Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep89: Episode 89: Weird and Bizarre Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 21, 2022

Today’s opening tale of the macabre is ''Mandy's Last Day'', an original work by Smuggly Sparrow, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/doctourapreta/ Today’s fantastic offering is ''Why I Will NEVER Go Swimming, Or Take a Bath… Ever Again'', an original work by KikitoHorrors, kindly shared with me for the purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all, with the author's express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/xXKikitoXx/  https://www.facebook.com/KikitoHorrors/  Tonight’s terrifying tale is one of my favorites ever on this channel: ‘The Collector’, an original story Janis Kent, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/user/janiskent/

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Well, according to Stephen King, there are three types of terror. The gross out. The side of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs. It's when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm. Then there's the horror. The unnatural. Spiders are the size of bears. The dead waking up and walking around.

It's when the lights. go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And then there's the last and the worst one. Terror. When you come home and noticed everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute, is when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear.

But when you turn around, there's nothing there. We have a real mixed bag of delights for you this evening, featuring all three of these types of terror. Now, before we begin, as always, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language as one of those descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. Mandy snuggled deeper into the large recliner in her bedroom, on the second floor of her house. Shifting the laptop, she was watching a movie on to a better angle.

It wasn't really much of an upstairs, just one giant room with stairs in the middle. At some point, she hung up thick. curtains to keep in the heat in her bedroom in the winter from the wood stove and the cold air in during the summer when she ran the air conditioner. This also served to divide the giant room into two rooms, making her bedroom feel cozier. Piercing screams of terror accompanied the horror film Mandy had selected earlier, and she was deeply engrossed. Her favorite movies were horror films, and this one had grabbed her attention from the beginning. The group of teenagers piddling around in the Appalachian Mountains on a camping trip were dwindling down

one by one till there was only one intrepid camper left, one of the girls. Mandy laughed with each death, a sense of relief at the end, her irritation flooding through her. Oh, the kids were so annoying you couldn't help but want them to die and go away. The last girl, the final girl was different though, and Mandy watched with interest, hoping the girl, would survive. McRae's murderer wearing a ballerina costume over his sweatpants and sweatshirt and just found the girl's hiding spot, and Mandy was frantically chewing on her finger when she heard a noise by the stairs. She looked over thinking her dog had come up the stairs but didn't see anything through the curtains. Mandy refocused on the movie, forgetting that second of fright that had caused her

heart to skip a beat as the girl on the screen confronted the murdering giant out to end her day. Mandy saw the final girl slicing the head off the psychotic ballerina with a handy axe she'd found and cheered as the credits started to rob. Feeling tired, she turned the movie off, got into her bed and quickly found something else to fall asleep to, putting her headphones on to drown out the noise of the factory crew, getting off of work at 4 a.m. They all had to race out of the parking lot and zoom by her house, mufflers breaking the quiet piece of the night, as fast as fast. as they could in a race to get home before the others did. Mandy was soon asleep, dreaming about Irish housekeepers insisting people have a cup of tea, which confused her even in her dream.

Earlier that day Mandy left the front door open so she didn't have to keep letting her pets in and out. Summer was finally arriving, so it was nice to have the door open. To warm the house up summer, Mandy thought as she stood in the doorway, letting the sunlight warm her face before going through to the kitchen. She spent the rest of the day going back and forth between upstairs and down, cleaning several different rooms, taking washed and folded clothes to the bedroom beside the bathroom, closing doors behind her as she went, not paying attention to anything that might have come into the house without her knowing.

The loud music she danced around to as she cleaned her home also buffer the noise of anything that might have alerted her to something unusual happen. Mandy lived alone, in a remote part of the town. Not many people came by to visit her, so she wasn't watching for anyone and didn't pay any attention to any noises she may have heard over the music. She dismissed anything that may have alerted her to an intruder, as one of her pets playing around. Well, if she noticed anything at all, Mandy was up to her elbows in her oven, scrubbing off a sauce that had burned into the bottom, so she didn't notice the figure. And she didn't notice the that slid over her porch steps, through her front door and into her home.

She didn't see anything slide under the empty space between her cheap couch, following her Yorkshire named Gidget, or later into a bathroom, stalking her cat buttons who escaped through a window. The creature became trapped in the room, when the wind blew the door closed, and didn't get back out until buttons, having figured out how to open the door as a kitten, opened it back up hours later when she returned. The creature moved out of the room and heard Mandy's movie playing upstairs.

The screams of the dying teenagers attracted the creature to the stairs. Slowly, pulled itself along the carpet in the hallway, straining to get up the stairs. A closer inspection of the creature pulling itself along the floor would have revealed a lack of legs below the knees. This is why the creature,

was crawling. Further inspection would also have revealed the creature to be a human form, wearing a uniform from the factory up the road from where Mandy lived. His fingers were bloody stumps, with some of the finger bones showing through, testament to how far the creature had dragged itself. Its face was scratched, and one long gout ran down the side of its face, where the tarmac on the road had roughly worn away the skin. Slowly, the creature pulled his body up the steps, making only a sliding noise as it moved along. This wasn't a loud noise, just a whisper of cloth against wood that wouldn't be heard over the noise of the movie. Near the top of the stairs, the bones sticking through the creature's fingers scraped the wood of the stairs deeply

because of the noise at a broken Mandy's concentration. If Mandy's dog had been more vigilant, it would have alerted Mandy to the creature's presence, that Gidgett was busy being naughty, digging through the small trashgown in the kitchen he'd knocked over to pilfer through. The lid had come off when it tipped over, and she'd found some yummy morsels of leftovers from tonight's steak dinner to nibble on. Gidgett was not going to save her mistress tonight. Mandy turned over in her sleep, her arm dangling from the bed, her hand.

hand just out of reach of the creature. The crawling dead thing had finally made it to the side of her bed, though she didn't know it. Kicking the covers off, she rolled flat onto her stomach, the dangling arm now coming up to prop her head up under the pillow. The creature silently grunted in frustration, wanting to taste the flesh of Mandy's long, slim fingers. Grabbing on to the bed, the creature tried dragging itself up, but could not. The struggle up from the factory, as it followed Gidgett, who toddled up to check their trash cans from morsels, up the steps of Mandy's house, throughout the house and up the stairs, had damaged its arm muscles, and now the creature could barely pull itself anywhere. The sound of Mandy's snores drove it to try harder. It needed to taste her blood, to feel a little. To feel her. her tissue between its teeth. If it could have made any noises beside a whispered grunt, it would

have giggled in joy when she again stuck her arm out from the bed. The creature reached up, just barely catching Mandy's fingers in its grasp. Moved its mouth closer to her slim fingers, blood-stained teeth opening wide to take a bite, but could not quite reach them with the position it was in. Being a deep sleeper, Mandy didn't notice this impending assault. Mandy shifted again, and her hand slipped out of the creature's grass. Still asleep, she reached for the covers once more and resumed snoring. The creature lay there, waiting for hours but no body part showed itself again. Mandy snores offered hope of the meal it craved, so it didn't move from her side.

