Creepy - Fleshbound Reveries & Casa Mia

Episode Date: November 13, 2025

Fleshbound Reveries***Written by: Sara Crocoll Smith and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Casa Mia***Written by: JJ Meyers and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 FM, where the scares never sleep. I really don't have a radio voice, do I?

This is something different about how people deliver on a radio program versus a podcast. Anyone else think of that? Or have I just been spending way too much time going over old recordings to digitally transfer? Obviously, I'm back at the radio station. I'm not going to lie. As much as I like being a podcaster, it's kind of nice to have someone else give me a list of tasks to get done

instead of having to come up with and track them all myself. So digitizing these old tapes has been way more cathartic than I thought they'd be. They've even given me a chance to listen to more podcasts when I'm digging through old carts. I think I'd like to get back to our show roots and share some of the podcasts I find that I'd really like with you

instead of worrying about promos and feed drops and all that. So stay tuned. As I mentioned last episode, the station manager had alluded to a time when the station was still on the FM dial and a bit more of what you'd think from the 90s. The old wacky zoo crew stuff full of sound effects and terrible jokes, drive time updates, usual. But more importantly, the overnight shows. The other night I found one in particular that stood out to me. What I don't remember hearing about when I was younger. But back then, if it wasn't on 93 action,

or as my fellow Minnesota and Rock fans of a certain age will share a shutter with me, The Edge, or whatever station love lines replayed on, I probably wasn't listening. The DJ I found here went by this somewhat cheesy name

of Eddie Graves. I'm sure it was a pseudonym. If not, I'm sorry about that, Eddie. Anyway, it sounds like he did a sort of horror-esque overnight show. From what I've heard so far, He sounds a bit like a 90s DJ version of Avira, leaning into horror as much as the FCC would allow.

Here's a sample. Well, hello there, good evening, creatures of caffeine in curiosity. This is Eddie Graves, your midnight companion on... ...radio after dark. Where the only thing scarier than my jokes is the lighting in this studio. Oh, yes, keep those radios tuned in your doors locked. Coming up after the break. The thing that's...

scares me more than anything. The caller who refused to hang up. I still hear the line buzzing. Don't you go wandering off? The night's got long teeth, my friend. See, that's just not the same thing as to what I bring to the table. I just don't remember hearing about a local DJ named Eddie Graves. You think I would. I mean, I remember Tony Fly and Lee Volzvick and Dave Ryan, who I think is still on the air. but not any graves. Looks like his show ran for a while, and the format actually included some scary stories that I can't share with you because of copyrights, and some other horror gimmicks for his late-night listeners.

Really looking forward to digging into it more. And while I do that, let's get on with the show. First up, from writer Sarah Crockle-Smith and narrated by Michelle Kane. Creepy Presents, flesh-bound reveries. I'm not sure when the thought first warmed its way into my mind. It's not like I had a strong desire to taste flesh, but I'd indulged in most every other mind-altering substance known to man.

None of it did anything to lessen the numbness of my uneventful predetermined existence. I'd worked in my family's funeral home since I was a teenager. To be a member of the Whitmore family meant a career as an undertaker. It didn't even occur to me that there were any other options. After high school, most of my friends left town for college or various other enterprises. Quietness reigned that summer, and I began to experiment. Not in any constructive way, mind you. How could I? I really had no time for hobbies or cultivating pursuits beyond tending to the dead and the grieving. yet I could imbibe and still manage to shroud, refrigerate, embalm, paint, arrange, and console. Every once in a while my father would give me a long side eye, a look that said,

Don't think I don't know what you're up to. He couldn't criticize me, though. I'd done every single thing he'd ever asked of me. Up before dawn to receive a body? Done. Stay past midnight to first midnight to fresh and wilting flowers and vacuum threadbare carpet floors? Done. I never questioned him. Not out loud, at least. Eventually, my use tapered off. Nothing hit me quite right.

