Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep201: Episode 201: Horror Stories to Drive you Insane

Episode Date: December 17, 2024

If you want to take ownership of your health, try AG1 and get a FREE 1-year supply of Vitamin D AND 5 Free AG1 Travel Packs with your first purchase. Go to www.drinkAG1.com/creepen Today’s first terrifying tale of the macabre is ‘Latrodectus,’ an original story by Sinister Silver, narrated here with express permission from the author under the conditions of the CC.BY-SA 2.0 license:  http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Latrodectus Our second terrifying tale of terror is ’Obsession,’ an original story by Gelfwyn, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6rufs8/obsession_fiction/  Our third fantastic offering is ‘My First One-Star Review on Airbnb,’ an original story by shawk11:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/6v1k1y/my_first_one_star_review_on_airbnb  Today’s penultimate tale of terror is ‘Banshee's Cry,’ an original story by The Soul Fister, kindly shared with us on the Creepypasta Wiki and narrated under the conditions of the CC BY-SA 4.0 license:  http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Banshee's_Cry http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/User:The_Soul_Fister  Our final macabre story this evening is ‘4:27 AM,’ an original story by EZ Breeze 26, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and narrated with the author’s permission:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/86kt79/427_am/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Horror stories tap into our most primal fears, igniting the fight or flight response hardwired into our brains. By creating a sense of danger, they plunge us into a world where the safe boundaries of reality blur, forcing us to confront the unknown. The suspense, unpredictability, and unsettling imagery activate our amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for processing fear,

making the experience feel vivid and visceral. As we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. Tonight's first terrifying tale of the macabre is Latredectus by Sinister Silver.

Chapter 1. My lovelies. The world doesn't understand me. They think I'm a monster. and that my work is grotesque and horrific. What they fail to realise is that I preserve beauty. If I let my lovelies grow old, they will decay and become wrinkled abominations. What I do to them is often necessary due to their resistance.

It is rather unfortunate how they struggle, scream and cry. They don't understand my work either. If they did, they would embrace the process. however unpleasant it may be. It certainly is no easy task to preserve something as natural as warm human flesh after the life has left it, but you can learn quite a lot from having a job at a morgue. I know what you may be thinking,

but I have never taken a body from work. I may sneak a few embalming supplies out from time to time, but I wouldn't lower myself to using one of the best. badly damaged or just generally hideous specimens that go through that place. I usually find one of my darling lovelies over dating services on the internet. Many sad and lonely women out there have their beauty go unappreciated. I aim to change that with my work. Once I have them in my workshop, I put them on my table.

after they've been properly strapped in I use a variety of chemical products with long and boring clinical names to touch up any superficial cuts from the acquisition process and fix any blemishes on the skin then it comes time to preserve their beauty with an injection of embalming fluid this usually causes my lovelies to quickly lose their painful lives What I have to give them is greater though How many women's grooming products are dedicated to the idea of eternal youth and beauty

I can give that to them Isn't the end of this suffering existence in a world of constant turmoil A small price to pay for every woman's dream Anyway There are a lot of uninteresting details about the process Fluid needs to be drained a mechanical pump is used and several more injections

are necessary when the process is complete and the injection sites are concealed they always look so beautiful with their appearance preserved so perfectly I often can't help myself I simply must take them for my own

it's so magical to bond with someone once their beauty has been made permanent. I would love nothing more than to keep them all, but my home workshop is not large enough to house my collection. So, regrettably, I must often let go of one of my lovelies and dispose of them in the only way I know how to keep my work intact. I clean and dress them up to the best of my ability, and lay them in a field or a garden. I have a few words with my lovelies. I have a few words with my lovelies and take a picture to remember them by before I reluctantly leave them. I often pray that animals and insects leave them be and do not disturb their preserved radiance.

Recently, it seems my work has garnered the attention of the police and local news. They're calling me the embalmer. What a crude name for a beauty preservation artist. The test. Men don't understand me. They see me as an object. A prize to be won in some misguided competition of masculinity. It's really rather pathetic.

But I could at least ignore those Neanderthals, and they usually go away after a while. The real animals are the ones who seek out weaker prey and think they can do whatever they please, and they'll get away with it. Those are the kind of men that inspired me to start fighting back. Of course, in order to do that, I have to go where they hunt, make myself appear weak. Most of the local dive bars are host a whole myriad of unsavory characters, so I never have to go far. It helps my case if I can go in looking reluctant, like a lost college girl who's already dared her to buy them a beer. The most difficult part is finding a balance between timid and sexy in what I wear. My blonde hair usually gets me noticed pretty quickly, so I try to mess it up a bit to go along with the ruse.

I use very minimal makeup and a pair of thick eyes. that makes me look more like a bookworm. I always make sure to pick out an outfit and that shows off just a little bit of skin, but then I accessorize it with a kind of cheap costume jewelry that a poor college student could afford. It's a delicate process. And sometimes I have to adjust the minor details to make myself more or less appealing. After all, that's what the ladies' room is for. Not that any of the bars I frequent have particularly clean washrooms, but I don't go there

for quality service. Some nights I hang out in the corner or by the end of the bar, waiting for one of them to spot me. Then there are nights when I know exactly which would-be predator has his eyes on me. Usually, I'll have a good-be predator. I'll have a glass of not very fine wine, and a man will approach offering to buy me another. I may accept, but I always make sure to pace myself. He'll usually be drinking a beer, though the older ones tend to go for whiskey or scotch.

I'll pretend to let my guard down and start to casually flirt, giving me an opportunity to have my hands near his drink. Nowadays women tend to be more careful about letting their drinks out of their sight. Men, however, don't give even the first thought to the possibility of being drugged. Even if you warned them, they'd probably laugh and joke about how getting slipped to roofie probably means that they got laid as well. What they don't realize is that sometimes they will be drugged, and there are far worse things that can be done to them while they're unconscious.

By now, I know exactly when I need to ask. Do you want to get out of here? In order for him to pass out in a dimly lit parking lot, I quickly drag him to his car or truck and take out his wallet. I take whatever cash is in there, and I look at his driver's license to find an address. I drive him there. and scope out the place.

Usually the guy lives alone and there's no problem. If he doesn't, I just quietly drop him off and leave. If the coast is clear, I bring him inside. Sometimes this is particularly difficult because men can be quite heavy compared to women. Once inside, I go to his bedroom and strip him naked. I do the same and lie next to him. After a few hours, I give him an injection, providing just enough time for him to wake up and play my little game. It usually happens that morning after sunrise.

He'll be foggy and have memory loss, but it is this very moment that I test him. I tell him that we had drunken sex the night before, and that I was a virgin before that. I also bring up the lack of birth control and allude to the possibility of pregnancy. Very rarely do the targets I pick handle this news with respect and kindness. If they did, I would give them an injection from the other vial. Let them rest in bed and quietly leave. However, this is a test that most of these selfish, shallow, man-children consistently fail. It can get rough, and sometimes his anger's a bit physical,

but it doesn't take long for all that activity to wear on him. Within a few moments, he begins to feel dizzy and light-headed. Not long after that, he falls to the floor and loses consciousness. In less than an hour, he'll die from a nearly untraceable point. Once he's motionless, I tuck him back into bed and walk away as if nothing happened. Afterwards, I go back to the bar to retrieve my car. The public eye has noticed what I've been doing. In a way, there are reports of dead bodies turning up as the result of unknown causes, but most are written off as natural.

While I prefer anonymity, part of me wishes. Part of me wishes I could tell the world how I fight for women. I rid the world of the lettuous, misogynistic mouth-breatzers, that would steal a young girl's innocence and refuse to take responsibility for the consequences. I am nothing, if not fair, though. After all, I always give them a choice. Chapter 3. the meeting.

It seems the conveniences of the modern world can be fragile. The search from my latest lovely was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected loss of internet connection. A loss made all the more devastating as my need and desire to add to my collection grew stronger. Tonight I will attempt to fulfil that need the old-fashioned way, as it were, by going to a local watering hole. She first catches my eye as I walk into the bar, feigning confidence. It's been a while since I've interacted socially without the aid of a backspace key to filter out some of my less appealing thoughts.

But she doesn't strike me as superficial, at least not enough to turn away a suitor at a minor slip of the tongue. No, I feel very differently about her. Golden locks of hair shimmer from atop her head. Yet it appears she either has difficulty styling it, or perhaps it has been disheveled from some rigorous activity. As I gaze upon her, I notice a large pair of corrective eyewear

and some less than fashionable jewelry. She looks young, far too young to be in a filthy place like this. I decide I must approach her, and ensure that none of these vermin get to her. I approach modestly, but not with trepidation. I tell her she's far too beautiful to be in a den of debauchery where such beauty will undoubtedly go unappreciated.

I also warn her, though not with intent to frighten, that she should proceed cautiously with so many womanizing scoundrels around. She receives my words well and introduce. her name is Tanya her voice is incredible timid yet stir something about it seems out of place as though beneath her reluctant exterior there was inner strength her spirit or her soul perhaps but of course it can be difficult to say about someone you've just meant I feel something different about her though something special, I suppose you would call it.