all night the creature lay still waiting you could still grasp but couldn't pull itself out the bed to have its longed-for meal silently it waited hoping an appendage would present itself soon all night long the creature waited longing for another chance at an arm or a leg with the patience of things dead but not quite motionless yet it lay there knowing its chance would come at some point during the night the dog had gone through the doggy door downstairs and scenting a rabbit spent the next few hours hunting wild things in the woods until it found another creature like the one in Mandy's bedroom this one could still walk could chase in fact and chased poor Gidgetale the bone from Mandy's steak

was Gidgett's last meal, waking a few hours into the creature's vigil. Mandy felt an urgent need to use the bathroom. The final thought before getting up and placing her foot on the floor was that she shouldn't have had that last beer before bed. The next thought was to register a deep burning pain and surprised as the creature bit into the back of her leg, severing the tendon that kept her standing up. mandy didn't know it but she was now infected she too would soon be another one of the newly-made creatures roaming the countryside looking for a meal and more importantly a host falling to the floor mandy used her other leg to kick out at whatever had just bitten her she couldn't see anything in the dark but she could feel the blood draining down her leg and over a heel and the pain from the missing chunk in the back of her her leg. More embarrassingly, the combination of sleep, pain and terror caused her overfilled bladder to release. Letting the moment of embarrassment pass almost unregistered, Mandy kicked and pulled herself away from the creature. Reaching the stairs, she pulled herself upright. Hobbling,

she made it down the stairs and outside. She grabbed her keys on the way out and hopped down the porch steps to her car. Getting in on the driver's side, Mandy locked the doors and started the car, sitting for a moment, hoping the tremors that rocked her body would stop. Trying to figure out what to do next, Mandy pulled out of her driveway onto the road. She left her cell phone in the house, so she couldn't call for help. Driving, still shaking, and not thinking clearly, Mandy drove by another creature without seeing it on the side of the road, reaching towards the car. She drove to the nearest hospital, about five miles away. She screened for help, and soon nurses and other hospital staff were pouring out of the

emergency room. There, in the soon overwhelmed hospital, Mandy would die, like many others, and would rise again. She became a creature craving the blood and flesh of others for its survival, passing along an entity that needed a host, a devourer and a vector for the plague that would soon bring humanity to its need. As a child, I was a troubled sleeper. It wasn't uncommon for my parents to find me sleeping on the couch in the mornings rather than in my own bed. I never put up a fuss or disturbed anyone else in the household. I would simply get up, take my pillow, a blanket, and missed a bun, my favorite toy at the time. into the lounge and sleep there under the safe warm glow of the aquarium my parents had.

When they'd asked me why I wasn't in bed, I'd always answer that I didn't like the closet doors. I was never able to explain exactly why that was, past the fact I just didn't like them. My parents accepted that explanation and sort of let it go because I wasn't really doing anything wrong. It also wasn't an every night occurrence, just an occasional one. The time, my quirk became more of a habit. As I grew older, sometimes I simply wouldn't even bother to go to bed at all. I just fall asleep on the couch, playing video games late into the night. It's been some time since then.

I grew up, finished high school, graduated college and started a family of my own. Recently, however, things took a turn for the worse in my life. My fiancé of five years, who was the father of my child, was killed. in a car accident on his way home from work a few weeks ago. A drunk driver came around a blind corner wide and connected with my fiancé's car, sending him off a small clip. On the way down the car flipped before crashing through some trees and, well, I was told he died on impact.

Because of this, being in our house became too painful for me, and I made the decision to move back in with my parents, at least for the time being. they were of course happy to have us move in they understood what a hard time we were going through and cleaned up my old room for me I told my daughter that the room we'd stay in was my old room and she seemed pleased by that well she's too young at the moment to explain what happened to her father to her

but keeping her occupied at least stops her from asking where daddy is the first night we slept in that room however I had a lot of trouble sleeping my daughter slept in my old bed and I slept on the floor and a guest man mattress. I tossed and turned all night, feeling strangely vulnerable and uneasy. It was as if the walls were a predatory force closing in on their prey, and I couldn't help feeling like we weren't alone in the darkness. I suppose it could have been the fact that I wasn't used to sleeping on the floor, or my daughter's habit of sleep mumbling. Either way, I only managed to get to sleep

myself after turning on the lamp. When morning came, I got up and made breakfast. I wanted to treat everyone to something special for my daughter to help her cope and my parents were letting her stay a little bit however when my daughter came into the kitchen she looked endlessly tired it seems she hadn't slept much either you're all right pumpkin I asked as I mixed the pancake batter

oh I'm tired she mumbled and then asked grumpily why did you keep tickling my feet I told you to stop This gave me pause. I wasn't tickling your feet, sweetie. Must have been the blankets, I assured her, and genuine believe that myself.

It was a new, unfamiliar place to her. I remembered the sheets would brush against my feet as a child as well. God, they must be ancient by now. I'm actually surprised they haven't been eaten away by moths. He went about the rest of the day as normal. Took a trip to the zoo to distract ourselves. She especially liked the Africa. wild dogs.

Well, that night, before going to bed, I made sure to close the closet doors properly. I don't know why. It just made me feel better. I think maybe it was because the doors of the closet have a mirror on the inside, and mirrors make me uncomfortable. I've always felt like if I stared into one too long,

something else would stare back. Sleep came easier that night, but I found myself awake in the dark. When I checked the time on my phone, it said 203 a.m. With a small sigh of groggy annoyance, I rolled over to get comfortable again. That's when I felt a weight

that hadn't been aware of, fall off of my foot. It was like someone was holding my foot tightly and snatched their hand back when I moved. Bolting upright, I pulled my legs in close to me and turn my phone screen towards the end of the bed to see what was there. The dim light revealed

that there didn't seem to be anything there, but I noticed pretty damn quick that the closet door just past the end of the mattress was slightly a job. It's safe to say, I lost it a little then. Turning on the lights, I searched the closet viciously, I need to find nothing out of place. All I'd achieved was to disturb my daughter's sleep,

and yes, she was rather unhappy about him. After finding nothing, I did eventually go back to sleep, if not a little more cold, than before. When morning came I woke to find that I'd overslept somewhat and that my daughter was no longer in bed. The adrenaline rush I got from seeing her missing was enough to get me out of bed and into the kitchen in five seconds flat. Thankfully my daughter was in the living room, helping her grandmother do a puzzle. Over a coffee, I explained to my parents what had happened about how I'd felt someone holding my foot

and seeing the closet door open after I'd shut it. Telling them turned out to be super comforting because they were able to explain that the closing latch on the door was broken in that room always had been, and that left me to reason that the weight I'd felt may have been some clothes falling off the end of the bed when I moved.