Each time, the high would be slightly askew from the experience that I searched for, longed for. It would sizzle my brain, but not my heart. Or it would ride along shakes in my hands, but not my soul. I buzzed for sure, but none of it cut through the enduring apathy that lay like a suffocating blanket over me with each sunrise and sunset. So can you really blame me for letting my mind wander? To wonder about them? I began studying every detail with care. The bright pink chipped fingernail polish.

The gray roots poking through dyed hair. The faded smear. of blue eye shadow. This led me to unplugged brows, a stray chin hair, loose stenchers. Gaudy rings so tight they probably never took them off. All of these allowed me to form a story about their life. A vibrancy spring forth when I did this and danced along my spine. The barest hint of the spark I sought. I started talking to them. To chatter on in the basement of Whitmore funeral home. Careful to only hold our whispered conversations in private, beyond prying ears. I even dared to use their names when I spoke to them of the imagined thrills of their lives.

To notice the adornments, that certainly helped me in crafting visualizations of their lives. I could get an even more accurate picture by lurking around their family members, with heaving shoulders and blubbering cries. That titillated me beyond me. measure. However, and this surprised me greatly, because one would assume that the recitations of their loved ones would prove the ultimate projector reels into their breathing days. That wasn't what aided me in my journey the most. It was the roadmap of their skin. Lines upon lines, like so many zigzagged and criss-crossed highways, travels to beckon me forth into their tales of wonder and awe. Tattoos and spoke to me of tantalizing adventures. Piercings gave me insights into their devilish deeds.

Surgical scars seeped with trials and tribulations. The lines around their mouths divulged a lifetime of smiles, of frowns, of smirks and sighs. I could trace the interconnected networks webbing across their skin for hours. Sometimes I did. I lost time in snippets and fits. Who cares? What was my time compared to all these hidden treasures of memories? Constellations couldn't invoke more mesmerization than the complex flesh imprinted with a lifetime of reveries. Months blurred by and I craved more. I found myself fantasizing about what it would be like to snip a small sample of that precious flesh. To let the tiny small sample of the tiny, square sit on my tongue and let it dissolve as the multitude of cells of their being washed over me.

What would it be like? I'd spent so much time with the dead that the thought didn't disgust me. Now it actually quite excited me. I longed to be closer to them, to know what it was like to live a life to completion. What could be more intimate than to consume? Then, she arrived. Her wake was the most well-attended I'd ever seen. In her time, Mrs. Jenna Emerson bore five children, who all seemed to be the most lovely and gracious of people. Grandkids skedaddled every which way, and one managed to coax a sly smile out of me with their adorable shenanigans, an impressive feat in and of itself, after Mrs. Emerson retired from her professorship at a prestigious college. I overheard an envious former colleague remark that Jenna not only wrote a memoir,

but also hiked the Seven Summits. Here I couldn't help myself and shed my silent, unimposing position against the daisy-dotted wallpaper. Seven Summits? I inquired. The stodgy man pushed up the rim on his wire-framed glasses and offered something between a nod and a sneer. Yes, that old bet. God bless her. She hiked the highest mountains on each continent. Lord knows why she felt the need to do that on top of all her other accomplishments. I crossed my arms and glanced over my shoulder at the open casket. Mrs. Emerson's peaceful face enchanted me. Envy and admiration welled within me as I envisioned her standing tall and proud at the top of one of those daunting mountains with a beaming smile. on her face. I'd never left the state, let alone the country. That's quite impressive,

I replied with a pointed look at the man. My mouth salivated with the fantasy of the deceased woman's life. I withdrew from the perplexed man in the cacophony of tears and hushed voices, fading into the background as quickly as I'd emerged from it, a handy skill vital to one's work as an undertaker. That evening, I volunteered to care for Mrs. Emerson and ensure she was well-preserved for her burial the next morning. Though I was steadfast and reliable in my duties, my father glared at my unabashed eagerness for the task. I assuaged his unspoken concerns by avoiding eye contact, shoeing him and my mother out and getting right to it. The steady beam of his gaze crept along the nape of my neck and threatened to jerk me back like a dog being yanked by the scruff. Still, head down,

