Creepy - The Story of my Grandfather's Missing Arms

Episode Date: November 9, 2020

Every story has two sides...***Written by Red Grin with guest narration by Joe Stofko and Erika Sanderson***See your donation rewards at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin with music by Bernd Krueger - with a CC-by-SA Germany license***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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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. The story of my grandfather's missing arms. Written by Red Grin and narrated by Joseph. Gustafco and Erica Sanderson. I remember stumbling into a forbidden room at my grandparents' house when I was a boy. The room was upstairs and it was always locked.

I know because every time I visited, I snuck away, tiptoed up their rickety steps, and wiggled the knob. Just a check. Each and every time, the wooden door stayed firmly closed. But one time, when I was 12 years old, The door actually creaked open. A musty smell blasted me in the face. And inside the room were dozens of paintings.

They hung haphazardly in a variety of mismatched flea market frames, filling nearly every square inch of wall space. They were all paintings of arms. Not very good paintings, mind you. Certainly not professional. I scan the walls in any of the walls. immediately determined they were all different paintings of the same two arms. Both ripped off the shoulders and dripping blood.

The blood sometimes ran down the severed limbs all the way to the dangling fingers. Sometimes the blood dripped off the mangled shoulder end and formed a pool at the bottom of the canvas. It sounds violent and macabre, but it was really quite beautiful. Each painting was a different angle, and each arm was covered in a variety of tattoos. A roaring dragon with outstretched wings, crucifix, a squirrel piloting a fighter plane, a nun leaning over a gravesite with a rosary hanging loosely from her hand, a hodgepodge of wildflowers bursting with pinks and reds and oranges. The colors vibrant like fire.

So hot I could almost taste the heat on my tongue. But the oddest sensation was desire. I craved the paintings. Something inside me wanted to rip the paintings off the wall and sneak them away into my own bedroom. Explain it. I just had to have them. I reached to pull one down when I felt the heaviness of my right shoulder. I looked down and saw a prosthetic hand resting near my neck.

There's my grandfather's plastic hand. I swallowed hard. I wasn't supposed to be in this room. We both knew that. He pulled me away and saw him. slam the door shut. With one prosthetic hand still on my shoulder, he brought his other prosthetic hand up to his mouth. He made a shushing noise, and I knew to keep my 12-year-old trap shut. He never told my parents, and I had never said a word either. That was 25 years ago. I kept my adult

trap shut all these years as well, but I still wonder about the mysterious room. Paintings are never far from my thoughts. I think about them more than I should. They've attained somewhat legendary status in my memory. And while thousands upon thousands of moments my life have slipped away into an abyss never to be recovered, the paintings are still as fresh as if I'd gazed upon them this very morning. For years, I assumed I knew the story. It wasn't difficult to piece together. My grandfather's arms were blown off in the Korean War. in 1950. Everyone of my family knew that.

I assumed the paintings were his owed to his lost limbs from the Battle of Chosen Reservoir, a commemoration of his old life, one that he wasn't comfortable talking about. My grandfather never once spoke of the Korean War. It was off-limits, like his private art gallery and his home. I was never supposed to see those paintings. No one was. The art was his therapy, and it was meant only for him. I'd invaded his safe space.

I was caught. And that, as they say, was that. It turns out I was wrong. About pretty much everything, according to my grandfather. He passed away a few weeks ago, and not long before he died, he summoned me to his deathbed with an audio recorder. For hours I sat next to a diet. man. His heart's sputtering like an old car, and that marvelous twinkle in his eyes just about

extinguished. But there was still a little bit left, enough to tell me the other story, the one with the lust, the regret, and the horror, the one with the creature. That damned, forsaken thing. My grandfather's pathetic hand caressed my wrist as we talked. I remember wanting to savor the feeling of the cool plastic gently rubbing against my skin. It was the last time I saw my grandfather alive. Grandfather interview. Okay. It's recording.

Are you sure? I need you to get everything. Every bit. Is there enough tape? It's digital. And yeah, it's going. It says we have four and a half hours. Ha!