By the time, it was time to go to sleep again, I was feeling more than confident that everything was perfectly fine. I even fell asleep fairly quickly. and then it happened again. 2.03 a.m., I woke up to a sharp pain in my foot. My feet were sweaty, and I must have been having a foot cramp. Sleepily I shuffled around to try and relieve the pressure in my foot.

It didn't work, and I ended up facing the black abyss under my daughter's bed. As I laid there, I was trying my best not to think about how much my foot hurts, assuming it would subside soon. The pain was in my right foot, at the last two smaller toes. Foot cramps weren't uncommon for me, but this was getting to the point where I was starting to think something else might be wrong. However, as I debated whether or not to turn on the lights and take a look around, I thought I could hear something from under the bed,

a sort of wet chewing sound. My first thought was that my parents' cat had somehow gotten into the room, and was chewing a mouse or something under the bed, so disgusted by the thought, I turned on my phone torch and turned it towards the sound. What I saw, sent ripples of pure terror through my body,

squished under the bed, was an awful creature. A fat blob, plump with rolls of skin that had the texture of a pluck bird and coarse sparse hair sticking out of its paws. He was facing me, His eyes were nothing more than hollow sockets

In its mouth a distended mass of stumpy feelers overpointed tea I realized then that it was eating something Clasped in its meaty hands Was a blood-soaked toe My toe Easily recognisable thanks to the red nail polish I'd put on only two nights before What happened after that

It's something I wish I could forget It screeched and scuttled away, dropping my half-tued toe and disappearing into the closet, back into the mirror on the back of the door. My daughter and I have since moved out of my parents' house again. Doctors weren't able to reconnect my toes. The one that I recovered was too mangled, and the other was never found. It was eaten, I guess. When I later examined the mirror in the closets, I noticed that it was chipped slightly. I remember throwing a doll at it when I was a child, and that my troubles in sleeping began shortly after that. Well, it's not hard to think that

the chipping in the mirror let it out. Whenever I look into a mirror now, I wonder what's trapped on the other side past the silvery, smooth, reflective service looking back at me. What could be let out if a mirror is broken? Each year, my family would book the week-long vacation to my father's ancestral home up north. Just around October my mom would write a letter to our school, excusing us for said event. Same with my dad's office. It's an absolute must that we attend this. Not just for our family, mum would tell my sister and I, this is for our future. It's also a must that we bring along something dear to us that we would need to leave behind.

Sort of like an offering or a tribute to the reunion. And it's not just any something, it must be of real value to us. Well, at first I didn't know what it meant. As children, we would bring beloved toys or books or dresses which, to my young mind, was really important to what I would ask to Granny. That's what I call the oldest living head of Dad's family. Though she looks like 50 or 60 years old, my cousins and aunts would say that she's old.

than that, and I mean way old. He even saw the Spanish-American War, one of my aunts would say, as she'd serve us macaroni salads or dessert and have us gathered around for stories and fun. Not this year. It was different. See, I was previously employed at a company in one of the major booming towns here in the country, and it was all going so well until I was terminated from the job simply because I wasn't kissing up to my manager and accepting his offer. Well, to make matters worse, he'd hired a few of his loyal men and did me a number. Mom and Dad were livid with what happened, but with no proof other than text messages and phone calls and allegations, as the local law enforcement say, my family had no choice but to clam it up

and move us out to a different suburb to hide from the prying eyes. My twin did the part of acting as me for the first month, no biggie. Though as the event came, I realized I was two months pregnant with what was a bad joke. As we were nearing the huge ancestral home, my sister chatting with my mum about the plans for her new business. Dad held my hand. I was sitting shotgun beside my dad. He smiled sadly and said, in a rather different tone than the ones we were used to hearing from him. to Granny's room. You'll be the first one in. The others will not be arriving until tomorrow afternoon. As soon as the van stopped in the driveway, I made a dash to the old double-panel

doors, ran up the two flights of stairs and made a beeline to Granny's room, which is at the end left of the hallway. Granny Martha was how I remembered her, sitting in her grand rocking chair, a long white hair and a grand bundle on her austere head, wearing one of her grand gown. I remember her wearing as a child, making me think of her as a long lost queen from a far-away kingdom. Well, I burst into tears at seeing her. Granny! Sobbing, I ran up to her, knelt by her rocking chair, and in tears told her what had happened. Her crone fingers stroke my long ebony locks, and in a voice that I'd heard in my dream so many times for as long as I can remember,

she said in a commanding yet soft tone, Hush Marius, you are safe, safe and loved. Everything will be all right. And it was then that I felt a cold pair of hands roaming down my back and encircling my abdomen. Your offer has been accepted. Rest and everything will be all right. And at that, a wave of drowsiness such as I've never been accepted.

ever felt before hit me and I found myself falling at her cushioned feet. My last look was my granny giving me a book, but it was different, somehow twisted. I woke to my sister waking me up from my bed and telling me that lunch was ready. Lunch? But I record we'd arrived there an hour after sundown. How long was I out? Mom came in and asked my sister to leave us and attend to our cousins. After closing the door, Mom sat beside me and asked, Do you remember what happened? I shook my head slightly and said weakly, I felt like a dream. I remember talking to Granny then feeling sleepy, oh, was what came out of me as I remembered the details. Then my hand flew to my midsection and then went lower down.

Surely I remember the bump. The office been accepted dear mom said taking my hand and squeezing it tightly you'll see and understand with that she helped me address and attend to my family the week went by in a flurry and for once i felt as if a huge problem had been lifted from me a new hope a new beginning alas the holiday must end and off we were packing stuff and hugging our relatives off as we were about to leave leave, Mom handed me a rather large box. Dad said for you to read the letter before opening the package. And I did, and I understood what had happened.

The letter explained that I have a large sum of money waiting for me upon my return, enough for me to start a new life and pursue my dreams of being an animator and graphic artist. Along with the financial assistance came a laptop that's fitted for a graphics animator, complete with software, and a scholarship for any sort of. school of my choice that offers the class. The letters ending read, You need not hide from anyone anymore. You are free of your past hers. It's been taken care. Signed, Granny M. When we arrived home, the first thing I did was by a pregnancy kids. Quickly, I locked the bathroom door, feigning diarrhea, and I ran the test. We came out negative.

stunned as i was i understood what had happened it was not the only surprise that i received the manager and his goons were locked in prison for assault and harassment but not before they'd been maim they're still serving their sentence to this day now i happily worked from home in my home office my sister contracting me from time to time on projects my graphic artist abilities have earned me the title of senior graphics artist consultant at a couple of agencies in the city and having my work and art contracts sought after by medium and large companies alike we still attend the reunion each year with me calling granny almost every week and each night just before going to bed i would see someone scratching on my window tapping out a message your granny has sent us to watch over you detective's Spencer shook his balding head in quiet dismay and disgust. In his 15 years of foot patrol and another aide as a homicide detective, he was seldom incredulous, but this was a different case.