I met my stage directions with ease after dawning my white apron, clean up the food, tidy the chairs, vacuum the floor, empty the trash. When enough time had passed that I felt confident I was completely alone. Then and only then did I allow myself to draw near Mrs. Emerson, like a moth to flame. Her wrinkled lids, delicately adorned with the creamy beige shadow I'd chosen, remained close to the world. Yet her skin shimmered with untold stories. Her arm was nearest to me, and I caress the wonder of its tanned, aged-bespeckled intricacies. On reflex, I licked my lips. This woman embraced life in ways beyond my comprehension. Perhaps if I could just get a glimpse, a mere ternet haste, then this nagging notion in me would be sadiated. Through her, I would experience the

pinnacle of highs, and I could return to my funereal fate with the instinctive, deadened precision of my puppeted life. For who was I to seek more? All my days I'd been well enough love, warm, cared for, sheltered and clothed. Mother and father need never be burdened. with this knowledge. I lean down near Mrs. Emerson's jewel-encrusted earlobe. It'll be our little secret. For the next part, you may both simultaneously predict my actions and cringe at them. I've no real defense against your criticisms except to say that if you had any infinitesimal iota in your heart for comprehending my plight or in your mind for openness to my longings. Please exact that in my honor now. With the seriousness of a priest at communion, I slid my hand to the front of my apron pocket

and withdrew a scalpel concealed in its depths. The blade winked at me in the low lights of the parlor and steeled my resolve for my undertaking. Anaseptic sense wafted on the air, co-mingled with the burgeoning lilies and roses of the endless flower arrangements surrounding Mrs. Emerson. I swayed in the heady aromas before regaining my composure. I expected no one to reopen the casket once I had closed it for the night. In case someone should, for one reason or another that I could not anticipate, I carefully lifted her arm and turned it over. Her children insisted she'd be buried with a thick, leather-banded watch. The face of it glistened like diamonds, and the hands ticked away the late evening seconds. I unfastened the watch and exposed the interior of her wrist. The paper-thin skin ran with a

fascinating tributary of embalming fluid-filled veins. Mrs. Emerson really wouldn't mind, would she? Remembered in the fondest of ways by those who loved her, as I'd so intently listened to for hours on end, this generous woman could spare a small piece of herself for me. Behind me, I jumped as the grandfather clock struck midnight. A few breaths settled my nerves. It was time. I'd prepared for this trip my whole life. I deftly drew the blade over her wrist with great care to only sever the uppermost dermal layer. Soon I held a tiny square tab of her skin. The sconce shone through behind it and tasseled me with its gemstone wrinkles. Butterflies swirled in my stomach.

I moved back and found a spot on the floor to sit cross-legged in front of her casket. Then I placed the tab on my outstretched tongue, taking her into me and closed my eyes. Any concerns you have that it tastes meaty or strain should immediately be dispelled. Her wafer paper entity molded to my tongue. instead of revulsion, imagine the most natural of ingestion. At first, nothing else rode in with that sensation. My shoulders drooped and a returning heaviness cast over my being. I hadn't quite realized how my expectations alone lifted a measure of my burdens.

Freezing winds suddenly raced along my cheeks. I stood at the peak of a great mountain. The vista spread out endlessly before me, dappled with crystal blue snows and brilliant grays and browns. My heart beat with an exhilaration I never knew possible. Mrs. Emerson's essence infused with my own, and she carried me along. Next, we swelled with satisfaction as we taught in front of an enormous lecture hall. Every student's wrapped attention on us. Then we sat and were now in a delightfully dusty office teeming with aging texts and ornate decor.