We have four and a half hours? You might. But I could go any second now. God knows why I waited this long to tell someone this story. I was a procrastinator back when I was a boy, and my old habits stayed with me up until the very end. People don't change. You know that, right?

I've heard that, yeah. Oh, we pretend to change. There's some outward things we do to fool people, but that's all it is. We fool people. We can even fool ourselves, too, for a time. But we don't change. Deep down, we're all magicians.

It's a sleight of hand. Everything we do. What's your trick? I don't know. I guess people think I'm a hard worker, but I'm really not. That kind of coast, I guess. Most things come easy for me. Feels weird to say that.

I coast. Oh, you should never coast and never settle. It's like what my old friend Jack Hooper used to tell me. He'd say, Dig Deep, reach down and take it for yourself. It's a bit on the corny side of things, but damned if it isn't true. That's funny.

My dad told me that in eighth grade. Those exact words? Those exact words. I had a piano recital and I was just awful. And he pulled me aside afterwards in this cramped hallway backstage. It was just me and him. The lights were flickering and he kind of towered over me. I felt so small.

He talked with me for a while, you know, about commitment and practice and all that jazz. But it's funny. Those words are all I remember. Dig deep. Reach down and take it for yourself. It's crystal clear. Even this day. I can't imagine why it was so meaningful.

I really can't. Jack and your old man must have subscribed to the same school of thought. Have I ever told you about old Jack? No, you haven't. Of course not. What am I saying? I've never told anyone about him. That's why you're here.

To listen and to learn. And I want you to make me a promise. Can you do that for me? Sure. Anything. I'm going in a few days. Grandpa. Only the Lord knows where for sure, but hopefully it's someplace nice.

White sands, lush trees. Who the hell knows? I want you to play this tape at my funeral. I want everyone to know the truth. I've been a magician for touch. long. It's time everyone knew the secret behind my trick. Promise me now. Promise me, boy. Tell me. Say the words. I promise. Good. Now, you remember about 20-odd years ago when you found my art collection? Of course. I've never forgotten that. And I figured that was the case. I always kept that

room locked up real tight, and I knew you were coming over that day, but for some reason I never turned the key. Part of me wanted you to see those paintings, I suppose. I would never have consciously chosen for you to see them, nor anyone for that matter. Not even your grandmother. She still hasn't seen my art, nor will she. Aren't they? They're gone. Burn them up myself. Go out back, see what's left of them. Might be a few ashes smoldering in the fire pit. How did you? Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways. It wasn't easy, but he gave me the strength. Kind of a last gasp kind of thing. I think it was the last thing I'm supposed to do. It means my part in this story is over. I'm free of it. I'm moving on. You sure this thing is still

recording? Yeah, positive. The red lights blinking. So, you remember old Jack Hooper? He was the owner of a dump tavern back in Elkhorn, the purple possum. Back then, I used to play piano at the possum, and I was good. So before you fought in Korea? I didn't fight in any war. That was my sleight of hand, see? The trick I played on everyone, and no one ever questioned it. Your old man, Uncle Peter, Aunt Astrid, and all the rest, lost my arms in the Korean War. Easy to swallow. Such a brave man I was, you don't question a vet story, and you don't press him about it either. might send him into a fit or down some spiral he'll never come out of, even got some phony medals just in case. Why did you never tell us this? I would say you were a war hero. Does Grandma know?

Of course she knows. I didn't fight in a damn war. She's my magician's assistant. Privy to some things, and not so privy to others. She knows parts of the trek, pieces of it. But a good magician never reveals his secrets, not until he's dying, I suppose. Your grandmother always knew enough to play along, and she was a great assistant, the best I could ever ask for. More like a partner. Oh, hell, she was my partner, is my partner. A damn good one. I'm going to miss her when my expiration date finally hits. So, to back up a bit, you played piano? Well, I'd no idea.

I was something special, boy. Back when I had a couple fleshy, working appendages hanging off my shoulders. Sometimes, if I focus hard enough, I can still feel the keys under my fingers and the petals under my feet, and I can still hear the music. Oh, that music.