We talk for what seems like ours on various subjects, likes, dislikes, hobbies, etc. Yet somehow, I can't tear my eyes away from her magnificent beauty. If only she didn't hide it so, all she would need is a bit of hairspray,

contact lenses, a nice dress, perhaps some better jewel. A very few minor touch-ups with a makeup brush. Of course, that sounds like a lot. But it would be a very simple makeover, and she would look ravishing. Then again, if that happened, these bar-room troglodytes would be all over her. After conversing for a few more minutes, I cordially invite Tanya to stay the evening at my humble abode. She's had a few glasses of wine after all.

and is in no state to drive. I treat her with respect every step of the way, as a good gentleman should. I hold the door for her and carefully guide her head into the car, so she doesn't bump it into the roof. We arrive at my place, and I show her to the guest room, warning her not to go into the basement, because it has a rat problem and has recently been fumigated. Though, The truth is that my lovelies are down there. I don't expect her to understand what my collection is and why I keep it. For now, it is better to lie to her about such things. I bring her some sweatpants and a shirt to sleep in,

both of which are probably three sizes too big to fit her small frame. She asked me why I haven't tried to make a move on her. I tell her I admire her beauty far too much to take advantage of her drunken state. She laughs and confesses that she was merely pretending to be drunk so that I take her home. She claims she can hold her liquor much better than that and even offers to take a field sobriety test in the hallway. She walks a straight line over to me and we start kissing.

We go into my bedroom and fall onto the bed. She asks if we have protection, which I affirm and she says, Good. Why you take care of that? I'll slip into something more comfortable. She leaves the room for what seems like an eternity. I prepare the contraceptive and anxiously await her return. Finally, she comes back wearing the sweatpants and t-shirt I'd given her, and we both share a good laugh about it. Stripping them away. she reveals a very enticing set of lingerie. She climbs on top of me, and we are entwined at last.

Her soft, warm flesh feels like pure bliss, as I stare endlessly into her deep, enchanting eyes. It is all so perfect, until she pours my head next to hers and bites me on the neck. I push her away for a moment, and see that the look of desire in her eyes has changed to one of hatred and anger. She lunges back at me, trying to scratch and claw with an insatiable blood loss. I grab her by the throat and begin squeezing until the light in her eyes is extinguished.

I thought she was different from the others. It's a shame she'll just be another part of my collection tomorrow. Right now, I feel a bit weary. I'll just sleep beside her for tonight Chapter 4 The Basement It's been a slow night at the bar And hardly anyone is making a move

I begin to wonder if I need to adjust my wardrobe When suddenly he walks in Immediately, I know that this little grin is a facade And that he's hiding something He sees me And already starts making his way over I can tell this one's going to be tricky. He can barely hide his eagerness to talk to me.

I get the, What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this, routine from him. Though he phrases it a touch more eloquently, he claims that I'm far too beautiful to be surrounded by such a crass and ill-mannered bunch of ruffians. I admit, it has a tad quiet. classier than the usual array of terrible pickup lines may news on me.

But it is a means to the same end. I smile and introduce myself. He says his name is Jacob. He seems charming enough. Had I not been so intent on finding his dark side, I may have even been fooled into thinking he was a nice guy. But I can see it in his eyes. Then he's hiding something.

And I'm going to find out what it is. He bores me for what feels like in eternity with meaningless small talk, and I pretend to be interested. What's worse is how he keeps staring at me. I get the feeling that he's admiring me, but also judging my intentionally modest wardrobe choices. Then again, if I were wearing a sexy dress, this creep probably wouldn't have the balls to approach me. Unfortunately, the bastard invites me back to his place.

Before I get a chance to drug his whiskey, I can't say no if I want to keep him on the hook long enough to find out what he's hiding. So I'll just have to be extra careful and rely on the element of surprise. I pretend to be tipsy so he walks me out to his car. He holds the door and touches my hair as I sat down in the passenger seat. I suppose he thinks he's being a gentleman. We arrive at his place, which I expect to be a filthy bachelor pad littered with porn. Instead, there's a well-kept house, with enough room for a small family. He warns me not to go into the basement, claiming it has a rat problem.

But I immediately know I have to find a way to get down there. You see, it's always the one place they do. tell you not to go that will house their darkest secrets. He shows me to his guest room and quickly retrieves some sweatpants and a t-shirt for me to sleep in. I turn on the charm and ask, why a guest room and pajamas instead of your bed and my underwear? He says, because I respect your beauty too much to take advantage of you in such a manner. I last. I last. and tell him I was only pretending to be drunk so he'd take me home jokingly I offered a proof it by walking a straight line I walk right up to him and we start making out we go to

his bedroom and I ask him if he has protection he says he does so I tell him to put it on while I change I know this is my chance to see the basement while he anxiously awaits my return. In order to make my excuse valid, I quickly change into the sweatpants and shirt before I go. I make my way down the dark steps, filling around for a light switch or a flashlight. There's an awful stench coming from deep within the basement. Smells like chemicals and death. And for a moment, I consider that maybe Jacob was telling the truth. Then, a thing Then string brushes past my face, and I reach for it. It has a little plastic piece on the end, and I realize it must be a pull string for a light bulb.

I pull down on it, and the room is illuminated. The cold stone walls are lined with dead bodies of women. All of them are dressed in various outfits, most of which are sexualized. I can also see makeup and jewelry carefully placed on each one. It takes everything I have not to scream in horror at the sight of them. Jacob is worse than any of the pigs I've ever tested before. He doesn't just objectify women. He kills them.

I quietly turn out the light and make my way back up the stairs. I go back into his bedroom and joke about how I changed into the sweatpants because they were more comfortable. I take them off. get on top of him and we start to have sex god even now he can't stop staring at me i can't stop thinking about what he did to those women how he killed them dressed up their bodies and did god knows what else to them it's all so sick i pull him close pretend to bite him on the neck and inject him with the poison. Tonight's episode is sponsored by A.G1. AG1 is a comprehensive and convenient blend of over 70 vitamins, minerals, and other ingredients,

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Obsession by Gelfwyn. I'm just a normal guy. Well, I got lucky. I proved to be really good at something I loved. People started to buy my drawings, then my paintings. Then before I knew it,

I was having wines I couldn't even even. name in houses too damn big for a family of twelve. Being asked to host a charity event wasn't that unusual. Being told I would be co-hosting with a writer I'd never heard of was. I mean, I've been a co-host when I was starting out and a few more times over the past few years, but I knew all of the co-hosts. All as famous or more so than I. But this person, this age. This is a Wintling. Never heard of them. What did they even write anyway? My agent tossed me a book. Horror, but not the usual killer in the closet ship. She finds your worst fears and then whispers them into your ear. This is huge. Her first time in public. Maybe it was time to get a new agent. Great. A new

newcomer, one no one knew, hadn't been in public. This sounded like a shitstorm in a tin can shack. Can't say why I took the book, but I did. Tost it in the car and drove along the coast. Book was my passenger for a week before one day I was caught in one of the jams and saw it, picked it up and flipped through. I didn't want to put it down. Distracted, I barely managed not to wreck the car on the way home. And once there, there was something wrong. The book was called Tales Told Beneath a Starry Scar. I was trying to read it in bright California sun.

I set it aside, painted, made a meal. I waited till the sun became a blaze of colours, and the night came creeping. across the land. Then, I picked it up, and it wasn't fighting me now. It was willing, eager to tell me the tales. I devoured the book, every single tale, every sentence, every disclaimer, the foreword, the last line. Will you welcome my tales again? I sat there, blinking at that question, Was there another book? Ah, Google search, I love you. Tales spoken beneath the hidden moon.

Damn it. In stock at the now-closed bookstore nearby. It will be ten more hours before I could have that book in my hands. Hidden moon. That had to be a new moon. I caught myself seeking the moon out. And, seeing it as a fading sun. sliver, I smiled. And then, I felt like an idiot. What if the book had been named

Talespoken under a bridge? Would I have been sitting beside some homeless guy reading it? I picked up the book I had and devoured every story again, knowing the answer is yes. If it would only allow me to read it sitting in a tutu on top of a fountain in the middle of the I would. I should have burned that book and never gone to that bookstore. I spent another hour on the computer. Two books out. A third had been published but not released. Aza, winterly. Age unknown. The only picture was from the back of the second book. A grainy black and white photo of someone walking along a tree covered up. Shadows hiding almost everything about her. The hair was long. I mistook it for a cloak at first. That was the only detail I had.

Already fan pages, declarations of undying love, of willingness to be her slave, just whisper to them and they would love her. Obey her. Follow her through broken glass. Wait, what was that third book? I went looking again. Tales whispered through a broken window. I was exhausted and anxious.

I wanted to be up in time to get that second book. I wanted that third book now. I wanted... I called my agent. Yes, yes, I'll do the show, but I want an advanced copy of that third book, and I want it now. So, would I be able to read it?

Or was I going to have to break a window somewhere? I wrote emails to everyone I could think of about the book, about the writer. Who was she? How did you pronounce the name? Ah, Zah? Hey, Zay. I passed out on my desk.