This case disturbed him like no other. He shook his head again and lit a cigarette. It was late and he was alone in the office. Tomorrow he would deny smoking in the workplace should anyone smell the residual rancid odour of his cheap cigarettes and accuse him of violating policy he needed a cigarette and he needed it now a cigarette would stop his hands from trembling what the hell he thought what the hell he'd been pretty certain he'd seen it all but nothing could get to him his years in the new Orleans police department homicide unit had left him more than a little jaded he'd seen dozens of senseless drive-by shootings that had killed innocent children.

He'd worked a case where the suspected murderer had stashed his wife in a freezer in the garage before reporting her missing. He'd seen voodoo rituals that offered sacrifices of goats and humans. Just last year, the detective arrested a woman who had, allegedly, decided to devour the remains of her husband on sequential Sunday dinners.

Each week, she kindly invited her in-laws to partain. when is Sammy coming home? The recently deceased sister and mother would invariably ask. Oh, I suspect he'll be with us soon, the woman would answer and smile. This particular perp had come close to having committed the perfect crime and would have lightly spent her remaining years, sunning herself on her Baham in beach, had her mother-in-law not shown up early one Sunday,

and peaked in the slope of her. Sammy's mother's screams were heard, blocks away. The woman, more than a little distraught, arms flailing, ran into the street where she was struck by a passing car. The female perp had been convicted of murder one. The last of Sammy was found simmering on high in the crop pot and was buried next to his mother in the St. Claude cemetery. Just after this collar, Detective Spencer asked for a transfer to the special crimes units. He knew instinctively he needed a break from the insanity of eight years in homicide. Yes, the detective was pretty sure nothing could affect him. That is, until now.

Right, the New York detective responded. Touch base with me after you've seen her. Detective Spencer? Yeah? Good luck. The blonde-haired girl in the sterile ICU bed wasn't much older than his daughter, the season detective realized, when he finally got the okay to speak with her. She looked years younger than her chart indicated. She was 22, but in her blue hospital gown and with her tousled hair framing her pretty face, she looked no older than 12 or 13. She had the long, thin body of a model, but had been relegated to working as a waitress in a tawdry French quarter club. Such was the fate of so many young girls

who found their way to New Orleans, looking for excitement and perhaps fame and fortune. They worked for the money until they either gave up the nightlife and married an oilfield worker. More often than not, they returned to their hometowns to live the lives they had so detested.

This girl didn't have too many options left to her, the detective thought. What the fuck would she do now? tried not to look down at the hollow in the sheets where her feet should have been dark circles below her closed eyes encroached onto her cheeks her pretty face had morphed into a grotesque mask what should have been the whites of her eyes were now red hobbits the vessels ruptured by incessant tears

she had cried until she could cry no longer she become numb with the help of another injection ordered by the compassionate doctor on duty that morning. Miss Robbins, the detective whispered. Can you talk now? He asked. Just above a whisper. I really need you to tell me anything you

remember. The detective almost pleaded with the girl. The pretty girl opened her eyes to see a chubby, balding man standing at her side. The tears began to slide down her cheeks again. She said quietly, I don't think I can help you.

I don't remember anything. You were working that night, right? The detective was encouraged just by hearing her voice. Yes, I worked until closing time, about 2 a.m. It was Friday night, you know, Saturday morning, so I figured there'd be a lot of people still out, especially on Decker Tour Street. So I went to get my car out of the parking lot.

Had my keys in my hand, just like you always do when I go over there, and that's all I remember. I think someone hit me over their head. I don't know. I don't know. The tears were flowing in rivers now. Just remember bits and pieces. Like a dream.

The girl continued. I remember something like a nursery ride. She spoke haltingly. And then I died. It was so horrible, but I guess I came back. She sobbed. When I woke up, I was like this. I just woke up like this.

She almost screamed. Like this. She convulsed into a low wail. Like this. You're sure that was Friday night, Miss Robbins. Yes. Last night, the girl replied. The detective didn't want to panic his witness,

but today was Tuesday. She'd been somewhere for the last three days. before being discovered in a heap behind a dumpster near the river. Determining where she'd spent those three days would be the key to this investigation. And you don't remember anything strange or different when you went to your car Friday night? The detective asked.

The girl could only shake her head. No. And sob. Please call me if you remember anything, Miss Roberts. The detective handed her his card with his private phone number. Don't you worry. We're going to get this son of a bitch. You have my word on it.

He was such a good boy. He never asked for anything. He never expected anything. He was always smiling and ready to give hugs to everyone. He's such a good little boy. His mother would exclaim to anyone who would listen. He's a terribly good boy. She would add lovingly.

Alexander and his mother were close. They only had each other. Alexander's father wasn't around much and when he was a horrible tension filled the little house Alexander and his mother tiptoed around so they would not disturb the sleeping giant they never knew if the man would be happy offering smiles and kisses or if he might be surly and hateful offering only slaps of open hands for Alexander and fists of anger toward his wife Alexander was only three and had no idea that this family dynamic was not the norm

He accepted his life as it was and loved his parents as only a three-year-old cook. Alexander had watched his mother grow wan. It seemed as though she was wasting away, slowly becoming invisible. He didn't know she was sick with cancer. He didn't know she'd been beaten almost to death by his father just the night before. She'd suffered the blows silently, not wanting to awaken her son. Several blows had landed on the side of the side of the same. of her head, and her left cheek and eye were black and swollen. She cried silently most of the

night, but this morning she smiled at Alexander and could have won an Academy Award for her acting as though nothing was wrong. She prepared Alexander's favorite breakfast of pancakes with chocolate chips and syrup, and the little boy was happy. After breakfast, his mother took him into the bedroom and they prop themselves up against the aging headboard with worn, flattened pillows. Alexander's mother began to read his favorite book of children's rhymes and finally came to his favorite. This little piggy went to market. She said in a high voice as she tugged at Alexander's slipper until it came off in her hand. This little piggy stayed home.

She continued and tweaked his toe with her thumb and middle finger. Alexander squealed. This little piggy had roast bee. She poured at his third toe and Alexander laughed and laughed. and this little piggy had none his mother elicited another delighted squeal from Alexander and this little piggy she spoke slowly and Alexander almost screamed with anticipation cried wee wee wee wee all the way home Alexander was ecstatic he could picture each little piggy and his favorite of course was the little one when his mother

kissed his little toe until he screamed with with absolute delight. He was a happy child. He was such a sweet little boy. Alexander was still grinning as his mother raised herself from the heap of pillows and went to the dressing.