When I go to sleep at night, I hear echoes of it, like it's floating in on the breeze through an open window or rattling around those old pipes. It calls to me. Sometimes Chopin, sometimes, maybe Beethoven, a little Bach mixed in, and I only played the masters, gave them filthy drunks at the purple possum a little taste of the finer things. Old Jack watched me from behind the bar, and on some nights I'd see tears, his eyes. I'd run through these numbers from the hundreds of years ago, and hours felt like

minutes. It'd be two o'clock in the morning, and my jar was filled with coins and bills, and sometimes the bills would have presidents on them other than Washington, and sometimes the coins would be silver, and no one would be gone till closing time. Old Jack would eventually he boot him out the door, and then he'd go on and on about how special I was, for that I could be more, so much more, you see. If only he had my raw talent, he'd say. If only he didn't have the disease, oh, he would have been somebody. But woulda, coulda, should have, right?

The disease. Carpontel syndrome. What on so long, he had nerve damage, muscles all shrunken down. He only wore loafers because I don't think he could tie his shoes anymore. Old Jack could pull drinks and that was about it. But he'd love to listen to me play. He'd play along in the air. Moonlight Sonata.

Oh, that was the one. The old Jack special. I'd sprinkle it in. I'd tease it here and there, maybe drop a few bars in a medley. God, I was good. Can you hear it now? Listen. It might be my dying ears, but I can hear it coming from the parlor.

Oh, it would have played like that again. For just one more hour behind the keys. Do you know what they used to call me down at the possum? I don't. Of course you don't. The tattooed maestro. That was me. I always rolled up my sleeves when I played,

and my arms were covered in tattoos. You probably saw him on my paintings back when you were a curious little squirt. And those tattoos must have been a strange sight for those old drunks. Here was this young guy painted up so much you couldn't tell if he actually had any skin or not. And he only played classical tunes in a water and hole that should have been some rowdy fisticuff's joint. And old Jack was jealous. I could feel it in his gaze. He loved the music, but what he really wanted was for it to come from his broken hands.

And he'd drink and pull and drink and pull. One for them and one for him. But soon it was one for them and three for him. And closing time would hit, and he'd be as drunk as a Mississippi skunk. And he'd yell and cuss at me, breaking glasses on the bar, and falling down in pools and spilled beer. and cigarette butts and probably his own piss. He loved me and hated me all the same.

Why did he hate you? Thought I should be somewhere else, not playing to a few dozen low lives at the possum in nowhere, Wisconsin. Old Jack said I should be filling up Carnegie Hall, and that if his hands were right, and he had half the talent I have, that his name would be up there in the light. He said, I was wasting God's greatest gift.

Music comes from the soul, you know that boy. It's a gateway to enlightenment, a radio frequency to the heavens, and I was wasting it. Were you wasting it? I was. Not easy to admit, but I was. I told you I was special, but that natural talent only took me so far. Time went on, and my plane slid. Lifts. Notes missed here and there, the forgotten bar. My thoughts were elsewhere, and other things to do. Like what? Your grandmother was pregnant with your dad-to, for starters. I picked up a few extra shifts at the plant. No time for piano anymore. I still played most Saturdays, but like I said, I was slivin. Like watching your favorite ballplayer get old and take a

a big old whiff on a hangar he used to smack out of the park. And the saddest part is that you remember how they used to be, and it makes it hurt even more. And I wanted it all, boy, I wanted to be a husband and a father and still be that tattooed maestro. I was whiffing on big old fat curb balls that I used to pull down the line. and that radio frequency to the Lord was all out of whack. It wasn't just me that was deprived. It was those drunks at the possum.

It was old Jack. I was their holy communion. I was their confessional box and their hymnal book. And I didn't think I could have it all. I couldn't be all of those things. And old Jack told me there was a way, a forbidden way. Grandpa, do you want to take a break? We could...

Leave the damn thing running. This is what you came here for. This is why you saw my paintings as a boy. And this is why you came here today. We are connected, you and me. And don't you see that? You are the one to share this story because you are supposed to.