Phone alarms screaming at me too soon, waking and heading out the door. I was still wearing yesterday's clothing when I went to the store. The woman looked at me strangely as she unlocked the door. Yes, we have it. Only the one copy arrived yesterday. Weird thing. It only ever had a little. comes in a few at a time.

There's always the exact number needed for people asking for it the next day. I just didn't expect you the moment the door of it was solid, real in my hands. Twelve tales just like the first.

I cheated, flipping to the very last line. If I whisper, will you hear me? Yes. Pigeons startled into the air, and a few early morning people turned to stare at me. Oh, had I said that aloud?

No, I had screamed it. I tucked it into my shirt and almost ran to my car before looking at the picture on the back cover. Already I knew there were twelve trees, one for every story. Long hair. Must be a pale color. color. Blonde, maybe. The black and white turned it to ghostly pain.

The path was old. She was between the fifth and sixth pair of trees walking toward the camera. But I couldn't see her face. Jeans. Slacks. A coat the wind had caught

and tossed like her hair. Leaves raced across the path fleeing the wind. Vague, blur. my fingers trace the edge soon I would be on a stage with her what does she look like would the audience be my fans

or hers eager for a first glimpse of her none more eager than I what would her voice sound like would she be young old married I

why was I even thinking this? I read 12 short stories and suddenly I was obsessed with someone I knew nothing about. I wanted to read this new book. I did read the foreword. I even tried to sneak the first story. But bright morning light did not fit the story. I couldn't see the words blinded it.

The day was long. My agent called, but see what he could do. Aza? No, he didn't know much about her. Someone described her as a fairy princess of nightmares. Lunch was dull. My paintings were vivid, dark images from the stories. A red scarf.

A bird with a ringing in its beak. A child's skipping rope. A rose held in my face. bloody hands. I didn't even know I painted them until they were staring back in me. Maybe I could offer them to her for her books if she promised to tell me more of her tailants. Oh, who was I kidding? I hadn't even read the second book, and I could tell you I would crawl through that broken window. I would take a shard of glass and offer up my flesh and blood to hear more of her

tanks. Can't tell you what I ate as I sat on the back patio. Watch the sunset with not my usual calm appraisal, but in patience. I needed the new moon to rise already. As it did, and I tore the book open. Twelve stories. Twelve nightmares.

brought to life by mere words. Past midnight as I closed the book and stared at the photo. Twelve trees, six on either side. I had made a mistake. She was between the fourth and fifth set of trees. Aza, misery. I had no idea when I would hold a third book. And more.

The fourth, was it even started? Fifth, how many tales, nightmares. I was spiraling into grief at the thought of those empty nights. Oh, I should have paced myself. I had only one a night. I was as greedy as a child on Halloween night. I'd stuffed my face with a chocolate, and now I had nothing but apples and tooth rushes in my bed.

Aza. She would have a voice like rain, like, soft She would be my age With long, pale hair Eyes Her eyes had to be extraordinary Eyes were the window to the soul

And any soul that wrote those tales Hazer You idiot I would reread those two books Till they were memorized By already knew it A poem. One of the fancites had a picture of a poem written for charity. Hand-written. I couldn't make it out. I tried every search I could.

No joy was had in Mudville this night. I woke to the chime of my email and treacherous, cruel, bright sun. My agent, please let her have the third book. I will ration it out. a single tale a night only one I know better now I have to nibble at this third look not devour it so greedily the email address startles me winteling a sound file I do the unthinkable and download it without even thinking of scanning it it is transferred to my phone and I start my day it's there

waiting for me. I know it is a story. I know it's going to be her voice, whisper it to me. I can't hear her in the garish light of day. I have to wait for the stars to make her loud enough to hear. Torture. I keep staring at my phone. It's there. Waiting. I can't think of anything. And what will she whisper to me? What will she tell me? I tried to nap, waking fretfully, thinking I'd missed the night. The phone hugged tight to my chest.

Two more hours till sunset. I feel like screaming. I want to hear her voice with no light but the stars shining on me. I want to close my eyes and pretend she is standing there beside me, whispering. Those few hours aged me years. And then it was dark enough. A few sweeps of a finger, a press,

slit the earbuds in and closed eyes. Hello, I understand you wish to hear my tale. Her voice was more than I dreamed, low and soft. A sweetness to it, a steel to it. clean and musical. It soothed my aching and longing. It comforted me. Forty-one minutes, she whispered an eye and listened.

I was shaking and sweaty when it ended. No goodbye, no warning. I was a man who was a hand's breath from the top of a mountain and now cascading down the side of it. I was crying, tears ran unheeded, burning my eyes. I wanted to play it again, but I couldn't. Already I knew every word,

every breath she had taken. And I needed more. I hated myself for this need. I poured myself into her painting, a man reaching up for a salvation that would never come. Myself? No. The story had lingered, and I was,

was now trying to purge it. Or maybe to catch it and hold it for my own. I had worked on it for hours, exhausting myself, but even I could tell it was nothing like my usual work. No, it was better. I passed out on the couch too tired to bother climbing the stairs to one of the bedrooms above. I dreamed. Oh God, that dreams were. like her voice, there but untouchable, leaving me waking with a scream that had the maid crossing herself and me blinking in confusion. Oh yes, Marta came in every afternoon and kept the place from looking abandoned. Rising and stumbling to my bathroom with a muttered apology, she tusked me and wondered what vice I had taken up. Her eyes accused me. Her eyes accused me.

me silently. But I'd not even had wine to eat. The shower was cold. I needed it to wash the cobwebs from my mind. I needed it to cleanse my soul and make me pure again. Make me ready for what? I barely bothered toweling off and stumbled to the office. Towel wadded up for an attempt of decency. Marta huffed and vanished to the kitchen. Yeah, I was giving her enough to gossip about. I heard her muttering in her native language. Leave it to me to hire an Irish woman who actually spoke gaelic. Usually, when she needed to say something, I would have been unhappy to hear.

But right now, I only wanted my email. The phone was dead, left unplugged. The computer seemed to taunt me with the time it took to boot up and finally. reach my email. I refreshed several times, unwilling to believe my eyes, nothing. Well, letters from a dozen or so people wanting my attention. Gallery owners, agent, lawyers, the people hosting the charity event where I would be on stage with her. That one I opened. The usual information, praise and thanks as well as legal disclaimers. yada yada yada yada i dress slowly feeling lost i should go out and do what nothing felt exciting to me i was grieving the silence as i retreated back to my studio here the scent of paint thinners and varnish surrounded me sunlight assaulted me usually a welcome friend but today it mocked me

Aza belonged to the cool and secretive nights, to rainy days and stormy skies. I picked up the book, looking at the only picture I had of her, and frowning. The figure was closer, halfway down the path now. But photos couldn't move. I was positive it was the same book, the same photo. But it wasn't. Maybe I was imagining it had to be. I picked out a new canvas, the largest I had, and started painting blindly.

It was a woman that emerged, half leaning against a pillow, pouting lips, delicate face, long hair the colour of moonlight, a flawless beauty in an old-fashioned nightgap, a fairy, awakening. The background was darkness, blood, fire, images peeking out, half-glimped nightmares at odds with the woman. I had no clue when I was painting or where it came from. My hands flew about with no command from me, and things appeared. When I stepped back it was night and the painting was finished. The woman was close to life-size, a face, hair.

shoulder and upper body arms fading away looking over her shoulder as if trying to understand what had disturbed her sleep gown rumpled and falling in silky folds all around in the darkness

were hints of something I couldn't quite piece together betrayals deaths fears pain I cleaned my hands and went to see what martyr had left for me to eat

soup sat in a crop part a wrapped plate in the fridge my phone sat on the counter a blue light blinking to let me know there were things it had to tell me and i cared not wait maybe one was an email alert i grabbed it and yes there were more emails but none that i cared for no moon to-night heavy clouds hid the stars. I was abandoned. Hello. Stepping out onto the patio, the air was humid and stifling. I gave a thought to raiding the bar for something strong, and just sitting out here till the sun chased me back inside. I was undecided when the phone chimed. I yelped in surprise, then scrambled to find it. Unknown call. blocked number. I meant to reject it. Instead, I answered it. Then her voice made me stumble and sit down, right there on the stone steps. The heat and heavy air faded. The night vanished and I

was taken to another place. I watched a traveling caravan approach, an old village at the edge of the woods. I watched a dancer and a violin player enchant the townspeople. Firelight flickering. I heard it crackle. I heard the horses, the dogs, children. And then I was tumbled back to harsh stone steps and a night that threatened to suffocate me. Thunder rumbled and lightning edged the clouds. A rare storm was brewing and I needed to. to get inside. Wait, what had that story been again? I hadn't heard it. I had lived it. I made it inside before the storm started, retreating to the studio where I could watch it, where I could hope to make sense of what had happened. I must have slept, because I woke to sunlight and

and Marta gasping and praying. She stared, wide-eyed at the painting of the woman, crossing herself and looking at me in horror. Lainan siege it. Hands moving frantically, she backed away and muttered Hail Mary's. Before I could stop her, she was gone, out the side door, into her car and down the driveway. What in the third.

hell? I needed a shower. Coffee, sleep in a bed. Not sure what order I should go in when I stumbled first to the kitchen. The soup and the plate both sat untouched. I hadn't eaten the night before. Maybe that was why I was stumbling and out of sorts this morning. Now, what martyr's problem was, I couldn't say. Oh, coffee. That's. would be a start hot shower then bed a real bed where was my phone still in the studio need to plug it in my only lifeline to her sweet Jesus I needed to get my head together before I was howling like a cartoon wolf the moment I met her and I would meet her Maybe there would be meetings before the event, they usually were.

