only now she looks contemplative. Maybe like she's thinking very hard about what she's looking at. I stop and take time to look through my messages.

I come across one from the organizer of the Three Sisters Festival. I listen to the voicemail and I hear you. I am instantly filled with equal parts dread and joy. She called to remind me about the festivities and the schedule I need to adhere to. I remember the desolation of my face, and I'm grateful that I get to play the pumpkin-headed role. The dread I felt before

about filling the shoes as such a beast fades, and the excitement of the theatrics grows. The thrill of scary. of becoming important. No. Becoming something people fear. To become the king of gourds. I need to choose this year's head.

The face of this town's fear, the face of its autumnal God. I stroll through the potential candidates searching for the perfect size and shape. My supplies, But I still have many to choose from. Some are too narrow, too large, or even too malformed. I need something perfect.

Something that really exemplifies who I am. Know who the king of Gordes is. Then I see it. Vibrant orange, just the right size, with a perfectly curved stem in symmetrical proportions. I hold the pummelmed. I hold the pumpkin in my arms and can tell the king that I found my new face. The carving feels right, more right than anything before.

The entire ordeal has the feeling of a sacred ritual, of something that has happened for decades, even centuries. And I am just a vessel, his vessel, as I slash away the flesh, rip out the gutt of the gut. and make perfectly horrendous face. I know. I know the right is filling a void I feel every other part of the year. I finished the carving. And the countenance of a terrible regal deity stares back at me. An epiphany strikes like lightning.

A divine revelation. This is not an apotheosis. I am not creating a god, no. How could I have been so blind? This liturgy is necessary, as is my transfiguration into something grotesque. This isn't a terraforming of my earthly body to render it suitable for his possession. I stroke the pumpkin and cup it in my hands, lifting it from the table. I stare at my face through the cavernous eyes of the carved pumpkin,

and place it over my head and on my shoulders. This isn't the deification of a man, nor a summoning. This is a manifestation of something great, dark, and old. It's an awakening. The theophony of the king of Gords. Not myself anymore. No, I am myself now. And that quiet, reserved man who painted quietly in his home was a shell.

A reliquary in human form I stride into town with a bag of pumpkins over my shoulder And all stare I know who I am And they exalt as I walk into their streets The festival is on and it's time for a demonstration They watch in awe as I take my talon finger And carve away the pumpkin

Carving a face in release The people know the right. They know how the king of gourds, how I choose the offering. It comes back to me. The memories are now clear. Every year is the same. A face is carved in the person is chosen. Like an atavistic twitch that never evolved from the nervous system.

It's natural to me. It's always been there, but it becomes quiet the rest of the year. I continue my dread art, peeling away layer after layer until her face reveals itself. This time, it's a scream of terror looking back at me. I turn the pumpkin around and everyone claps. I stare into the crowd through those terrible eyes of the pumpkin. one meets my gaze. And the woman I carved is not present. Days go on and each day I carve her face, and each day the terror in the carving grows worse. The crowd talks about who is going to be chosen

at the harvest offering, as no one recognizes the face. I carve others that they do recognize, and when I look, the memories of festivals pass flashed through me. my vision. Then, on the day before Halloween, she appears in town. I see her as I carry the pumpkin with her very face on it to a gazebo on the grounds and looks at me, not averting her gaze until she sees the pumpkin. She walks closer and I cradle it, so she can clearly see her own face I carved in relief on the orange flesh. She doesn't say a word and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.

Halloween day. I pick out another perfect pumpkin, one that will expertly hold her likeness. I start at my table and slowly cut away. The crowd gathers. And halfway through I feel her stare. I look up from inside the pumpkin and see her gazing in me. She watches in fascination the entire time as orange ribbons scattered to the ground.

Then, once I finish, I turn it around. Her face this time isn't in terror. It isn't in fear or pain. It's the calm stare of someone. in denial of their fate. She steps back, but the crowd grabs her. Forcing her towards me, I reach out, grabbing hold of her arm and tell her she is the one that has to come with me. That she is the offering and gets to accompany me to my castle.

She looks behind me, and I know what she sees. The woods that were bright and fiery hours ago, out of its structure not normally visible. The veil is thin, and the king of gourds can finally return to his castle for the rest of the year, with his offering though closer, reaching for her. But in her panic and fear, she kicks at those holding her. She fights so hard she breaks free and runs down the street, pushing folks away that try to grab her.

She doesn't stand a chance, and with supernatural speed I grab hold of her. I drag her towards the woods as the crowd cheers. I wake up on November 1st, cold nearly naked, with a no memory of not just the night before, but not since August. I look out into the woods and then behind me, into town. Leaves have fallen. All the pumpkins rod-hitting. collapsed on themselves overnight. I scratched my head and feel something stuck in my hair.

After some rooting around, I find it. A single pumpkin seed. And I wonder to myself, how did that get there? Thank you for sharing that, Jimmy. That was very vivid. That kind of recall is very helpful from a clinical standpoint. And I will do my best to summarize for the sake of the rest of the group as I'm sure you are less and less interested in my actual analysis as much as why you are having these dreams. I hear projection and envy disguised as anger, boundary violations wrapped in performance, fear of being objectified and or sacrificed along with moral dissonance and complicity.