You understand music. You know more. than anyone that it's a gift from the divine. That's why I came to all of your recitals when you were a boy. You are that vessel, too. You still play? Not as much as I used to, you know, between whirr, galley, and the boys. Godwash, there's always time you have to make it. There's time when everyone is sleeping and it's just you and the world. And then it's your time. It's your time. That's what turns good into great water into wine. You see these things?

These two monstrosities that I can barely lift anymore. I didn't have to have these. There's always another way. Don't do what I did. These things chose me, and I just let it happen. Grandpa, what actually happened to your arms? I keep waiting for the point. punchline and I'm not sure if it's coming. If your arms didn't get blown off in Korea, what happened?

Ah, you want the good stuff, huh? Straight from the bottle, no chaser. I have to warn you, it's a bitter drink to swallow. Stings the throat. I'm ready. I had just played a set at the possum, not my best effort. Your grandmother was eight months pregnant with your old man, sick as a dog that night, if my memory serves. But I played anyway, with other things on my mind. And I was bad. Out of tune the whole night, didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to care. The tips were drinks that night, and the tipping was good. So it's close to three in the morning, and old Jack, pacing back and forth behind the bar, not cussing me out like usual.

Instead, he grabs a napkin and starts scribbling. Not very well, you know, carful tunnel and all. Now he tells me about this place, a few hours outside of town, a place that can solve all my problems. He called it Gordon's Hole. Gordon's Hole? I haven't said those words in 50 years, Gordon's hole. And before old Jack even explains what it is,

I get the willies in my stomach and the goose flesh on my arms, and that's without knowing what the damn place was. He said those words, and I immediately thought of Gabby Gordon, a girl from my hometown and went missing without a damn trace when we were eight years old. Now, it's a common name, Gordon. But the second old Jack said it, some memories of riding bikes

around the neighborhood with Gabby came flooding back. I barely knew her, and then she was gone. Just snatched up. And now, this Gordon's hole, it had nothing to do with Gabby. I grew up halfway across the country

from the purple possum, Just a bad omen, it seemed. But it was more than that. It was a warning, a warning to forget this Gordon's hole and run on home to my pregnant wife. But old Jack kept jawing and yapping, and I kept listening. Might have been the suds, but old Jack was making a lot of sense. This Gordon's hole was sound deep in a stretch of a forest called Spindler Woods. Not on any map, he said.

and again that goose flesh fricled up in my arms, and I can feel it even now. Even on these plastic flappers of mine, I swear I can feel it. You see, I knew a man named Steven Spindler, a neighbor of mine when I lived in Crown Point, had an awful night terror one night and bashed his wife's head in with a crowbar. At least that's what he said. The jury felt differently, and now, This Spender Woods, my thoughts immediately landed on Stevie. And I told old Jack, brother, I don't know what this Gordon's Hole place is,

but it sounds like bad news. It sounds like horror and death. But he tells me no. Gordon's Hole is where dreams come true. It's where you get what you want. Was it a quarry or something like that? Oh, no. More the size of a manhole cover.

but I'll get to that. I drove when I shouldn't have been driving that same night, trucked for a few hours out to this spindler woods. Oh, there might have been something extra in those suds that evening. I wasn't thinking clearly. Followed old Jack's directions, tried to down some winding pads in the woods for a while until I found what I was looking for.

Two trees sticking up out of the ground at unnatural angles forming something of an ex. And there was Gordon's hole, just like old Jack promised. Not sure if I was more surprised that I managed to find the damn thing, or if it was real in the first place. So it was just a hole. What were you supposed to do? Old Jack wasn't too clear on that part.

He just told me to sit right there and wait for the thing to come. The thing? You'll bet you. Old Jack had this odd twinkle in his eye when he told me that. So I did. I plopped down next to that hole and waited. I reached my arm inside just to get a sense of how deep it was. I couldn't find the bottom.

Leaned in pretty far a few times, took my foot on a tree root just to be safe. Still couldn't find the bottom. Had no idea how far it went. And I felt cold breezes. blowing in from under the ground, and I imagined it was some sort of cave.

Can't tell you for sure. Went there one time, and I've never been back. Not ever. Why did you go? I mean, what were you expecting? What Jack told you sounds kind of vague. Was there more to it, or... I can't explain it.