We pounded away at the keyboard, our memoir pouring forth. I could have embodied this woman forever. I cared not for the passage of time. I wanted to crawl inside Mrs. Emerson's memories and weave myself into their very fabric, content to be a wallflower in her wildest moments. Yet, as we froliced through her happiest days, the unseen skies darkened. We found ourselves in a bedroom on the floor, weeping over a discolored Polaroid of an infant swaddled in a hospital blanket.

Our intertwining went hot with fury, and a force barreled into me, knocking me to the floor. As I struggled to recover, a woman sat with her back to me. Slowly she turned. She rose in turn. A much younger Mrs. Emerson scowl down at me with fire in her red-rend eyes. How dare you? I stammered and scooted back from her. I'm sorry, Mrs. Emerson. Jenna, I didn't mean to. She marched forward and grabbed me by the collar of my shirt. I couldn't help but notice that the frown and crease in her brow had yet to form their permanent lines on her face. She snarled at me, studying the fear that must have been prevalent in my expression, before softening slightly.

Mrs. Emerson discarded me from her tight grip and kneeled in front of me. What gives you the right? I shook my head. Nothing. She scanned me up and down with rigorous discernment. Then she raised her hands to either side of my head, fingertips pointed toward my temples, and grinned with malice. Your turn. We descended never-ending staircases, all leading to the dank basement in Whitmore Funeral Home. Carcasses of microwave dinners stacked 10 feet high along the walls. Piles of dirty laundry hunched in the corners like gremlins ready to pounce. All color melted and fled down the drain under the embalming table. Deffining silence suffocated. The stale air reigns supreme.

Mrs. Emerson cast herself out, and she scurried away from me. Yet each way she attempted to flee, she reeled from another horrifyingly dull and sad manifestation of my life, past, present, and future. She looked at me with expectation of an explanation. I shrugged and got to work on the corpse in the center of the room. She rushed over and used rough hands on my shoulders to force. to force me to face her, though I tried on autopilot to turn back to the Cataver again and again my duty. Finally, she slapped me hard enough to leave a mark. I cradled my cheek. What'd you do that for?

Wake up! My goodness! I thought my regrets were bad, but this? She gestured around the cramped dank space. If you continue this way, you'll end up like them with nothing to show for it. That's when I saw, truly saw the body on slab. I'd put myself at about 50 years old. No tattoos to speak of, no piercings, no scars. A blank page with no words scribbled on it whatsoever. An empty vessel, devoid of any of life's telltale markings. I fell to my knees and wept.

Mrs. Emerson held me in her arms. For a long time, we rocked on that cold concrete floor. I appreciated that she didn't rush to speak. When my cries abated, the numbness I'd been feeling appeared to have washed away with my tears. It doesn't have to be like this. It may be cliche, but life is precious and short. The crushing weight of expectations spoken and unspoken

from those who love us and those who do. don't. It can feel insurmountable. I'm no stranger to that. Mrs. Emerson again took my head in her hands. This time her eyes brimmed with empathy and understanding. I give you permission to live. Go. Make your own adventures, your own mistakes. Everyone else be damned. Map out a grand life and let it imprint upon your skin for all to see. I wiped the last tears off my face and stood. My breath caught in my chest as I faced the stairs leading back up. With one final glance at her, she she shooed me onward.

Marching up the steps, they threatened to go on forever. Distant disapprovals from my father echoed, among other doubts voiced by familiar sources, Soon I ran and ran until at long last I burst forth through the basement door. I opened my eyes and was back, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Mrs. Emerson's coffin. With measured confidence, I rose, returned her arm to its final resting place, and kissed her gently on the forehead. After I secured the casket lid, I removed my apron and faced the parlor full of empty seats. I held up Mrs. Emerson's watch.

The seconds offered a satisfying tick that mirrored within me, like the flickering of a light ready to ignite. Fastening the band on my wrist, I patted the casket with a farewell, walked out of the Whitmore funeral home, and never looked back. From writer J.J. Myers and narrated by Rissa Montanez. Creepy Presents, Casa Mia.