In short, it sounds like your resentment towards John isn't really about the workload, but about the unpredictable situations he pulls you into. You admire his dedication, yet you feel endangered and even used when his insecurities spill into and shape your experiences. That mix of admiration, fear, and guilt is what turns into hostility. You know, I kind of liked when he trapped us in that haunted house. When he what? Oh, I'm sorry, that's our session for today.

That's not how this works. We still have thought... Oh, it looks like we will actually need to cut this session short. Another patient is having a crisis. I'm very sorry, but I do want to continue this conversation later. I remember when Joe showed up and he didn't know how to use the walkie-talkie? That was pretty funny. I mean, he eventually feared it out.

I guess it's like programming a VCR. What is it? I was in the middle of the session with the... I've been trying to get in touch with you for the last 20 minutes. He was talking. What do you mean he was talking? He came out of his coma? No.

His brainwaves are still showing that he's unconscious, but 20 minutes ago, he started talking. Talking? What did he say? Here, I have it all recorded. He started talking about something called the forgotten war? There was a time when soldiers in war were treated more than headlines in social media. or on a 24-hour news station scrawl.

There was a time when people at home took it seriously, rationed, aided in the struggle of young men sent to fight and die for someone else's gain. Let's face it, you don't really understand what's happening even now. You may have heard of it, filtered through whatever news source you choose, you may have picked one side or another

and gotten in a fight over it on social media. You might have even changed some of your fundamental beliefs and outlook on human life in the process. But do you really care? The French and Indian War. The War of 1812. The Philippine-American War, the Korean War, Grenada. How much could you actually tell any person about any of those wars? And no.

Having watched the entire MASH series or Heartbreak Ridge doesn't count. And no, I don't want to hear about the book you read about World War II or the Civil War, ever. How about genocides? Rwanda, Cambodia. Have you even heard of the Indonesian genocides before the, admittedly spectacular documentary The Act of Killing? This isn't to chide or scold you. People die. A lot. all the time

or inundated with it to the point that it's barely passing conversation. It's hard enough to keep up with all the hate that's happening today, let alone 20, 50, 100, or even a thousand years ago. Maybe in a strange way, it's better that way. Like George Santiana said in 1905's the life of reason. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. admit it you didn't even know who said that quote in the first place probably thought it was Einstein or Nishi or Mark Twain right this all just lends itself to why no one remembers the

unnamed war sometimes referred to as the forgotten war by fans of more arcane military history as it were if you can find them there aren't many those who know know what they called it back then The War of Black Dust and Eyeless Men. Depending on the printing, the font size, etc. The Bible is between 1,500 and 1,500 pages. About 1,000 pages less than the Lord of the Rings, and it's probably the most widely studied, debated, and contested document in history. The War of Black Dust and Eyeless Men by comparison

has less than 100 confirmed pages that even so much has referenced the event. Even an exact date and location of the war is up for speculation depending on the source material. While many would point to the brutality of more widely known, studied and adapted wars like World Wars 1 and 2, there were major differences to set this war aside. Not only the technology, but the sheer brutality. World War I introduced the world of chemical warfare. World War II put genocide on the front page of newspapers. The Crusades were granted free reign to atrocities thanks to the Catholic Church's selling

of indulgences. For those unfamiliar with this concept, the gist is that you promise a cut of riches for the church so you can pillage, rape, and murder all you want. Sometimes I wonder how well that worked out for everyone. You may recognize the concept from the video being Dante's Inferno or the feature film Dogma, or even mention of it in Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential book. Maybe it's a case of not getting the recognition I think it deserves. Or maybe it was a matter of something happening so long ago that it doesn't really matter to anyone anymore.

Then again, people are sure to obsess over Genghis Khan to this day, don't they? Maybe not enough people died. Fyla counts, the number didn't cross the 100,000 threshold. And considering the Arab-Besantine wars, it just ended a decade prior and resulted over 2 million deaths. I suppose I can understand why. Still, you'd think it would have fallen into legend for more than that. What follows are the compiled and translated accounts I've been able to find from 1073 BCE to today. Most of them are personal testimonies, damaged scrolls, and oral histories since deemed as heresy,

translated from the writings of an unnamed Italian historian, undated, author unknown. We are not strangers to war. So many fathers and son knew nothing other than battle. Rays to believe, raise not to falter, raised to die for the glory of a cause they would never truly understand. But is this death any less noble? I would argue not. For death with purpose is a life fulfilled.

We may never know that purpose in battle. For land, power, wealth, women. The Trojan War itself fought over a woman, or so we tell ourselves. But even that reason is a reason within a reason. Young men die for the scheming of old men. Still there is purpose. There is clarity. Truth is for each man to decide.