I'll never be able to. Have you ever just wanted something so bad it consumed you? steam rolls all other thoughts in any sense of good reason. Well, that's how I felt that night. All it took was a fairy tale of a promise. I could get what I wanted, and I wanted to be that tattooed maestro

and be that radio to the Lord. And I didn't know what to do, what to expect. And then that thing crawled out. Grandpa. Let me explain. You have to know. This thing came out of the hall, crawling down all floors.

Naked and slender with skin that was scaly. It was almost human, but not quite. Like how a little kid draws a picture of a person. Something just wasn't right. It was female, but not really. Had female parts. I'm backing away on the ground and this thing is moving towards me, all graceful like, nose up in the air, kind of huffing and puffing. I back up against the tree and this thing crawls on top of me and pulls itself up by my shoulders.

Its skin is smooth and cold, just ice cold, and the head is elongated, kind of narrow. And I remember looking down at its hands and counting the same. digits. It was dark, but I only counted four fingers on each hand, and it wasn't missing one either. It was only supposed to have four. And we are face to face. And this thing is staring at me with these black eyes, no motion like a shark's eyes, not blinking. Never blinked once. And then it unbuttoned my shirt and reaches. down and unzips my pants. And I'm not sure I want to get into

these details. Well, let's just say that this thing and I we became one being together. I'm not proud of it. Not sure how certain parts of me even worked at that moment. You had relations with her?

Wasn't I clear enough for you? It wasn't her. It... had female hearts, sure, but to this day, I'm not sure what that thing was. All I know is how it made me feel. It was some mix of horror and desire, fear, and passion. I was terrified of this thing, but I wanted it all the same. I gave in to whatever this thing wanted me to do,

and I'm ashamed to admit that I relished every single. second of it. In that moment on that wet and muddy forest floor, I had never wanted anything more. It kills me to say that. It truly does. And right after it was over, this thing leans in close, and it whispers, give me your arms. Give me your arms. And I sort of freeze up because, this is hard to explain. It said, it said, it said, It said it exactly like your Aunt Astrid said it to me when we were kids the same way. Give me your arms? It was a small moment between me and my sister way back when, a private moment.

I was swimming in the lake and Asprud was on the dock and I couldn't get out of the water. And my sister says, give me your arms. But the way she said it was so meaningful. full of love. It stayed with me. It's still with me. Whenever I think of Astrid, I think of those words. And when that thing said it, it said it like my sister, like it was channeling her. But it didn't have the same meaning at all. It meant something else. The innocence was gone, like it was using my own memory against me somehow, kind of how Gordon and Spindler should have been some bad omens. This was sort of the same thing. So I lift up my arms, offering them to the thing,

and this black goop came pouring out of its mouth, vomiting all over my arms. It wasn't hot, but it was sticky and bubbling all the same. Here I am, pants around my ankles, rolling around, panicking like my arms are about to burn right off. And when I get up, my wits and sit up and wipe the goop from my arms, the thing is gone. Probably crawled back into that hole to God knows where. Grandpa, this is, I mean, you don't sound like you're pulling my chain. It's just that this story's a little hard to believe. A dying man's words ain't good enough for you.

What have I got again at this point? What you're telling me is that there's some kind of monster living in the woods I never said it was a monster You didn't use those words But the way I said I'm not sure what it was

I can only tell you what it did And how it made me feel And following our trist in the woods I went back home And I was playing the piano with soul again It's like it came back to me All of a sudden And since

Sitting on that piano bench was a divine experience again. Didn't miss a note. And the Lord was listening and smiling upon me, but it was a mirage. The feeling was fleeting. As quickly as being the tattooed maestro came back to me, it was gone. Only took a few weeks. My skills deteriorated so quickly. It's like I never improved in the first place.

Regressed, actually. worse than ever. And then, well, that thing came back. Did you tell anybody what was going on? Grandma or Jack? I said nothing at the time. Your grandmother was about to pop with your dad-oh,

and I was ashamed at what I'd done. Felt good out of the woods, but back home, it felt like that experience existed only as a dream. I wanted to erase it. Eliminate it. Figured not mentioning it would make it go away. And I didn't tell old Jack, but he knew.