Grandma's house comes alive at midnight. Sounds erupt from my dining room. Laughter, the clatter of cutlery, the incomprehensible chatter of 15 different conversations. I sit up, slumping over my hips, supported only by my skeleton. My eyes are sandy. They burn at the corners. My shoulders ache and my legs are heavy.

All my joints scream. The indistinct voices and sounds of feasting pierce right through my soft air plugs, the air filter, and my white noise machine. Our ancestral home is modernized, upgraded again and again over the years. Just before she died, my grandmother, my abuela, and the true tradition, had demanded a series of improvements to combat the hot California days. Better plumbing, efficient windows, a new roof, The place is kept at a comfortable 70 degrees. The water is clean and neutral tasting. The yard is manicured and well-loved palm trees shade the patio and the pool.

It'd be a paradise. If only I could sleep. I try to focus on the whir of the blower vent. I take a long, deep breath, and hold it, and then let it go. I tense and release my toes, then my cat. then my thighs, moving up my body. My attempts feel mocked. My unwanted guests seem to raise their volume every time I relax a muscle.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath. Time passes in the way it does for all insomniacs. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I wait and doze, resisting the urge to check the time, to turn on a light. I thought at least someone would have told me that our ancestral ghosts reenacted a holiday gathering every night, but then, who really knew? They're so loud and I've always been a bad sleeper.

The fan, the white noise machine, the earplugs, they do absolutely nothing. Some hours later, two or four, I never time it. The voices cease. My exhaustion hits me like a wave, and I only regain my senses when the alarm clock sounds. My head aches with a sharp, needle-thin pain, and there's a subtle tremor in my chest like I'm shaking from the inside out. My vision blurs then clears, and blurs again. My mouth is dry.

I want nothing more than to collapse back into bed, but it's too bright now. I have work to get too. I have to wiggle my hips to maneuver out of bed. My legs don't want to support me. I stumble to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. If I sit in just the right chair at the kitchen table, I can slump over in a small patch of sunlight while my coffee cools. This only works when there's no clouds or when it's not winter.

Sitting on the table is my laptop. into an apartment website. I wonder if the diners were louder than usual, making their displeasure known. The family, dead or alive, doesn't want me to leave. I remind myself to exit and clear the cash every night. It's hard to remember to do anything. I didn't know it was haunted when I took the house after Grandma died.

I had already moved in as her aide. Cleaning, cooking, helping her walk, walk and sit. I picked up her medication and massaged her aching legs. Now I'm the sole occupant and caretaker of the ancestral home. I'm the most unattached and the most flexible. I've even found a cushy admin job nearby. Taking the house didn't feel like a golden pair of handcuffs until my first night alone. I've been trying to prepack so I can leave the moment I find a new place. There's a lot to do. Moving is hard, and I am so, so tired.

I put a bunch of my dishes in a box last week and drove it to a storage place. I'm committed now. I either got to finish packing or live off the five plates and two cups I've left in the cupboards. I've carted a box over on my way to work every day for a while now. The storage base I've reserved is slowly filling with my small boxable things. My day is a blur of spreadsheets and emails. It's been a long time since I last felt pride in my work. The edges of my vision are always blurry.

I can't seem to sit still or focus. Even reading the short email about expense reporting is too difficult. I eat lunch at my desk. The extra 30 minutes of work means I can stop a little bit early. I poke through the collection of training videos, hoping to give myself a short break. It's a tried and true tactic. A little too tried and true. I've exhausted all the videos.

I stopped drinking coffee around 3 p.m. and start pounding back water. And by the time I log off, I'm not entirely sure of what I got done today. I can't even seem to get the energy to care. Back at my kitchen table, I stare at a microwave ready to eat meal. It's got way too much salt. It's chock full of preservatives and doesn't have nearly enough vegetables. but it's all I can muster to cook. I watch the clock.