She opened the top drawer, deliberately turning the little bronze key that kept the draw along. I love you, my sweet baby, she said, and raised a grey object to her head. Love you, mommy, Alexander said, but the loud crack from the gun erased his words.

Blood and brains spattered onto his pajamas, his mother lay motions on the floor. Alexander knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. He saw the gun. He knew about guns from watching television. He knew guns could hurt people, and he knew his mother was hurt. She wouldn't wake up. Half of her head had landed on the wall behind them. The huge smear of blood looked like a child's grotesque finger-pating.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. Mommy, please wake up, Alexander cried. Please, Mommy, wake up. He knelt at her lifeless body and then rested his head against her chest. He lay with his mother, feeling her slowly becoming stiff and cold, until his father came home hours later. Alexander's happy life ended that day.

His father claimed he couldn't take care of the boy and hold a job as well, so Alexander was turned over to the state and spent the next 14 years in a myriad of foster homes. He was a troubled child, every foster parent claimed. He was a terribly unhappy, troubled child. Alexander left his last foster home as soon as he came of age. He moved to New York City. The New York cases were forwarded to the NOPD and carer of Detective Spencer, all 1,738 pages of it.

The files consisted of five unsolved homicide cases. The first victim was a dancer who lived in the village, not far from where her body was found, Sanses feet. There had been no effort to court to courtres her wounds. The coroner's report stated cause of death as exanguination. The second and third victims were found in Brooklyn within two weeks of each other who abducted from and later dumped in what was considered a relatively safe residential area again seemingly unharmed other than the obvious detail of having had their feet removed. COD undetermined.

The final two victims in the New York area were found in Queens near the Tribera Bridge. Their feet were missing but these cases differed in that their wounds were clumsily quarterized, probably with a blow torch. This seemed to be the Perp's first attempt to stop his victims from bleeding out. The two victims, respective coroner's report, stated it was impossible to determine the exact instrument used to remove the feet. The coroner had, however, determined the first five victims that suffered blunt dissection of the leg and foot by a relatively sharp weapon, probably an axe. Sarah Robbins, the pretty girl in Ireland. was apparently the sixth victim and the first one to survive.

There was a final important piece of evidence in the hundreds of pages that the detective poured through. The toxicology reports. Four of the five New York victims had positive findings for ketamine, a new and powerful anesthesia. The first victim had been found clean for the drug. She had definitely been a bleed out. The remaining four victims were determined to have been administered ketamine and a dosage four times stronger than would normally be delivered in an operating theatre. While it was likely that the four women had died from an overdose of the drug, due to the severe exangination evident, it was impossible to ascertain the exact cause of death. It was most likely a combination of the two factors. Detective Spencer picked up the phone

and called the Grace of God Hospital Man, identified himself with a special department pass number, and asked for Sarah's toxicology report. Positive for ketamine. The detective closed the folders on his desk. It looked as though his purport ascertained the correct dosage of the potent drug and was now working on his surgical specialty of amputation and subsequent courtry. By the looks of the five bodies in New York and Sarah in New Orleans, his surgical prowess was obviously lacking, but he seemed to be trying.

Ketamine had recently been approved by the FDA and was administered only in closely monitored cases and in those instances where other anaesthetics were contraindicated. It was known for its near-death or death-like experiences in many patients. It apparently mimicked the chemical release that occurred at the moment of death. None of the six victims had been sexually assaulted. There had been no overt signs of torture. It's so obvious.

the detective realized. The perp didn't want to kill his victims. He didn't want some kind of perverted sex. He only wanted to garner his victim's feet. He was simply a collector. Sarah was his only link to the foot collector, as the perp was quickly dubbed by the NOPD. Detective Spencer's new partner was just off the beat,

having passed his detective exam a few weeks ago. He was young, but he was sharp. He jumped into the case with both feet and seemed as dedicated as his older protege in his desire to nab this bastard. Spencer was concerned with his young partner's blind determination to solve his first big case. The older detective had witnessed too many young cop's lives

unceremoniously lost in their unbridled enthusiasm. He'd seen one too many lay in the street dying from some stupid rookie mistake. So, you think this guy has some kind of foot fetish boss? The young detective asked. He'd taken to calling his partner boss, and the older detective didn't correct his young psyche. Not in the sexual sense of the word, detective.

The older detective answered. He tagged his young partner kid, but realized using that term might be considered demeaning. So he answered formally. I think this guy has some other reasons. for his particular affinity. I'm not sure we'll ever figure it out. Frikin sick, Detective Barnett lamented.

I think we need an interview with a victim again. She's got to be more lucid now that the drugs have worn on. Let's go, then. Spencer agreed. When the two men arrived at the hospital, they found Sarah had been moved into a private room. Back to the door, she stared at the walls and didn't move as the two men clumsily made their way to her bed.

side. Ms. Robbins, can we talk to you for a minute? Detective Spencer asked and was surprised by the softness of his usually gruff voice. There was only silence from the girl in the hospital bed. Sarah, Detective Barnett trying. We really need to talk to you before this bastard heard someone else. Please. Sarah turned to face the two detectives. What do you want to know? She asked dolly. I've told you everything I know, everything I remember. You've been very helpful, the older detective said. It's just one thing I want to talk to you about.

I know you said you felt as though you'd die. You were injected with ketamine and that sometimes mimics the death experience. The girl did not react. The older detective continued. The other thing is, you said, you remembered a fairy tale of Charles Ryan. Do you remember anything else about that? The detective asked, not really expecting an answer. He said it over, over and over. Sarah whispered softly. This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none, and this little piggy cried, we off the way home. She said, slowly and deliberately. Miss little. Then the connection was made. The awful, horrible connection she would have to live with for the remainder of her life. The light bulb had gone off for the detectives

as soon as she began the rhyme. Everything was connecting. There was only one thing for the detectives to do now. Find the man. The monster who recited this children's poem before he chopped off yet another victim his feet. After his determination that he needed something to effectively quiet his victims to keep them from crying, he managed to procure a drug from the sometimes locked cabinet in the lab in the

hospital where he worked. It hadn't been that difficult. After experimenting with the dosage, he realized if he administered too much of the drug, his girls would likely die fairly quickly and he was sorry for that. That certainly was not his intent. "'Practice makes perfect,' he said to no one. "'He tried again, and again. "'He didn't want his girls to die. "'He only wanted a little souvenir. "'Perfect pair of ten pretty toes.

"'Something to extend his happiness just a little bit. "'It learned from his mistakes. "'His last girl had been a smashing success. "'Everyone in New Orleans was talking about it. and he wanted everyone to be as happy as he wanted. The NOPD quickly put a lid on the story, and the two detectives knew that they had to act fast on their threat of a lead. This guy had access to ketamine.