Oh, he knew all right. He knew what I did out in those woods, and he knew damn well that thing came back and what that thing wanted. What did it want? More of the same. I figured out the thing's rules pretty quick. Want to hear them? You probably haven't figured out already.

Well, I guess that you needed to be with the thing again? Like, together? Bingo, the thing can make your dreams come true, but only if you keep giving it more of what it wants. And in my case, it wanted me. It's simple. The moment we consummated, the deal was sealed, and I decided to break the rules

but it wouldn't leave me alone. Was it stalking you? I suppose you could call it that. Sneaking into the possum, listening to me play from a dark corner, trailing me in the streets on the way home, knocking and scratching on the window at my house, crouched under the kitchen table,

just watching me and your grandma eat dinner, sometimes pawing at my leg a bit. It was everywhere. even followed us to the hospital. Couldn't enjoy holding my new son for the first time because there it was, hunkered down under the hospital bed and caressing its finger against my ankle.

And when we came home, it lingered outside the nursery, head poking through the crack in the doorway, and watching me and your grandma care for the baby, all curious like. One night it waited until Mama and Kiddo were asleep, and it sneaked into my room and sat down right next to the bed. It sat and stared at me so close I could smell its putrid breath. Finally I whispered,

What are you? It seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then it said in this hoarse and ragged voice, I don't know. And I truly believe that. That's why I can't say if it was some sort of a cursed human or a monster. If it was a God or some sort of damned, forsaken thing from hell. It was simply something that wasn't supposed to exist.

And I had given it life, given it purpose. And it was taking something from me. First, it was my fidelity, They're my talent. And then it was the joy of fatherhood. And then it was my arms themselves. They started to decay. My God.

What did... I mean, literally, decay? Flesh flaking off my skin. Scrashed myself and the skin peeled off like an orange. Saw muscles and tendons and long. I didn't have a lot of time, maybe a few days until they just kind of fell off. Oh, but I knew how they could get better. All it would take is another fling with that thing from the hole.

But then what? Another couple of weeks? And I'd have to do it again and again and again until the end of time? No, no, no. I was done, boy. I was done. Took a bottle of jack, a thick rope, and my hunting knife into the bathroom instead.

Did what I had to do. Woke up in a hospital bed a few days later, minus two arms. Miracle I lived. A damn miracle. I figured the thing had something to do with that, but who knows? Maybe the Lord had finally forgiven me.

I'd like to think I'd like to think I had atoned. Do you know what the funny thing was? There's something funny about this? They said when they found me, the arms were gone. Nowhere in sight. Somebody had snatched them. Old Jack. Well, you are paying attention. You're damn right. When I finally went back to the possum months later, there was old Jack at the piano, hands dancing across the keys, playing Moonlight Sonata, and he was damn good, too, played like me back when I was the tattooed Maestro. And old Jack was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but every now and then the cuffs would creep up,

and I'd spot my old tattoos on his wrists. Some bitch had my arms. God knows what he had to do to get him. The Lord knows how long he kept him. But he looked happy behind the keys, I'll tell you that. much fulfilled. Like he found his purpose. I'm not sure of whatever happened to him. I've always wondered, in some weird way I'd like to pay my respects. Visit old Jack's grave. Bastards got to be long dead by now. But I'm too damn old and dying too fast to do that now.

Pay your respects. I was a better man after all that. Got something out of my system, I suppose, have three kids, ten grandkids, and an amazing wife. Never betrayed her again. Have old Jack to think in a weird way. If it wasn't for Gordon's Hole, who knows where I'd have ended up. A lot of worse things than missing a few arms, a lot of worse things. Grandpa, where exactly is Gordon's Hole? Ha! Ha! Ha! You think I'd tell anyone that? And why do you want to know anyway? I guess I'm just curious.

If this is all true, then this place might be some cosmic gateway or tunnel to hell or... If this is all true, you don't believe me. It's a lot to take in. You want to know where Gordon's hole is? I'll tell you right now. You'll never find it. And you don't want to find it. I've had a lot of time to ponder this.