6 p.m. If I go to bed right now, I can get six hours of sleep before the diners arrive. But I've had too much coffee and I'm twitchy. The laptop is still there. Still on. Every time I bump the table, the screen turns on, showing me affordable apartment,

a stumbling distance from a park and a grocery store and a public library. I poke at the trackpad, scrolling down and down, not paying attention, just watching the words roll by. I pick up my food until it's gone. It takes hours. I keep to my routine the best I can. A hot bath to relax my muscles.

A cooling facial cream to soothe my aching eyes. I did the lights, play soft music, do some light stretching, and I take the largest melatonin pill on the market and crawl into bed. My co-worker is asking me a question. We're at the table in the lunchroom. Now he stares at me expectantly. My choked attention span must have blinked out in the middle somewhere. I give my excuses.

It's been one of those weeks, I joke. His expression is worried. I don't remember how many times I've said this exact phrase. to him. Yesterday, I hit a roadblock. I have a lot of clothes. I don't wear all these things. I can't just pack them all up. So I spend a few hours sorting. I agonize over torn shirts and ancient formal wear. I put the most sentimental in a small pile. I drop a large bag off to a donation bin, grinning giddily. The lady behind me gives me the side eye. But I don't I don't care. I blink my eyes open to my dark bedroom. A pile of sordid, unpack clothes loom from the depths of my closet. I don't know what time it is. Clocks are bad for sleep hygiene. Someone has started playing guitar. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. Deep breath in, deep breath out. It doesn't work.

Ghostly voices sing along to La Bamba. I've really started to hate that song. I'm at work. My coworkers try to talk to me about my weekend. They're genuinely nice people who genuinely want to know, but all I can manage is one-word answers. They think they're taking a hint and leave me alone. I don't want to be left alone.

I'm so, so tired. I stifle my yawns as the appraiser and realtor poke around the house. The appraiser is efficient and scribbles furiously in her notes while the realtor gushes over the grand staircase, the formal dining room, the large yard and stained wooden fence. They throw a few numbers around. It all goes over my head. The realtor is flushed with excitement. She says words like, Easy sell!

And bidding war. She pumps my hand over-enthusiastically before she leaves. I can't help but feel a small bubble of optimism rise in my chest. My cousin is horrified when he learns about the realtor over a lunch date he set up. It's my first outing in a long, long time. That's our family home, he says. He sounds hurt. A sourceless cold is seeping into my bones.

I'm regretting coming out. I'm regretting even picking up the phone. He's looking at me. I feel guilty, but I'm so tired. It's big and empty and a lot of work. Do you want it? I see squirming guilt creep into his own face. I think the ghosts will party all night, every night,

till the end of eternity regardless of who has the house. He changes the subject. I arrive at work. The parking lot is deserted. The doors are locked. My phone says it's Saturday. I squint up at the rising sun. I could have sworn it was Wednesday. When I arrived back at the parking lot two days later, it is still deserted. My phone says it's Labor Day. I blink at it. I thought it was still July. I awakened. I was. into wailing this time. One voice is more distinct from the chatter with its loud sobbing. I cannot fathom why. I push the earplugs deeper until they bounce off the membrane inside. Another voice breaks into sobs.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. More wailing joins the cacophony. I briefly consider the consequences of pushing on my earplugs deeper and deeper until they deafened me. Instead, I roll out of bed to shove loose clothes into the crack under the door. It helps a little. I've been sorting and packing clothes for what feels like forever. The pile doesn't seem to get any smaller.

I call the storage place to pay my rent. They don't have an account in my name. A usually ignored linen closet reveals a small pile of boxes I managed to actually pack. I'm at work. staring at my cluttered desk. The cursor on the computer screen blinks at me. My email asks for the whereabouts of a document that I have absolutely no memory of. I poke around my documents folder.