This guy either worked in a lab or in a hospital. From his M.O., Detective Spencer was pretty certain the bastard for whom they were searching did not hold a professional position, as evidenced by the obvious lack of medical expertise. Tomorrow, they would begin checking every hospital in the city for drug reports that were off, especially for ketamine. They would find him. Their sense of urgency was intense. The adrenaline that pumped in a constant rhythm through the older detective system made him feel 20 years younger for a few days,

and then served only to keep him awake late into the night. He had not shaved in days, and his suits were wrinkled. were it not for the Jack Daniels that finally stopped his brain from rummaging incessantly at night, he wouldn't have been able to function. Oh, thank God for Jeff, he muttered aloud as he passed out. The New Orleans press had discovered Sarah and two policemen were stationed outside her door 24-7, so not so much as a security precaution, but rather to keep the press at bay. The city paper ran the story.

Serial foot collector in nuance. Women take precautions. At first glance, some readers thought the story was a spoof. Foot collector. What on earth was that? But the line, women take precautions, belied the more serious content of the story, which was read by almost everyone in the city.

The details were sparse, but they were enough to engage the public's imagination, and soon the story, as incomplete as it was, became the number one news item on the local TV stations. Detective Spencer was furious. The publicity could easily serve to chase the perp out of the city, out of the media spotlight, and out of their grounds. Alexander didn't watch television, didn't own a set.

Every evening when he returned home from his janitorial job at the hospital, he amused himself and passed the hours at home by carefully listening. one or more of the heavy gallon jars from a specially enclosed set of shelves he built in his closet. Sometimes he took all 12 jars down and placed the correct pairs together in a neat row. He reveled in his work. When he was feeling a bit silly, he'd mix the feet up, six lefts and six rights. There were unlimited arrangements he'd discovered. He would smile as he remembered how much fun he had wriggling his girls,

That's what he liked to call the women he brought home, his girls. Riggling his girl's beautiful white toes, he lovelingly recited the little piggy's poem to them. He couldn't understand why the girls were crying. It was a beautiful rhyme. He didn't want them to cry, so he began to give them something to help them keep quiet. Something to keep them from crying. A sedation, he called him. Some medicine he'd stolen from the hospital.

He gave the girls a little if they cried too much. They gave them more before he took these souvenirs. He kept them still. His girls would lay silent on the little bed. They didn't cry. And then he could play little piggies on their pretty toes for hours, and he was happy. He was so...

He had made some serious mistakes with his first girl. She just wouldn't stop crying, and he had no idea what to do. He ended up taping her mouth closed with duct tape and taking her feet in a hurry. He'd barely played his game with her at all. After procuring his trophies, he quickly disposed of the body in a dumpstone not far from his own apartment building in Chelsea, and realised later he'd been pretty stupid. He also realised he was lucky, but he could not contain his desires, and he was on the prowl again within a few weeks, this time in a neighbourhood across the Brooklyn Bridge.

It was so easy He simply watched a girl he wanted And followed her for a week or so To figure out what hours she worked And how she got home The girls who drove their own cars were the easiest They thought they were so brave Going to their cars alone at night

They were easy pickings After a week or so Alexander simply hid behind a nearby car And when his girl was distracted unlocking her car door. He came up behind her and pressed the cloth to her nose. She struggled a bit, this was by far the most dangerous 30 seconds of the abduction,

or the catch is Alexander call. When his girl went limp, he put his arm around her waist and pretended she'd had too much to drink, steering her easily to his car which she had parked just a few spaces away. Once inside the back of his car, she was here.

His apartment was little more than a shed behind a big house in a ritzie uptown neighborhood, and his driver went all the way to his door. No one ever saw him come or go. His little dwelling consisted of a living room, kitchen and bedroom. And the bedroom was a large closet which held his most precious possessions, his collection. He'd thought to make a special place. Didn't like the term hide. A special place to keep his collection.

And should anyone enter his abode uninvited, and everyone, other than his girls, was uninvited, no one would ever find his cashier. His bedroom was large enough to hold both his full-sized bed and another twin bed he converted into a sofa when he wasn't using it for one of his girls. When he had company, he used a thick sheet of vinyl to cover the little bed. After he garnered his souvenirs, he simply folded the vire. and threw it away in a big brown garbage bag. He never kept his girls for more than a few days,

and he had to work around his days off at the hospital. He was never concerned about one of his girls screaming to alert someone to her plight. He simply put a thick piece of duct tape over their mouths. He removed it now and again to give them water. Should they eventually pee, the vinyl would catch him. Most of the time, they just lay. And that was fine with him. True, he would have enjoyed it more if they'd been awake when he recited his poem and played with their little toes, but most of his girls had cried when he suggested they'd join him in his fun.

He really didn't like to see girls cry, so he found that the sedation would keep them quiet, and when they were quiet, he could play with their toes at length without any annoying distraction. In a few hours, he would catch another girl. She would be lucky number seven. He would have seven beautiful pairs of toes with which to play, and that would make him very happy. Alexander had watched his new girl for several weeks now. She worked in the same hospital as he did, and although he usually chose a prettier girl, and one with which he had no association whatsoever, he'd been immediately smitten with this one. This one was special.

She worked in the gift shop and had worn sandals one summer day. sandals without stockings her toenails were meticulously trimmed and painted with a deep burgundy polish he'd never seen anything like it toes peaked at him from beneath the leather strap of her shoes and he thought he would faint from sheer joy he waited patiently for her and at eight o'clock

she closed the gift shop and walked outside never once imagining that she might be in any danger Alexander followed his new girl halfway down the block into the parking garage just across the street he watched as the elevator light went to the third floor and stopped about a minute later a blue Toyota Prius purred down the cement ramp to the exit move there was no attendant on duty and the new girl swiped her ticket to urge the yellow bar to rise

the Prius exited the garage the new girl safely inside and Alexander smiled. This was... A week later, Alexander could not wait a day longer. He would catch her tonight, after he finished work and had something to eat. He would find her car in the garage, careful not to be noted by any cameras,

and he would park his car in a space as near to her Prius as possible. The garage usually opened up at night, after most people left at 5 p.m or so he should be able to attack her easily. She should be an easy catch. He could barely contain himself and his anticipation rippled through his belly all that day. As he thought, the lot had emptied and the motor of his big Chevy echoed against the concrete walls. He smiled as he navigated his old Chevy next to the yellow pricks. Then he waited. About ten to eight, he opened the driver's door and stood upright. He was stiff from sitting in the front seat for two hours.

He crouched low, the big Chevy providing a more than adequate hiding place. His heart almost exploded when he saw her. Car keys in her hands and sandals on her pretty feet. He almost laughed aloud in glee, but mustered a self-control he had not known he possessed. He successfully stifled his laughter and smiled as he deftly moved up behind his girl, and pressed the dirty rag over her face. She was in his car in a matter of seconds. She was here.