50 years or so. And here's what I've determined. Gordon's Hole is only Gordon's Hole to me. It's called that because of Gabby Gordon and Stephen Spindler. But to someone else, it could be, I don't know, Forrester Ridge or Oldman Valley. What do you mean? Oh, maybe there's some poor fellow new Audrey Forrester who tossed her baby in a river, you know. And maybe when this fellow was a kid, he was bullied to high hell by a Walter Orrace.

Oldman, so now when he hears those names, he would get the same bad premonitions I had. Evil gets awfully personal, you understand? Something evil was working through old Jack, and he called it Gordon's hole, because that's what the evil demanded he call it. It was speaking to me through old Jack. He was the vessel. I'm sorry, I don't understand. And you're not supposed to. Man has always had these fantasies of evil, but this is something worse. There's no rationale. There is evil in this world, and sometimes it springs out of the ground for no apparent reason whatsoever. And it will call to you, directly to you.

But evil can't hide its true colors. It'll always show its hand. It will appear as names from your past that make you dredge up terrible. memories or maybe some words said to you when you were a boy that you thought was a private memory but it turns out the evil was actually there the whole time watching Biden its time and waiting to twist the words back to you when the time was right and you have to fight it boy when it springs up out of the ground you have to be strong because those words might tell you to do something and you're gonna

want to do it, but you have to fight the urge. Be stronger than I was. Grandpa, why the paintings? Why continue to think about something so horrible so long ago? Don't you want to forget it? Because I'm still fighting. To this very moment, I'm still fighting. The urge never goes away. The paintings were a release, I suppose. I think they might have kept the evil at bay. Something had to. But, I'm free of that now. Now do me a favor, an affectionate old man, a glass of water.

End of interview. My grandfather passed eight days later. I ruminated constantly on his unbelievable tale from the moment I left his bedside, turning the story around in my head and looking at it from every possible angle. Grandpa wanted me to share it at his funeral, but it felt sensationalistic,

like I was being had in a way. He spoke a lot of, about magician's tricks and sleight a hand, and part of me wondered if he hoped for one last illusion from beyond the grave. I decided to take the recording to the magician's assistant, my grandmother. It was difficult, but we listened to the whole recording together. Neither of us said a word. I expected my grandmother to break down at different parts of the story, the trist in the woods,

the things stalking them in the nursery. but she simply sat stoic for the entire time. No trembling, no tears. It was almost as if she'd heard the story before, chapter and verse. The recording ended, and there was silence. My grandmother looked solemnly at me, and she proceeded to tell me another story, a story about my grandfather,

the great tattooed piano player, going off to fight in the Korean War. His arms got blown off in battle, he was sent home, he was despondent, his musical dreams destroyed, and he had an affair with a bartender. The woman was quite the accomplished piano player herself, and she would serenade my grandfather with his favorites like Moonlight Sonata. The affair was short, my grandmother claimed, and my grandfather quickly came to his senses. He broke it off, but the mistress wouldn't have it.

Things got ugly. She was an unwelcome visitor at the hospital when my father was born. She even came by the house a few times when my grandparents were caring for their new baby. The authorities were involved. My grandparents moved away to avoid any lasting unpleasantries. And that was the end of that. My grandfather vowed to be a better husband and a good father to his baby boy. And he was true to his word.

My grandmother left the room and came back with my grandfather's war medals. She thought I'd like to see them. I turned them around in my hand. The gold and blue had faded immensely. I wanted to believe my grandmother. I did. Her story was logical. It was rooted in reality and didn't involve creatures and unexplained evil. Did you ever see Grandpa's paintings?

I asked. My grandmother cackled. Those damn things? I never saw your grandfather. paintings until I burned them a week ago with Fred Wilkins and Bill Hansborough from the Rotary Club. So he didn't burn them himself. How could he? She scoffed.

Just another whopper inside that whopper of a tail. Terrible, awful drawings, weren't they? Quite dreadful. But painting made him feel better after the war. Doctor said it was a coping mechanism. Who was I to deny him that? What was the name of the other woman? I asked.