The painting still waited, nearly dried now. The dreamer awakening. Yes, that would be his name. The phone was on the floor, making sure the ringtone was loud enough to awaken me. I headed toward my room. The shower cleared some of the fog away. Damn, I never had gotten the coffee. later. Sleep first, then go out get a meal and some overpriced over-sugged coffee, and then,

well, I would try and act normal again. Get back to my normal habits and pretend that these past few days of obsession hadn't happened. Someone had replaced my bed with a torture device. I tossed and turned. The sheets were like sandpaper. The mattress stuffed with gravel. The room was too bright, too hot, too cold, to everything and anything. I crawled out of bed miserable. The coffee was half whiskey as I stumbled to the studio. Marta hadn't cleaned, nor would she return. The service she was hired through had left messages apologising and offering replacements.

I left a cranky message to have someone that wouldn't run shrieking at the sight of a painting. there that afternoon. The painting was still not dry, nor was it finished. I now added more to the blackness, firelight gleaming on blood, a horse-hoof stamping into dirt, a violin being played by pale hands,

fading as if out of focus. The gate-buzzer made me growl and come out of my trance. Why would anyone disturb me while I was busy, with, oh, the maid service. I hit the remote for the gate. She came in timidly, a small Hispanic woman with grey shot hair in a tight bun. I waved towards the kitchen, mumbling something that made a fight to hide her frown. I didn't care. Clean the rooms and get out, leave me to my work. I needed to finish adding the story from last night to the pay. painting. This was going to be the gift I presented to her when we did the event. I had to finish it.

Had to add the nightmare she whispered off to the disturbed sleeper. Oh yes. Maybe that should be the painting's name. I didn't know anymore. Maybe I should have her name it. Her words would be perfect. Another intrusion. A tray dropped. Plates braced. and spearing their contents all over the floor. Madre de Dios, demonio. What in the nine levels of hell? Two maids in two days, shrieking and running from the painting that was going to be my greatest artwork.

Screw it. I could pick up after myself till I found someone that wasn't crazy. Food was scattered over the floor. Soup and sandwiches it looked like. when was the last time I'd eaten didn't matter clean the mess up before it attracted pests then back to the painting I needed to finish it when she called tonight I would no no I wanted to surprise her to see her eyes widened in delight that I had brought her words to life coffee and one of those containers of who knew what overpriced whiskey. That would do for dinner. Then clean the paint

off myself. Another storm was coming, so I headed up to the rarely used overlook on the roof. It had a view worth every bit of the money the house had cost me, built over the canyon, peering down to the city, the ocean. Coyotes yelped somewhere far below, getting ready for a night of raiding trash cans and chasing housepets. I wondered for a moment why I rarely came up here. True, by day it was a furnace. But here, at night, would Aza lean against that rail right there

and tell me her story ideas? Would she even like this house? It was bright and airy, perfect for my paintings normally. But she was a creature of secrets and shadows. candlelight for her rather than a 12-foot glass monster of a chandelier. Yes, I decided. I would have it remodeled to make this a suitable place to sit at night

and watch the city in a distance. To look down into the dark canyon and imagine more than just the wildlife that prowled it, I would offer her the choice of rooms to turn into a workroom for herself. I no longer doubted that I would be hers, and she mine. I needed her voice more than breath. Why was that damn phone silent?

I collapsed in a lounger, desolate and abandoned, lost beneath the clouds that hid the stars. The phone was failing me, I knew it had to be so. She would not forget, not neglect the nightly wreaths. ritual. Thunder in a distance. A fox screamed. Random sounds of life drifted up to me. I picked up the book, glancing at the only picture I had of her. It was wrong. The path was there, the trees. The leaves still chased by a forgotten wind. But she was not in the picture. Shaking, I stared at it. This was

impossible. I could convince myself I'd imagined her coming closer in the picture, but vanishing. Footsteps so soft I at first mistook them for imagination. A hand brushed against my head. Will you listen to my tail? I wanted to look at her, to ask how she found me, to ask how she got here, to hug her close, to grovel at her feet. I closed my eyes and relaxed. A single word breathed out as I felt my body grow heavy. He watched as the officer has left his office. He had been the only contact number.

He waited several minutes before he leaned back and smiled. So there was yet another member of the 27 Club. And the paintings he'd been struggling to sell a month ago would now be worth a fortune. He smiled and called the man who had told him how to get his client back into the headlines. Frank, it worked. Can't believe it, but it really happened. Yeah, sometime last night he decided to walk off the roof deck of his house.

Forty-story fall, and a couple of hundred feet into the canyon. Ech, gonna be a closed casket. But you know what that means? Oh yes, there will be conspiracy theories for years to come saying he fate is dead. What? Go and find the last work. Need to make sure it's hidden. Why? It'll be worth a fortune. Yeah, yeah, okay. I understand that's just part of the contract.

Can't let the last work ever be seen. His eyes noticed an announcement. Aza Wintling's new book was released a record-breaking first-day sales. The fourth book had also been announced, stepping into an eternity. Hmm. What an odd title. He put the phone down. He would need to go find the painting there. He wasn't convinced in magic.

But right now it was better to be. be cautious. No reason to have whatever this demon muse was, angry with him. After all, he might soon have another client to offer her. A third fantastic offering is my first one-star review on Airbnb by Shorke 11. Buckle up boys and girls. My buddy and I just experienced some grade A creepy shit. While on a trip to Red Rocks in Colorado, I write a lot of things down anyway, and so I figured I might as well post this story here and see what you guys think. So, who here has used Airbnb? Raise his hand.

I think I've used it no less than 20 times. All great experience up until this point. Seriously? Well, I need to go ahead and preface this by saying that, while I could send you a link to this house. it wouldn't do any good because it's not there anymore. But we'll get to that later. I'm guessing since you're reading this, you're probably a bit like me.

A big reader, kind of weird, generally a fan of being scared. More power to you. My buddy will call him John is the same way. So, a few weeks ago John and I saw that one of our favorites, band was going to be playing at Red Rocks. We've been talking about making a trip up there for years now. We live in Florida, and the timing seemed perfect.

Both of our wives are pregnant, and the thought process was that if we're going to make a trip like this, it was now or never. The drive was going to take about 24 hours. So we decided we would drive until about midnight after we got off work, find a place to crash and finish the drive the next day. I immediately hopped onto Airbnb and started looking for somewhere cool to stay. Remember what I said earlier about being into the slightly creepy.

Well, I'm scrolling through potential places to see in Tennessee since it's about eight hours from Tampa where we live. I come across this majestic plantation-style house in some place called Sequoci, Tennessee. The pictures look amazing and it only costs $30 a night to stay there. $30 gets you the upstairs suite, complete with its own bathroom. You can tell that it sits on a tall hill in the woods, overlooking a fairly large valley. It's a sprawling two-story house,

white wood with ferns hanging off the wraparound porch. It looks like something from to kill a mockingbird. and I'm immediately sending John's screenshots like, dude, we have got to stay here. He takes back, equally enthused. He does point out, however, that the place has no reviews. Now, in my book, this is an Airbnb no-no. But the place seems cool, and it's so cheap and, well, what can I say?

I was feeling spontaneous. So I booked it. Strict cancellation policy be dead. I mean, you can't beat $15 per person. We would play rock, paper, scissors to see who got the bed when we got there. A couple of weeks go by, and the day of our trip finally arrives. We both get off work at four and meet up, already packed and ready to go. We knew that the trip from Tampa to Sequochi would take about eight hours,

so we didn't waste any time getting on the interstate. Honestly, the drive up there was pretty uneventful, so I'll spare you the details. By the time we make it into Tennessee, it's approaching midnight. When we get off the interstate and head towards the address, it's dark. It doesn't get this dark in Tampa. Apparently the town of Sequoci isn't overly concerned with things like street lines.