Maggie vaguely realised she'd been drugged. She understood she'd been abducted. She was living her worst nightmare, and she swallowed bitter bile, hot on her tongue, as she realized her mouth was taped closed. She knew if she was to survive, she needed to calm down and keep her wits about her. She pushed the terror away to a place deep inside her where she would claim it later.

Now, at this moment, she needed to be practical. She needed to think, to figure out what exactly had happened and how she would deal with it. Maggie was well known among her friends and associates for her brainpower and her pragmatism. These two attributes had served her well in the past. She could only hope and pray that they would serve her well now, now in this dark, stinking little room with a big man asleep on the bed. She mentally surveyed her body. She was a little dopy, but otherwise intact.

There were restraints keeping her hands at her side. She soon realized they were leather straps, looped in one another, and secured to the iron frame upon which the mattress rested. They were buckles. buckles could likely be manipulated she thought her feet were free but her heels rested upon a hard surface something like a wooden plank her pant legs had been rolled up to her knees and for a moment she wondered if she'd been assaulted she doubted if such a person would bother to redress her and she felt no pain

so she dismissed that possibility perhaps he was waiting until she regained consciousness Maggie could see her captors large bulk on the bed a few feet away and hoped to heaven that he was sleeping. She began to twist her hands in the leather straps. Escape might be more difficult than she'd first imagined, but she sure as hell was going to try. She didn't plan to lay there passively, awaiting an unknown and likely horrible fate. She was a fighter, and she wasn't going to play the easy victim for this asshole. One strap's buckle loosened, and her right hand freed itself. The bulk on the bed stirred.

Holy fuck, she thought. The adrenaline coursing through her body had replaced any semblance of drug-induced sedation. She frantically, but silently, began to urge the other hand free of its dog-collar restraint. Her thumb was free. The man turned over heavily on the sagging matrix. She knew he was awake now, and she grabbed the other leather strap and reinserted her bruised hand into its confines. Maggie forced herself to close our eyes, but before she did, she caught the glint of an object in the corner. The axe was new and shiny, and propped against the wall just a few feet away.

She saw a metal tray lined with syringes and several glass bottles. Her heart was beating against her chest. and she tried frantically to remain calm and think her way out of this nightmare breathe she thought breathe Alexander rose from the bed his six-foot four frame hulking its way into the hallway he had to pee something awful how long had he been asleep anyway he wondered he couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep with his new girl so near him so ripe so ready you remember he remembered He remembered he'd rolled up the legs of her black pants with painstaking care, but had intentionally saved the best for later. Perhaps she would be different.

Perhaps she would play the game with him. He truly doubted it, but he took off his socks. He never knew. He just never knew. Alexander returned to the darkened room and removed the tape that covered his new girl's lips. He poured a glass of water from the gallon jug in the kitchen. holding the dirty glass to the girl's mouth, he gently pressed until the water touched her lips. Most of it spilled onto the size of her mouth, but to his surprise, her lips opened a bit and she actually sipped some water from the glass.

Maggie slowly opened her eyes, pretending to be coming up from a place of deep slumber. She was captive, arms at her sides. She would play as game if it meant getting out alive and in time. had. Maggie instinctively knew this huge hogging man was the man the newspaper and television had featured for a week or so, and then probably forgot about. He was the guy for which the police had searched in vain for the last two weeks. He was the asshole who had taken that girl's feet and left her behind the dumpster to die. He was the bastard who kidnapped her from the hospital garage. He was a stuff of nightmares. He was a stuff of nightmares. He was

was a sick son of a bitch who needed to be put down like the perverted animal that he was. Maggie managed to mutter. Alexander almost dropped the syringe that he'd filled with ketamine. None of his girls had ever actually spoken to him. He had no idea what he should do. Would this one be different? Would this one actually play with him? His toes wiggled on the cheap, dirty carpet.

The Jack had done his job and Detective Spencer, her had fallen into a heavy but restless slumber. On the queen-sized bed he had shared with his wife before she left him. Too many nights alone, she'd stated simply and was gone. He slept fitfully, still in his boxer shorts and wife beat her undershirt. He heard the alarm through the fog of alcohol-induced sleep. It seemed as though he just drifted off, but he judicily sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. he would stand in a cold shower for five minutes and revive himself

he had three more hospitals to visit today one of them had to hold the key he reached under the bed groping through his slippers and his fingers fell upon something nubby and warm his fingers determined these warm little nubs to be toes and they wiggled in his hands the detective sat up in bed with a start

the alarm was ringing its loud obnoxious He didn't reach under the bed for his slippers, but headed straight to the shower. His bare feet numbed to the cold tile floor. He pushed the dream out of his head. Today is the day, he thought. He could feel it. Ian, Detective Barnett, flashed their badges to the receptionist and human resources. The girl lost a shade or two of colour and informed them she would get her supervisor.

After a few rounds of higher-ups playing an odd game that reminded the older detective of musical chairs, the two detectives finally settled down in the office of the hospital administrator. The detectives were brusk and to the point, asking for information about any reports of missing drugs, particularly ketamine. So far, none of the hospitals had reported any shortages. The milk-toast administrator hesitated with his answer, just a fraction of a second too long. and the detectives immediately knew their answer. They quickly asked him for a list of employees who'd been hired within the last six months

and who might have access to laboratories or other sensitive areas where controlled substances were stored. The administrator hesitated again. He spoke of confidentiality in the hospital's reputation and regulations ad nauseum. Detective Spencer's patients was as thin as a razor blade. Look, sir, there's a damn maniac out there and we have reason to believe that he will do one of two things.

Either leave town and never be caught, until, of course, he decides to strike again, or he is, at this very moment planning another kidnapping, or maybe already has her. Get the damn files now! The administrator fell silent and scurried into the adjacent room. He returned with two files, both containing. the addresses in work history of newly hired maintenance workers. Each detective grabbed a file and Detective Spencer read the work history of the employee in his cardboard folder. Alexander had been a maintenance worker with an impeccable record at New York General Hospital for the past

15 years, having only recently moved to New Orleans. We need to speak to this man immediately. Detective Spencer said, well, let me get his supervisor. The administrator squeeated. The administrator squeeated. and began to dial an internal hospital number. He asked to have the employees sent to his office and waited silently for what seemed like an eternity to the detectives. Fine, the administrator said into the receiver and hung up the phone. He's off until Tuesday, the man told the two detectives.

The typed address in the employee folder was an Audubon Street all the way up town. It was half an hour away. The two cops were in the car within minutes and the blue light on the dash parted traffic as though it was the Red Sea. They could make it in ten minutes if they were lucky. Alexander stood over his girl.

Did you say something to me? He asked. Maggie tried to smile but Alexander thought it was a grimace she managed to repeat. She knew she had him off balance. She knew she had to keep him that way but not uncomfortable enough that he would panic. She tried not to look toward the corner

where the axe languished against the wall. She saw the syringe in his big hand. It was loaded with an amber liquid. What's that for? she asked, innocently. That's to help you rest, Alexander answered politely. But I'm not tired, Magley responded, trying to muster up an energy she'd not feel. "'Let's talk for a while,' Maggie said.