I hated myself for asking it, but some part of me needed to know. Jackie. My grandmother said. I immediately regretted making her say the word, but she said it firmly with conviction. It didn't affect her. She was a tough old bird. The funeral came and went. I didn't play the recording like I promised.

I kept the story to myself, but it tormented me. I listened to the recording again and again, and each time the disbelief lessened. For some strange reason, I wanted my grandfather's story to be true. Maybe it was because I identified with this plight somehow, the failed piano dreams when life's responsibilities get in the way. But no, I loved my wife and kids. I was happy. Music was in my past.

I was never as serious about music as my grandfather was. and was different. I dug into the story more. It consumed me. I determined that those war on metals could have been faked. Splinter Woods wasn't on a map, but maybe I was looking in the wrong places. Maybe my grandfather got some final miraculous fit of strength

that helped him burn those paintings all by himself. And maybe this Jackie was, in fact, a man. She wasn't. I found the Jackie who attended bar at the Purple Possum. Jackie Burnham died in 1978, leaving behind a husband and two kids of her own. Jackie was buried in Bailey Cemetery in Greenville, Illinois, a mere four-hour drive from my home. And I thought about my grandfather's dying wishes. I had denied him the audio recording playing at his funeral, but I could fulfill one of his desires.

to pay his respects to the now deceased person from his past. Hadn't my grandfather wanted to thank this person for helping him not go down an even darker road? It felt wrong to visit my grandfather's mistress's gravesite, but maybe, just maybe, would help my grandfather's soul rest a little easier. I certainly owed him that much. I hopped on the interstate on a Sunday morning with thoughts of my grandparents racing through my My grandmother's rational story was being squashed by dire thoughts and my grandfather's warnings about unexplainable evil.

My grandfather called my grandmother a magician's assistant, hadn't he? A good assistant would never reveal the secret to a magician's trick. Perhaps she was in on the illusion to the very end. Never exposing the sleight of hand, and it was, seems in places involved in my early morning quest. Burnham, Greenville, Bailey. I racked my brain to come up with any horrible connections that would serve as a warning for me making the trip. I thought back to my elementary school days, a college days. My days as a newlywed.

I scanned my memory for any murders, abductions, ghost stories, or psychopaths, anything at all involving those names. I came up empty. I was oddly disappointed. I arrived at Bailey Cemetery a little before lunch. It was a quiet autumn day. The wind blew brown and red leaves across the tombstones, peppering the tiny graveyard. I quickly found the gravestone I was looking for. I read the inscription under Jackie Burnham's name, and my stomach dropped.

My reason for being there changed in an instant. I was no longer a grandson seeking to make things right. I was no longer a husband. I was no longer a father. I was consumed with nothing but desire and a ravenous rage. It felt like I was 12 years old again, back in my grandfather's private room, seeking nothing but to tear his pictures of mangled and savaged arms off his wall.

I sought only to dive on the ground and tear at the gravesite with my own bare hands, dirt flying left and right. I pictured those arms My grandfather's old tattooed arms Underground in a coffin Just waiting to be reclaimed If I had them Maybe I could play music again too

I could play piano I could do the thing I gave up when I got married and had kids If only I had those arms I could leave my family and start a new life I could gouge my way through the ground, rip open that coffin, grab the arms and somehow attach them to my own shoulders, and I could... I snapped out of it, came to my senses. The fever died as quickly as it came. I took a look around the Baron Cemetery, and I thought I caught a movement of something behind

a tombstone. Something lurking and waiting. I didn't wait to see what it was. I stuck my hands in my pockets and shuffled briskly to my car, not looking back. Logic and reason will forever fail me. I know my grandmother's story is the true story. It has to be, but something will always gnaw at me. I'll always wonder if evil is always just bubbling below the surface and about to spring out of the ground, like my grandfather said. Maybe he passed it on to me.

He was free of it, and now the evil was my burden to bear. This unexplainable evil that waits to call out to you when the time is right. The kind of evil that takes special words from your past and twist them around, telling you to do something else, something terrible. Like the words etched on Jackie Burnham's gravestone, that words that will forever have a new meat. for me. Dig deep. Reach down and take it for yourself. More information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast,

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