The cell service finally dwindled to nothing, about 15 minutes after getting off the interstate. Surprise, surprise. But John was smart enough to get a screenshot of the route beforehand, so it wouldn't be lost. Five-star wingman there, ladies and gentlemen. We navigate some serious backroads, eventually leaving the pavement behind for a long gravel driveway. It didn't stick out at the time as much as it does in retrospect, but the mailbox was actually lying on the ground, causing us to miss the turn on the first pass. Only after getting out in the pitch darkness and examining the fading address tickets by the light of John's phone

did we determine that we were indeed on the right track. We continue up the driveway, if not with a little more skepticism than before. It winds on for I shit you not. minutes through some mountainous territory. At times the grade became serious enough that I thought I might have to put my forerunner into four-wheel drive. We finally come around a bend in the drive that opens up onto a large field. In the distance I see the house briefly as my high beam swing across it during the turn. I think that was the first time that I really became

concerned that something wasn't right. In the brief seconds that my headlights illuminated the house, it was obvious that the pictures had been deceiving. It was, without a doubt, the same house, where it clearly hadn't been cared for in some time. Half of the shutters were hanging off haphazardly. The white paint was dirty and chipping. The ferns from the picture had long since withered away. My car continues the turn, and the house is once again obscured by darkness. as we make our way around the perimeter of the field in front of it.

I remember John saying something along the lines of, What the fuck have you gotten us into? As we pulled to a stop in front of a massive old willow tree that served as the end of the driveway. It looked like some ancient sentinel in the semi-darkness. The house stands about 30 yards away from the end of the drive. I notice, with relief, that it does have electricity.

At the side door there's one of those old-fashioned yellow light bulbs casting a sickish glow onto the surrounding bushes and the sidewalk leading to the driveway. I turn off the car and try to lighten the mood by saying something my grandfather always used to say.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. John cast me a sideways glance and smirks. We could leave. find a motel six or just take turns driving at this point my creep meter was quietly pinging it around six out of ten just on the threshold of uncomfortable but not quite there yet definitely not motel six uncomfortable come on john where's your sense of adventure i say as i swing my door open and hop out my feet make a scrunch sound as they meet the gravel and I'm immediately struck by how loud the sound of the summer bugs is.

We grab our backpacks and pillows and make our way down a very old sidewalk toward that yellow light. For some reason, it reminds me of a hospital. The instruction said, check in whenever the key will be under the mat. John stooped and lifts the corner of the ancient mat. underneath is a skeleton key roughly the length of my hand pretty cool

he stands up with it and we just sort of stare at each other for a second the door has a large frosted window and we can see that it's pitch black inside he shakes his head at me and sticks the key in the lock the deadbolt makes an ungodfully loud kachunk sound

that, I swear, echoes. I reach past John and push the door inward. The air that blows out as the door opens is stale. It smells like air that has been sitting still since the Paleozoic era. Now, I need to be clear that it doesn't stink. It's just thick with a smell of disuse, if that makes sense. John gestures for me to go first. so I do.

If I'm being honest, I think at this point my creep meter had probably edged up to a seven. Still quiet, but now a more pronounced pulse. Still not a motel six uncomfortable, but the place just felt so empty. I shine my cell phone light around in front of me

as John follows me through the door. We are in a large kitchen, huge even. He gently eased. the door shut. Every footstep sounds like a squeaky explosion on the weathered hard wood, and John shushes me as I make my way towards the counter on the other side of the room. I can see a piece of printer paper illuminated there. My stomach drops as I get closer. Now, you're going to think I'm making this up, but I swear to God. It's a piece of printer paper with the words,

make yourself at home scrolled on it in blue crayon and it looks like it was written by a toddler each letter is blocky crooked and two inches tall a turn and look at John as he begins to read it over my shoulder and I immediately recognize his

nope the fuck out of here expression his eyes are huge Dude What the fuck Dude What the fuck He's looking over my shoulder now I snapped my head around in the direction of his gaze

What What is it He's looking out of a huge window Through it The tree line is dimly illuminated in the hazy yellow glow From the bulb outside the door I just saw something moving out there I swear, just past the edge of the woods.

I strain my eyes, but see only the trees in their shifting shadows. It seems like the wind is picking up. If the crayon hadn't done it, John's outburst had, I was officially Motel 6 uncomfortable. Let's get out of here. You're right. We can find another place to stay. Sleeping in the car would be better than this. John is a hundred percent on board.

We make our way out of the kitchen and let the door slam, no longer worrying about being quiet. I'm actually jogging by the time we get halfway down the sidewalk. My backpack bouncing awkwardly. John beats me back to the car, and I see his shoulder slump as he slows down. What? I ask. And then I see.

The tires. All four tires are completely flat. That's when the screaming started. Martin! Martin, companies here. John and I were both frozen in place. Our eyes locked together. We had both been so transfixed by the discovery of the flat tires

that the sound of this woman's frantic shouts had put us into a kind of terrified stupor. My stomach felt like a twisted nod. John was facing away from the house, and over his shoulder I could see what appeared to be an old woman in a white nightshed. She was barefoot and pacing along the edge of the woods near where we had just come from, barely visible in the edge of the dim yellow light. My eyes widened as she leaned towards the trees,

and raised her hands to her mouth. Martin, it's time. John found his voice. Shit, shit, shit. Sean, what's she doing? What is she doing out here in the middle of the night? We need to be quiet. We had both ducked behind the car.

But I doubted that she'd be able to see us out here in the darkness anyway. I peeped over the hood toward the sounds. She was walking rapidly back and fall, slightly hunched over, staring into the dark tree. We must have run right by her on our way back to the car without even noticing. The thought of her lurking in the shadows while we hurried out of the house sent to chill down my spine. Just as I thought this, she screamed once more.

her voice cracking with the strain. She paused for just a moment as if listening, and then disappeared into the woods. The old lady literally just ran into the dark woods. No flashlight, no shoes. The sound of the night insects seemed to swell in the absence of her screams. Have you ever been in an extremely high-pressure situation? The adrenaline rush really does make it feel like time slows down.

In the moment of surreality, two facts pushed themselves to the front of my mind. Bright red and almost tangible. We had lost cell service miles before reaching the house. Driving out of here in our car was not an option. The tyres weren't just low. The rims were resting on the gravel driveway. That wouldn't work, no, sir. We wouldn't get ten feet.

John seemed to have reached a similar conclusion and raised a fantastic counterpoint. I bet they have a phone in there, like a house phone. Old people love landlines. True, but I saw one glaring issue. Yeah, I really don't want to go back inside. We don't even know that it's empty. She could be back any time, I said.

I noticed a pickup truck park near a dilapidated shed near the other side of the house. It looked ancient and rusted, but all the ties seemed to be full of air. Potential. Let's go check that truck for keys. John nodded, and I was already running, dropping my backpack as I took off. I wasn't sure who Martin was, and I wanted things to see. stay that way. We cleared the yard in 15 seconds, and the house had now obscured our view of the woods where the old woman had disappeared. I jerked the handle, and it swung open with a groan.

John was on the passenger side and already had his cell phone light on. Together we searched for the keys, above the visors, in the cup holders. Every nook and cluel. We found nothing. As neither of us knew how to hot wire a car, we needed a new plan. Okay, I said, I vote when we run for it. John opened his mouth to protest, and I talked louder. You saw that lady. She's completely bad shit. She slashed our fucking tires, and now she's running to get help. She could come back any time.

I know, I know, John. said. But you have to remember, we basically drove up a mountain to get here. And I don't remember seeing a single car after we got off the interstains. It could be hours before we find somebody, and that nut job could just run us down in our truck. Hmm, a good point. The prospect of wandering in the dark for hours loomed ominously. So, I relented. Fine, we have to go now. if we're going. And then we were running again, aiming for that sickish yellow glow near the kitchen door. The air rushing past my ears.

As we got closer, I could see the spot where the woman had run into the trees. Nothing there but darkness now. Despite our rush, we paused for a moment outside the door to peer through the frosted glass. Still pitch, black, dark. I took a deep breath and pushed the door in, and again we were met with the smell of air that had been sitting still for ages. The kitchen seemed to yawn backwards into deeper darkness, and my cell phone light swept over the countertops in search of a phone or a cord.

John checked the other side, and we met near the back wall. Nothing, I whispered. John nodded his consensus. Outside the window that faced the woods, I saw only the empty yard and the dark tree line, shifting in the breeze. Let's check one more room, and then we get the fuck out of here. The door out of the kitchen opened onto a long hallway.

The other end of it was just visible at the edge of my flashlight's beam. my heartbeat pounded in my ears and I whirled my legs forward with considerable efforts I got to the end of the hallway and stopped John bumped into me and actually pushed me further into the room I leaned back to try and escape from what I was seeing but it did no good I felt like my legs were about to give out Every wall was covered in thick, black writing.

Symbols I had never seen before. Symbols that I had seen before. My name. But one word stuck out. Written on the floor. Written on the dam ceiling in that same childlike scroll. Martin. And then I was screaming.

And John was screaming. and as I began to voice the word run I realized that a third voice had joined the cacophony her ancient grey face was pressed against the window black eyes darting back and forth as she cackle our eyes met and she was laughing and screaming and foaming at the mouth oh god Martin he's coming Martin is coming

and she was sobbing and laughing and screaming. Oh, God help us, and her face was twisted in glee and agony as she smashed it through the window and kept screaming as the blood began to flow. Martin is here. He's here. And my legs were moving. Then the breath left my lungs in gasps and spurts, as I followed John back through the kitchen door and into the yard. And oh God, why was it so broken?

ride out here in the middle of the night. We ran down the drive and into the woods and we ran until we couldn't run anymore. And then we ran some more. John, shaking me. The sun was shining. A truck. A truck was coming. Got to get up. The fog lifted a bit and I saw John running towards the road with his arms out. The kid looked 17 at most. I heard him, say he had a room and I stumbled out of the culvert in which I had apparently been lying. The clock on the dash said seven, twelve. When the police got there, the house was on fire and had already burned most of the way there. When John and I recounted the story, they reacted with visible skepticism.