"'I don't even know who you are, or why I'm here.' She tried to sound innocent and non-threatening, to sound sincere and interested in this big bulk of the man. "'Well, I guess we can't talk. "'I don't get to talk to too many people, though. "'What do you want to talk about?' "'Oh, I don't know. "'Why don't you tell me who you are?

"'Why did you bring me here?' "'She tried again to sound brown. and non-threatening. Do you live here? She thought this was less an invasive question and one he could easily answer. I live here, he said.

I live here by myself. His answer was terse and Maggie could detect the distrust in his voice. Can you undo my hands so I can go to the bathroom, please? She asked in a matter-of-fact time. Alexander had no idea

what he should do. none of his girls had ever spoken to him before much less asked to go to the job he didn't see what harm it would do and if he was nice to her she liked him enough maybe she will play little piggies with him his toes wiggled again alexander didn't notice the leather restraint straps were already somewhat loosened as he unbuckled them and his girl stood her hands her she sat up and after a few seconds rose unsteadily to her feet She asked him where she might find the bathroom He pointed to the hallway and told her It was the door to the left Maggie stumbled her way across the room And opened the door to the dirty, stinking room

That housed a disgusting sink And an even more disgusting toilet She squatted, peed and washed her hands She splashed cold water onto her face And stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror She didn't know what day it was all how long she'd been out. She suspected it was Sunday

as she'd closed the shop on Saturday night and her last memory had been walking to her car with her keys lodged firmly between her fingers. It was Sunday. She wouldn't be missed until Monday afternoon when she didn't show up for work. In the two years Maggie had worked at the gift shop she'd never been late,

much less absent from work. She was known for being responsible and the fact she hadn't shown up. and had not called in which surely set off alarms with her supervisor she just had to survive until then she just had to buy some time regardless of what it might cost maggie returned to the darkened room she was too unsteady to try to figure out where the front door was and whether there was a back door to this dingy apartment she would play this out she would wait until she was sure she knew her leg

would support her in a dash to freedom. Hey, she said as though she'd known her abductor for years. She sat upright on the bed and noticed for the first time that it was covered in vinyl. What's your name? As soon as she asked, she realized she had made a mistake. The look on the man's face confirmed her fear. She'd gotten two-person. She had overstayed.

She quickly added, I'm Maggie. She remembered an article she'd read years ago about being kidnapped. Suggested to the reader that if you establish some type of relationship with your abductor, made yourself human, you would stand a chance of survival. She continued with a quick, I work at the gift shop in the hospital, pretending not to know that he likely already knew that. She realized she was jabbering and became silent, waiting for a response.

You, um, want to play a gay? The big man asked, solemnly. It seemed as though he expected a negative response. Sure, Maggie answered. What did you have in mind? I have the best game. Alexander said with an enthusiasm he could not hide. My mama used to play it with me, he said, and then blushed a dark red,

realizing that his girl might think he was just a big baby. Really? Maggie answered quickly. I love playing games with my mom. She quickly put him at an unexpected, albeit relative ease. Did she play little peggy's with you? Alexander asked incredulously. She did, Maggie answered.

She did. I remember that game. Maggie was in uncharted waters and could only hope to wing her way through this bizarre reality. You want to play it with me? Alexander asked the inevitable question. We can take turns. Alexander was almost beside himself with anticipation. Sure, Maggie answered with false enthusiasm. She glanced down at the man's big feet.

His toes were flexing in ecstasy. She noticed the black toe jam that shifted with each flex. She fought a wave of nausea. Okay. I'll go first, the big man offered. Let me see your little piggy. Maggie sat back on the little bed and put her feet onto the vinyl cover. Alexander sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her feet into his massive lap.

This little pea went to market. He gently tugged on her big toe. This little piggy stayed at home. He tweaked her next to her. This little piggy had roast, beef. He tugged her middle toe And this little piggy had none He almost squealed

And this little piggy cried Wee we all the way home The big man began to cry To sob He was filled with joy and sorrow With love found and love flaws Maggie's overt fear and disgust of the man began to drip away, slowly vanishing to be replaced by a tremendous

ache in her heart. She pretended not to notice his tears or see his shoulders heave with sobs. Come on then, she told him. Give me those piggies, put them in my lap. She instructed with a smile. Alexander turned to her, unable to believe her words. Surely he'd misunderstood. He was He wiped his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his shirts, he asked, and Alexander was three again and scooted onto the bed, heaving his huge feet onto the lap of his girl. He would remember to ask her name, but now she so gently grasped his big toe between her thumb and index finger and began to shake it gently and recite his favourite rye. This little piggy went to market, she said softly and with a smile. this little piggy stayed home she continued Alexander retreated into the past

into a time of unbridled happiness and absolute innocence he was happy he could hear his mother say what a good boy he was what a terribly good boy this little piggy had roast beef maggie continued and this little piggy had none and this little piggy cried

There was a series of loud knocks at what Maggie thought must be the front door, and then a crash. Alexander made a mad dash for the axe and ran into the front of the shed where he rushed at the two detectives, the big blade swinging. Maggie was surprised at the grace with which Alexander deftly lodged the huge shiny weapon into the side of the young detective. Blood gushed. The blade sliced the detective's liver neatly in half. Detective Spencer fired his nine millimeters straight into the perp's chest. The big man didn't miss a step and lunged at the detective. The bloody axe still in his big hands.

Maggie spotted the discarded syringe with the amber liquid and within a few seconds she jammed its long needle into the back of the madman's neck. She pushed the plunger in as far as it would go. Alexander brushed aside the syringe as though it was a pesky, stinging bug. He started and looked at Maggie for a long second with her and disbelief. He had trusted her. How could she? The distraction had provided the few seconds needed by Detective Spencer to unload another round of bullets this time into Alexander's head.

The big man's head exploded, much as his mother's had those many years ago. The wall catching the back of his skull in most of his brain. Maggie fell onto the cot and began to sob from relief for herself and for a deep sadness for the big man. Detective Spencer

went into cot mode and radioed for a bus, but the young detective had lost too much blood. He died in his partner's arms, having never regained consciousness. The old detective wondered how it was that he'd been granted his 63 years of life. How it was he had seen all that he'd seen and wondered darkly if his longevity was a curse or a blessing. Sometimes, most of the time,

life made little or no sense, he thought. No sense at all. Alexander's massive bulk lay sprawled on the floor, his blood pooling around him, staining the dirty carpet to Burgundy wretch. he was lifeless now finally he was he wasn't really a bad man he could hear his mother's voice now he's such a good he's such a terribly good boy and so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now i'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast from please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.