Nothing jumps out or looks new. I rub at my eyes and close the email. I sit outside that evening, trying to get some sunlight and green time. But I'm still using my phone. I've been glued to it since the email. The appraiser sent me the evaluation of the home. It's a metric fuck ton. I think about all I could do with that much money.

I could move to the city or find a new one altogether. I could get picky about where I want to spend the next decade. I could take a year off, travel, breathe, recover, and now they've been singing Oye Comova all night. My earplugs might as well not exist. I push them in until they hurt Until I have to extract them with tweezers I roll around moaning Getting all of the frustrated energy out

So I can lie still Deep breath in Deep breath out I cycle through visualization scenarios Trying to find one that actually makes me feel relaxed I think of sitting at a beach Of a mountain cabin in a blizzard Of a boat on a quiet lake

of a balcony in a busy city during a summer rain. Deep breath in, deep breath out. A voice hits a note so loud, the windows rattle. I briefly consider becoming deaf again. My manager is looking at me. It's a weird look, intent, pitying. A long, silent part of me is absolutely humiliated. The rest?

Doesn't care. Take some time and come back fresh. She continues from a previous statement I did not track. Time off, I say, trying to look engaged. Yes, a week or two weeks. How much time do you need? She chews on her lip. You look terrible. We're all worried. I try to look thoughtful, like I'm pondering the decision.

Her expression doesn't change. And you've had to repeat work multiple times. It's not good for you or anyone if you're this sleep deprived. Well, fuck. She's got me now. When she ushers me out of her office, I've committed to two weeks of rest and relaxation. We'll all be here when you come back, she assures me.

When I get into the car, I don't drive home. I tell Google to take me to a hotel. I soon arrive at a tall, storied affair, deep in the city. I make my way to the counter with only my work bag. Brass signs point the way to the pool and the lounge and the restaurant. I book a week's stay. I book a spa session. I book time in the gym and the sauna.

I block all personal questions. I let my credit card do all the talking. A salivating bellhop escorts me. to my room, up five floors and overlooking a manicured tea garden. I can feel an odd numbness seeping up my legs. I'm so, so tired. When the bellhop is sent off, counting their fat tip, I sink into the bed. I let myself rest for five minutes before I insist on my nightly routine. It's almost impossible. I don't have any of my things, but the front desk clerk is eager to satisfy me and I make do.

I sink into bleached hotel sheets with extra blankets and extra pillows. The room is set to a comfortable 65 degrees. I fall asleep instantly. Shrieking awakes me. No, it's laughter. A raucus bout of laughter punctuated with someone's shrieking guffaws. I groan and roll over, breathing in my lavender pillow spray. I slide off my sleep mask.

The room is pitch black, but I know it intimately. My bedroom. More laughter roars from downstairs. It must be midnight. With a roar, I tear myself out of my sheets and storm to the door. I didn't imagine my nice hotel room, my spontaneous vacation. I throw the door open to the hallway. I'm angry.

I'm tired. I don't care about the house. I don't care about anything anymore. I rushed down the hallway. I just want to sleep. I can see the glow of the dining room light from between the bars of the railing. I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep. My foot catches on something and the railing bends me in half. I tip. My arms claw at the wood. My feet kick at the air. I fall.

Uncle Tony tells the best stories. He gesticulates wildly as he elaborates on a tale about a raccoon infestation they found while working. He mimes, grasping at a fleeing raccoon and falling over when it runs between his legs. Antilicia is the one with a shrieking goofal. A laughter is infectious. I clutch my stomach and gasp for air. Someone starts up Bessame Much on the guitar. As a deep male voice rises to meet the music,

I look around at my family, smiling at all the people. The ones I know, the ones I don't. Weathered and smooth faces alike all smile up at the singer, an old man who holds his broad straw hat to his chest. A young man in an olive drab dress uniform wipes at his eyes while the guitar player beside him, in homemade leather strums delicately. And there is peace.

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