I can't blame them, really. Nothing unusual at the scene. Definitely no bodies. I still don't know who that old lady was, or Martin for that matter. They told us that the house had been abandoned for as long as they could remember. We're both fine, for the most part. All that is to say is, be careful when using Airbnb. Most of the ones that have a few decent reviews are probably safe, but...

Tonight's penultimate tale of terror is a banshee's cry by the soul, Fistair. I felt the presence of the woman in white before I heard her call. My body suddenly plagued by shudders and a sense of dark foreboding. The fear, the lament and the pain ached through my ragged body, telling me she would be with her soon, to sing to us to us, the song of the dam. Short, shallow breaths escape my broken lungs as I felt I moved closer to the ramshackle hut I call home. Suddenly she let loose her screeching whale, sending me to the floor in a heap, sobbing and soaked in my own fear-induced urine. I now knew what my role was. My fate was sealed by the call of the banshee. The cry of the woman in white. I shakily brought myself to

my feet and slowly made my way to the door. My hand reached out. and grasped the rusted metal handle. The door swung open, rusted hinges creaking, and for the first time in my bleak life, I saw the banshee, the summoner of my kind to their demise or fortune. The woman's dress was so white, so pristine,

it illuminated the perpetual night of the Black King's Land. As my decrepit eyes ran over her, I was taken aback by her unyielding beauty. The white dress hung loose and translucent, showing her womanly curves and taut breasts. If my body wasn't so corrupted and diseased, I would have felt a masculine hunger, but all that ran through me was a sense of longing

for a touch of humanity again. Her wailing song stopped abruptly as I made my way to her. Her glowing white eyes stared at me as I kneeled before her other worldly presence. Her disgust was palpable as she took in the sight of my wretched figure and I counted myself lucky that I have not seen a mirror in thousands of years.

I realized I'd been staring and cast my eyes down to the ground to not upset the one piece of beauty left in a world destroyed. But as I did I felt to touch my broken body. The pains and aches with thousands of years of torment suddenly dissipated while I felt my bones rebuild themselves and my ruptured organs mend I heard a soft melodious voice whisper in my head awry hearing her speak to me

sent a warmth through my body a warmth that my people haven't felt in eons I arose quick to my feet but kept my eyes down on the ground still wanting to respect my saviour chosen of the black king. Her beautiful voice whispered through my soul. So many have failed, but you are the one who will bring us back the light. My heart let with joy. I was the true chosen. All the pain and torture were quickly forgotten, for I was to be the one who lit the darkness aflame and gave the black king back his empire. The glory itself would be enough for me, but I would be rewarded with riches and land and maybe even my manhood again. I boldly looked into the empty eyes with the banshee. If I was the chosen knight, why could I not? As I raised my eyes to hers,

a smile appeared on her bright red lips that contrasted beautifully to her pale, radiant skin. She leaned close to me, and I felt the heat emanating off her lips as she pressed them against my mouth. It was as if she lit my body ablaze. Another first in ages. I felt passion burned through my body, and any fear I had for my coming trial subsided completely. I knew right then and there I would do anything to feel this every day. no man or beast would stop me from taking back the light.

I will do the king's bidding, my lady. My voice crackled and broke up the words, the first of which I have spoken in many sunless days. Her smile seemed to grow brighter as she pointed in a direction behind me. Go, don the armour, find the gate, defeat the take, of light, bring us out of the darkness. And with that the banshee disappeared, back into the void from where she resides. The taker of light. Was it someone or something that took the light from our world? How? Why would something exist so cruel as to send millions into inflexible

darkness? Whoever, or whatever it is, I swear. to defeat. I will be the king's chosen night and bring light and warmth back to my home. If not for me, then for the beauty of the banshee. Newly determined, and the thoughts of the lady's soft caress to keep me warm, I set forth on my destiny. The path before me was a treacherous cobblestone road that weaved through the burnt forest and ended at the abandoned capital. As I took my first steps, the sense of confidence I had while in the banshee's presence slightly subsided. The darkness is something I am accustomed to, but the eternal blackness that surrounded my hovel sent chills down my spine and filled my soul with a palpable dread. I took a deep breath, feeling air fill my lungs, almost not noticing the lack of rattle in them.

and move forward at a slow pace. I knew the direction I must go. The pilgrimage that I am embarking on is not one we are told of, but one that runs through our blood. The message is clear. Once the night falls, the banshee will find the next, until the chosen knight reigns victorious and brings back the light. In all my years as a subject of the king,

I've heard the banshee scream thousands of times, always in groups of two. The first signifies a fellow knight has fallen. How? I do not know. The second is outside the hut of the next night in line. Over the few weeks before my selection, I could hear the banshee getting ever closer, knowing my time to make the journey was close at hand. I forced myself to focus on the mission and no longer dwell on my unpleasant past. I was a new man that chosen night to lead the king's land back to its glory. My focus relit and my pace quickened. I made my way forward, feeling the pull of the gate as my body kept me in the right direction. I edged closer and closer to the burnt forest, my eyes landing on a bulky black chest.

the armour each night only had loose rags befitting of only a peasant but once they set out on their journey they were to find the armour of the pilgrimage and wear it into battle against the king's enemies I ran to the chest feeling the excitement burned through my body

the chest itself was magnificent the wood charred black to match the rest of the rest of of our world, was engraved with ancient signs, signifying it was the property of the king himself. I fumbled with a rusted metal latch and popped open the top, catching my first glimpse of the armour. It was truly a work of art. The armour was dark of night itself, with the hooded skull embossed over crossing swords on the breastplate. The elbow joints and the knee covers had thin, extremely sharp blades running parallel with the arms and legs of the armour, showing it was

not only beautiful but also deadly. Like a child on the morning of their birthday, I tore into the chest and started donning the armour as I tightened the last strap of the leg pieces. My eyes fell on a small latch at the bottom of the chest. I bent over and pulled on it, and the whole bottom gave way to reveal the helm and sword. I bent over and pulled on it, and the whole bottom gave way to reveal the helm and sword to pair with the rest of the armour. The sword was a true long sword, four feet long with a thick, razor-sharp blade. The pommel and hilt were of true artistic design, a leather-wrapped handle and a pommel decorated by circular black stones.

The helm seemed to focus on practicality, designed of black steel, with mail on the bottom to cover my neck. As I felt the armour caressed my body, a feeling of power surged through me. I felt invincible and able to defeat any foe. I took off running towards the gate, no longer wary of what lurked in the dark, no longer fearing any enemy of the unknown.

After running in heavy armour for what felt like an hour, I sat against a protruding stump. Catching my breath and enjoying the feeling of air moving freely through my lungs. I removed my sword, relishing in the sharp hiss of steel scraping against the metal scaffold. With the sword held in my lap, I took the time to fully inspect its excellent craftsmanship. I ran my mailed hand against the blade, watching as it opened a small gash in the metal. This was truly a sharp blade. and the one who wields it should not be trifled with.

But my attentiveness to the lethality of the weapon almost rendered me ignorant of the markings on top of the pommel. I picked up a small stick on the ground and scraped the cake dirt that covered up half the letters and saw what was hidden there. She lies. There is no meaning. All a dream.

What could this mean? I couldn't be speaking of the Banshee. One so pure could not lie. I shook off the momentary fear and smiled to myself. I looked up and said, attest my king. My faith will not be so easily broken before I could finish my sentence.

Three figures entered my peripheral. I couldn't quite make them out. They were only shadows on the edge of eternal blackness. Who goes there? I bellowed, my confidence waning. I am a knight of the king, and you shall not impede my journey. Silence. Whoever, or whatever, is out there, was either scared by my presence, or was biding its time to attack.

Either way, I knew it was time for me to start moving again. I moved with intensity, but a bit slid. due to my knowledge of not being alone. Something in my gut told me I was almost out of the forest, which meant the abandoned capital was the only thing standing between me and the gate. Before my joy peaked, I heard a rustling in front of me. I squinted my eyes and could make out a slightly human, albeit disfigured, shame. I said once before you swine, I am not to be bothered with your trivial pursuit.

again silence but this time the figure stood still as two more flanked its position their movements awkward and shamly move out of my way or i will cut you down where you stand no response then faint laughter you are one of many hissed one of the figures in front of me you will fall burn by the light you don't deserve. It cackled maniacally after insulting me. Before I could respond, a second voice started speaking. Sister, be fair to the night. He has forgotten his own sins. Would you like being made a fool of your inability

to retain knowledge of your past transgressions? I could feel the sarcasm seep through. the hisses. The first master retorted. You always had a soft spot for these hapless dupes, dear Frida. Let's see if this one deserves to even reach the gate. I'm not sure what this test was, but I removed my sword and readied it for combat. The three figures shambled towards me, quicker this time. As they closed in, I finally got a good look at whom I was facing, and all three were hideous monstrosities. Their faces were horribly malformed.