Reason may never be understood. But there is reason in there somewhere. Until there wasn't. What drove these men to the fields of battle is unknown. No declarations, no threats, nothing. Just men drawn to a place in time, strangers standing side by side, some with swords, some with bows, some with rocks and sticks. I saw these with my father, but could not understand. From the Chronicle of Brother Adrick, Abbey of Lindwin, Circut 1073 BCE, translated from Latin, the original was destroyed in a church fire in 1841.

They do not write of it because the earth still bleeds. Even now near the valley, the soil remains dark with soot and glistens after no rain. I remember the sound, not music, not wind, but a constant groaning beneath the dirt. The trees there rot from within, and birds do not nest. I saw one. A man returned from the buried valley. He wore no armor. His eyes were sealed with that.

lips stitched with wire, though he had no wound. He wept without moving. We fed him and gave him wine, and in the morning we saw to our horror he had carved the words into our door with his teeth. The word was Valcar. I asked no more. Military Fragment, Anonymous. Circuit 1066 BCE.

Recovered from the Blackwood Manuscripts British Library, Classified Category Category Category Category category N5. Our battalion marched east of the fork, though no map marks it now. It was late autumn, and the mist would not lift. We marched two days with no sun. Then came the first sign, a pit, the width of a cathedral, as if the land itself had been bitten. Inside were bones, but wrong, too many joints. Limbs spiraled like roots, and jaw bones with more teeth than mouths should allow. Men whispered mutiny. Our captain said God test those who falter. By dawn his mouth had been filled with pebbles,

his tongue nailed to his chest. We burned him without words. At night they came, not with cries or flame, but in silence. No armor, no banners, just skin the color of smoke, no eyes and mouths ringed with ash. The war began with no decalmers.

and ended with no victor. Only the black earth remains. Personal letter. Edith of Anselmer to her son, 1075 BCE. Your father never returned. He once wrote from the edge of a place called Hollowvale. He said he dreamed of a church turned upside down, of hymns sung backwards.

He said the sky split open for seven nights, and that they fought under a moon that never moved. He said they were digging. not graves, but doors. I've heard the birds here mimic the screams. Your brother says I am unwell, but the fields do not grow now, and the river sometimes runs black.

This is not madness. This is memory. Do not come home. Marginalia, the occultus bellis of hidden wars, banned volume. 12th century reproduction. Handwritten note in the margin. The 11th War, or the Dust March, was never sanctioned by king or pope.

Those who fought did not return or returned incomplete. The enemy had no name, only symbols carved into stone and shapes no sane man would draw. They whispered from cracks. They carried no metal. They moved in smoke. Their war was not for land or riches. It was to keep something buried. We lost.

We buried it again. But the ground still moves. Translation log. Archaeological notes. Hollow Vale dig site. March 1994. Unpublished. Found in the possessions of Dr. Lionel Crane after his disappearance.

Site deeper than expected. 11th century artifacts mixed with anomalous items. Pictographs match no known language. Cross reference with Voign-Nich-MS inconclusive. Found bone, human-sized. organic matter fused with iron nails. Workers report murmurs after sunset. Equipment fails after 6 p.m.

Stop, Igging. Testimony. Father Matthias. Abbey of Blackstone. Audio transcript, 1981. I saw it once. The valley where it happened.

The trees still grow in spirals there. No birds, no insects. Not even rot. Just silence. I went against orders. I read the hidden text. I found the accounts written in blood on vellum scraps clean of psalms. I prayed and fasted and waited for a sign.

One came. A child was found at the abbey gate, no eyes, no tongue wrapped in chain mail. She whispered inside my head. She showed me what lived beneath the field. They didn't fight a war. They woke something, and then they tried to put it back. Final account, Journal of Gareth Reed, historian, found July 2014. Last dated entry, 7, 6, 2014.

I've tracked every reference, every map burned, every monk silenced, every odd phrase and forgotten war logs. They all converge on the same northern region, unmarked on maps, and accessible by paved road. I went. I found it. It looks like a sinkhole, but it isn't. There are carvings, not just rooms, instructions, spirals that twist the eye, a pit that doesn't echo. At the bottom are bones, human and otherwise. I brought a piece back, a shard like obsidian, but it pulses. It's warm. Sometimes I think it's speaking. I haven't slept in four days.

The war wasn't lost. It was paused, epilogue. Declassified note from British Ministry of Defense. Redacted, 2002. Hosted to WikiLeaks December 2009. For internal review only, Project Voiglass. Recent satellite scans confirm an area of land near Hollowvale shows consistent heat signatures despite no volcanic activity.

Intermittent radiation spikes, magnetic anomalies, topsoil samples contain organic matter not cataloged in existing DNA databases. Recommend indefinite quarantine of the region. Under no circumstances should excavation resume. Final note, refer to medieval documents on Ashmen and the Vale War. Do not dismiss as myth. War ended once. No guarantee it will again.

Why didn't you contact me sooner? I told you. I did, doctor. That's what I was trying to tell you earlier. When he started telling his story, the cameras and the lighting started in malfunction. The microphone was the only thing that caught his story. Everything else just caught other things.

What other things? Are he doing it? We need to repeat this instance. How? He's in a coma. We don't even know how this one happened. By getting to them, preparing them if we need to. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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