Their noses just slits in their face. Eyes sewn shut, and their mouths covered in sores. Their approach gave me insight as to why they shambled. The demoness's legs and arms were bent and broken at odd angles. One of them, her arm, was really. removed, and the bones sharpened to a point. My God, how could being so corrupted be allowed to live? Brace yourself, hores. My sword will tear you to shreds. I leapt forward, bringing down the crushing weight of my steel on the nearest beast. A shrill sound escaped her putrid lips,

where my blade skewered her shoulder, the noise reminiscent of the banshee. I placed my booted foot against her midsection and yanked my sword free, bringing with it a thick black blood that stunk of rot and decay. The monster laid on the ground, writhing in pain as her sisters shrieked with rage and fear. The second advanced on me, this one armed with the sharpened bow. You will pay for that night! The bone blade suddenly extended outwards and slashed towards my face. I brought up my weapon and parried the blow, the metal on bone creating a resounding thud. She came back at me again. This time, however, I was fully ready. I sidestepped gracefully,

her momentum driving her forward until she tumbled headlong into the ground. Unkemt's quim! You think your unshuted violence is a match for an able night. Before I could finish her off, I felt a sharp pain in my own. my side. I looked down to see a rusted stiletto sticking into my armour. I turned and faced the third sister. This one clearly not as talkative. Ha! I laughed in her face. It seems you have misplaced your sewing needle, my lady. As I spoke, I yank the thin blade from my side, tightly gripped the third sister's shoulder and shoved the stiletto into her exposed stomach. She looked up at me and smiled.

Grabbing my hands, she pulled the blade deeper inside herself, while the hole I made in her belly started expanding. The edges of her massive, open wound, sprouted teeth, and I felt what I thought was a tongue, brush across my knuckles. I reeled backwards and quickly smashed my forehead into her face, feeling her bones crunch under my thick metal health. Her iron grip on my hands let go immediately, as her limp body crumpled to the earth. No more monologues for me.

I lifted my sword in the air and brought it down with all my might. The demon's head was removed with an audible pop, and the wave of stink from the she-beast rotten blood invaded my nose. Nasty shrew, I mumbled under my breath. killing my sisters will not help you when you face the light foe champion the bone-bladed witch said she got to her feet you are nothing everything your lady in white taught you is her i wouldn't let her spew her vile heresy any longer i thrust my blade forward into her neck covering my sword and new-found armor in her reeking life-blood she slid She slunk to her knees as I pulled my steel out and prepared for the finishing blow. Her repulsive laugh was interrupted by a hacking cough.

You were all damned. As the last word rose to her revolting lips, she collapsed in a heap of mangled limbs and murky body fluid. It was the first time in millennia, I'd fell someone. or something in mortal combat, and the feeling was riveting. I smiled as I wiped away the blood on my sword, relishing in the pain I'd inflicted on those disgusting wenches. I walked around the area of our skirmish,

stabbing my sword into their carcasses, making sure none of them would seek revenge later in my journey. But alas, they were all dead, defeated by the king's champion. I laughed aloud, relishing in my victory, but it was time to move on. I went back to my quick and pace, knowing full well I may run into danger, and part of me was excited to test myself in battle again. Another hour had passed, another hour spent running in my armour.

The black metal went from a gift to a burden in only half a day. the weight slowing me down and bringing on a sense of lethargy but before I could give in to the pull of a short nap the tree started thinning and my eyes fell on the outline of a great city the abandoned capital back before the light was taken from the Black King's Land the abandoned capital stood as a mighty citadel defending the territory from the King's enemies If only I had the time, I would explore every nook and cranny of that great city,

but the mission must be completed if we were to ever restore our home. My examination could wait. I gazed on the outline of the city, trying to piece together where I would need to enter to find the gate. Making my survey, I noticed a large hole in the city's great wall. I surmise this would be the best way for me to enter. I took off down the hill, more cautious than ever, not wanting to be noticed by whoever or whatever now populated the capital.

I found the walls gaping wound and pushed through, stopping just a moment to gaze upwards at the massive guard towers and spiraling churches. The city was truly magnificent, and I again felt the pull to explore, but my loyalty prevailed, and I took off in the direction of the Grand Port Cullis, the gate that will leave my people to freedom. I ran down the narrow streets and wreathed through long-forgotten merchant stores, barely able to register the true grandiosity of the city. My heart was still filled with joy, though. I would soon be returning here a hero. But my delight quickly soured. I sawed. I saw two figures a ahead of me, clearly waiting for me to arrive. I slowed my pace, drew my sword, and made my way

over to the fools who dared stand in my path. When I felt like I was in hearing distance, I yelled out to the hulking figures. Out of my way, Churles, I am here on King's business. The figure stood, unmoved by my result. Did you not hear me, cretins? If need be, I will tear you up. My words were caught in my throat, and I felt my stomach's contents lurch upward to meet them. The figures I saw were less human than the women of the forest. The closest one stood a hair under five feet tall,

its skin drooping from its pudgy face, as if it were a candle left to burn. The excess skin pooled around its, its legs and feet, obscuring the rest of the body from my view. I stopped dead in my tracks and spotted. What in the king's good name are you? Before I could get an answer, the second figure shambled forward, revealing its broken form. This one's only commonality with a human was its bipedal nature. The beast had massively long arms, with large spiked claw, protruding out from where his hands should be.

His face was heavily elongated with the top of his head covered in a jester's crown, covering his eyes. He opened his mouth, exposing row after row of razor-sharp teeth, and spoke in a gritty, metallic voice. King's business, he mocked. You hear this embodiment of pride and egotism, capsie. The other seemed to shudder in agreement and spat a putrid pus-like substance out of its melted face. King's dead.

Your beloved banshee is just a farce. Your quest is meaningless, and the light will never be yours. This is the second time demons have tried to test me. There lies congruous with each others. No. My faith will not be broken by these fraudulent curls. Your lies will not stop me from completing my quest. I shall pass through the gate and save the land.

I brandished my sword and leapt forward. The candle beast had no time to register my powerful attack, my blade cutting through him like butter, expelling more of the beast's foul secretion onto the ground. The monster let out a pathetic gurgle and felt the earth. If my quest is a farce, then, why, demon, do you and your ilk fall so easily? I can tell you, it is because this is my destiny and nothing will get in my way. The tall monster stepped forward and smiled, showing his rows of pointy facts.

Idiots, do you think you are the first? You think your pilgrimage means anything? It means nothing. You are nothing, he screamed and sprang at me, bringing down his sharp talent. I rolled out of the way, feeling the air being parted in front of my face, the monster's claws close to killing me where I stood. I moved backwards, wary of my enemy's speed and length, but not frightened. The beast made another move to attack, but this time I was ready. He lunged forward, and I met his steel with mine.

The loud twang of metal resounded through the empty homes of the great city, and sent us both reeling backwards. He came at me again and again. All of his attacks blocked until he hung back, exhausted from his futile attempts. Tired beast, I mocked. Do you understand now? I am the king's chosen.

I will be the bringer of love. light. The beast smiled his toothy grin again and spoke. Oh, prideful night, you are clueless. When I'm done carving you up, I will feast on your bones. He lunged again, but instead of blocking this time, I rolled forward and thrust my sword upwards. I felt as the blade pierced his flesh, disemboweling him in one fell swoop. The monster fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering as I moved in for the kill. Any last words, filth, I asked triumphantly. The beast turned his head to look at me. The justice crowd slipped and revealed a set of tired,

defeated eyes. I try every time and nothing changes. You'll see. This pilgrimage is, The beast slump forward, no longer able to speak. It moaned pathetically one last time, and died on the spot it lay. All these demons trying in vain to break my faith. I almost feel bad for the louts, but being the king's chosen, I don't have time for pity. Within minutes of my last trial, I was moving swiftly towards the city's edge, finally glimpsing the back walls of the abandoned capital. I climbed a short section of broken wall,

landing with a thud on the other side. I dusted the dirt from my armour, and I looked up, seeing the majesty of the gate for the first time. Tears welled in my eyes as I made the final steps towards my fated destination. When I was mere inches from the gate, The feeling of the woman in white's lips grazing mine hit me like a brick. My body shuddered in delight. It was a sign.

I've done it. I've completed my pilgrimage. The minute I walk through the gate, the world will have light again. I smiled triumphantly, ripping off my helm and made the step into the gate. Oddly though, the minute my foot went through the portal, all my good feelings dissipated. The pain I felt for thousands of years returned tenfold. I pushed through, thinking this was one last test of faith, but I couldn't be more wrong. As my face passed through the famed gateway, my whole world turned.

turned blinding whines. My body felt as if it was encapsulated in flame, every inch of me burning, every nerve-ending screaming for death. What did I do wrong? I was the chosen one, I screamed aloud. I still couldn't see, but I was not yet willing to give up. I pulled my shattered body to my feet, still screaming in pain. My eyes adjusted slightly and I could make out movement in front of me. It was her. It was my lady in white here to rescue me.

As she got closer, I realized again I was dead wrong. Before, she was the true definition of beauty. But here now, in this bright land, she was a hideous and grotesque corpse draped in the white cloak she opened her mutilated lips and said this was all a trap haemant jew for your sins in life i dropped to my knees as it all came back to me i've done this thousands of times the same results repeatedly my pride never letting me the truth. I looked up at my former goddess and let the tears roll down my face. I quit fighting

and let the light burn the rest of my tattered body. The last sound I heard was the Banshee scream, signaling a night has fallen. Our final macabre story this evening is 4.27 a.m. by Easy Breeze 26. For a week, I kept waking up at 4.27 a.m. I couldn't explain it, and I never tried to. I had thought to myself that it was because my internal alarm clock, that my body was waking itself up at that exact time every night. But again, I couldn't explain it.

I talked to my mum about it, and she didn't seem worried. I tried talking to my friends about it, and they hadn't had a similar experience. I accepted that it would always happen until something would break the cycle. Well, last week, I woke up at that same time, and everything changed. I didn't want to post this, considering that I knew nobody would think it was for real, but I was making it up, but I believe that when I woke up at floor 27 last week, I awakened in a different, darker place.

I went to bed at my usual time, roughly 10.30. It wasn't awfully late. And it gave me time to procrastinate throughout the night. I thought it suited me well. I never had a problem with it. So, I went to bed expecting to be awakened at that exact same time. My eyes drifted off to sleep. Some time later, after a dream, I don't even remember, I awoke, looked at the clock, and there it was.

My eye home read, 427. I sighed, put my head back down and drifted off to sleep once more. But then I heard something. It was a small noise, not really noticeable, but it sounded like a whisper. It was quiet And it was definitely coming from one single voice In the direction of my closet I shooed away my increasing heartbeats

And close my eyes again The whisper slightly increased its volume I opened my eyes again and looked to the closet I still couldn't figure out what it was saying But it was definitely there I closed my eyes again I closed my eyes again again and it suddenly picked up into a riot. I could make out of the voice saying my name and it sounded

familiar. I got out of my bed and walked toward the closet. My heart was beating out of my chest as I slid the sliding door to the left. Sitting on the ground was a figure and I could tell it was staring right back at me. A few seconds later my eyes adjusted and I could see that it was my brother, Andrew. What the hell are you doing in my room? I asked him, still in a whisper to not awaken my parents and my younger sister. Andrew was two years younger than me and he's usually asleep the whole night. I squatted on the ground and saw that tears were rolling down his face. He looked toward my door, which was closed. Considering I never closed my door before bed, I found this odd.

He must have closed it when he came in. What are you doing? I asked again. Go back to bed. His lip quivered, and more tears fell down. I can't. I rolled my eyes and knew I would probably have to wake up my parents to figure this all out. I got up from my squat position and walked toward the door. No, no, he yelled in a whisper, don't do it.

He was sobbing at this point, and considering he was 14, I was kind of shocked. Something was really wrong, and I knew it. I walked back over to him. What do you mean, don't do it? I asked him, Mom and Dad are sick. My heart dropped. My spine shivered.

The hair all along my body stood up. The way he said it. I knew he wasn't joking around. Something was really wrong. What? Are they hurt? How do you know? He put his head in his hand.

You need to come into the closet with me, he sobbed. We have to wait until morning. I got up and walked toward the door again. If something really was wrong, I had to figure it out right now. Andrew protested as usual. Stay in the closet. I'll close the door when I get out. Just shut up and stay there, okay?

He seemed to obey and closed the closet door. I took a deep breath and twisted the knob on my door and pulled the door inward. I looked outside and it was quiet. Well, as quiet as you would expect the house to be at half-past four in the morning. I walked down a narrow hallway and into a larger area with two doors on either side. One was my sister Anna's room and the other was my parents. I opened the door to my parents' room and peered in. Their bedsheets were crumpled up.

which meant that they weren't in it. They were gone. I walked into the room and it smelled terrible and I noticed something on the ground. It was my sister's doll which she always kept by her side. I walked out of the room immediately and into my sister Anna's room.

I entered the room and found her sound asleep. Something was wrong. terribly wrong I knew I had to go downstairs and settle this mystery but my fear kept me from moving another inch I had to get the truth from Andrew or else I was going to call the police

I walked back into my room and shut the door I walked to the closet and opened it again Andrew was in the same position how do you know they're sick I asked him what's going on I heard them, he said. They were talking weird.

I was walking to your room when I heard their door open, so I ran into your room. He was crying, and the Big Brother instinct was beginning to kick in. I closed the closet door, exited my room, closed the door, and walked to the stairs. I looked down it and saw my mum at the base of the stairs looking up. Mom, I asked, my fear putting a quiver in my voice. What's wrong? She didn't respond, but I knew her eyes were staring into me. Mom, why are you awake?

She began to walk upstairs toward me, and the vibe of it all was off. She was acting so strangely. She was so. sick. Maybe my dad wasn't doing well either. I ran down the narrow hallway, past my room, and to the door at the end of the hall, the bathroom. I swung it open, closed it, unlocked it. I didn't turn on the light and instead bathed in the darkness of the windowless room. I heard her footsteps, and then I heard them stop outside the door. Come on, her. I heard her. Honey, it's time for school, she shouted in her usual upbeat voice.

Come on. I didn't answer. I thought she would move on if I didn't answer. Then she began to kick the door. The door shuddered with each blow until it fell silent. Her footsteps indicated that she was running away from the door. I didn't know if it was a trap or what. but three minutes later I opened the door and saw no one around.

I immediately ran back to Anna's room and opened it. When I didn't see her in bed, I panicked. I looked around in the hallway and then I saw her walking down the stairs. Her blanket clasped in her hands. Mommy, she asked. I gasped and ran down the stairs. I grafted her in my arms and rushed back up. I entered my room, shut the door and opened the closet.

Andrew was crying as usual. Anna was confused. Andrew, keep her here. I'm going to go see if Mom's okay. Don't, he told me. Don't. She'll... She'll...

Just keep her here. I walked out of my room, closed the door, and walked down the stairs. I looked through the dining room. through the kitchen and then I saw her sitting on the couch in the living room. Mom, what's wrong? I asked. She turned to me and I turned on the light. She was covered in blood and an orange-red liquid poured from her eyes which were giant holes. I gasped as she got up and walked toward me. The strange liquid still red. raining from her eyes.

I turned around to run, but instead found my dad hanging from the ceiling. Blood poured from his mouth like a fountain onto the floor. I screamed and ran toward the stairs. My mom ran after me, and before I could reach the stairs, she got to me and pushed me down onto the ground. She forced me down, and I could feel the ice-cold liquid from her eyes, touching my back through my pajamas. She flipped me over and I could see her eyes,

which were now showing a strange vision. My mind was filled with images of people being murdered and I could feel a dark force pulling me forward. This is hell, she said in her regular voice. And her face began to morph and change until it stretched into a terrifying being. One with eyes so dark, I can only describe them as a true void. I pushed her away from me, and she fell back onto the floor.

I ran up the stairs and got into my room. I shut the door and moved my dresser in front of it. I turned around and saw the closet door was open. Andrew and Anna walked out as another person walked out. My mum. She was crying and had blood all over her. My heart almost died, but I could tell something was different. This wasn't the creature downstairs.

No, this was my actual mom. She was crying, and she hugged me when she saw me. Did you see them? She asked. What's going on? I asked. I replied, my mom wouldn't let go of me. I began to push on her until she let go.

Something was wrong again. She began to stumble backward until she went back into the closet. The door shut and Anna began to scream in a high-pitched voice. I turned on the light in my room and saw her tearing at her throat. Blood eventually escaped and began to pour on the floor. I screamed and tried to move the desk, but it wouldn't buy. I looked back at Andrew, who was just staring at me with his usual blank expression. Anna passed out on the ground and bled out.

Tears were forming in my eyes as I watched Andrew's face turn into a smile. I can only explain it as him dislodging his jaw and pulling it out of his mouth. Blood drained from my face as I began to lose my balance. This wasn't Andrew, and it wasn't Anna. My house wasn't my house. None of this was real. It couldn't have been. Blood poured from Andrew's mouth as his stomach began to move and convulse.

He fell to the floor as something emerged from his stomach. I saw the orange liquid pouring from her eyes and I knew. The floor began to feel hot and the room stretched into a larger, and larger space until the beast that was acting as my mother looked dead into my eyes. It was in a deep voice, so deep that it changed something in my head. I screamed. The next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed. I was sweating profusely, and I looked at the time.

4.27 a.m. I didn't go to sleep after that. and I swear I could hear that creature telling me I was in hell throughout the night. When the sun came up and it was time to go to school, I was ecstatic. I haven't woken up at 427 since. But soon after I heard my dad telling my mum he was waking up at the same time just yesterday. I don't know what dark forces were in my room that night. But I believe that I went to hell.

at 427. And I hope I never go back. 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 favour of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, 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.

in the same place and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.