Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep218: Episode 218: Incredibly Strange Horror Stories

Episode Date: February 14, 2025

Today’s opening offering is ‘A Series of Life Changing Events’, an original story by Will Rayne, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/WillRayne/ Tonight’s second epic tale of terror is ‘Mr. Ice Cream’, an original story by Morrbanesh, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/morrbanesh/ We continue tonight’s proceedings with the delightfully evil ‘Razors in the Candy’ by Brittlby, a story shared directly with me on my subreddit. https://www.reddit.com/user/Brittlby/ Today’s final phenomenal story is ‘The Truth is in the Bottle... and the Blood’, an original story by BearLair64; shared directly with me via my subreddit and read here with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/BearLair64/ 

Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price is right fortune pick is only available at BetMGM Casino. BetMGM and GameSense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager, Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge.

BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Strange things scare us because they disrupt the familiar and force us to confront the unknown, challenging our deeply ingrained sense of order and safety. Our brains are wired to detect anomalies as potential threats, so when we encounter something bizarre or inexplicable, it triggers a primal fear response. This unsettling mix of curiosity and dread compels us to search her explanations, even when the answers remain just beyond our grasp.

by intensifying our sense of vulnerability and unease, 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. But that sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. Our first story this evening is

A series of life-changing events by Will Ray. What lengths would you be willing to go to if you lost that which made you whole? something that made you complete, the very thing that gave your life meaning. How far would you go to get back that which was taken from you? I was a painter. It was my passion and it meant more to me than anything else in my pitiful existence.

Since I was a child, nothing gave me more pleasure than when I traced my brush across the canvas. Well, of course, when I was a kid, that amounted to little more than crayons scribbling across the pages of my coloring books. but we all start somewhere. As the years passed, I no longer drifted outside of the dark outlines of the playful puppy dogs or rainbow-covered field settings. I even began lining my own creations upon the blank pages of the sketchbooks my mother would purchase for me. As I grew, my art grew with me. By the time I reached the age of 16, my artistic age was far ahead of my physical one.

My teachers were astounded by my works that far exceeded their own. talents, and by 18, I was sought out by some of the better known art galleries in the country. I never attended college, as I was already earning far more than the average graduate could even hope to attain. With a fortune I received from even my initial submissions, I was able to purchase a gorgeous house for my mother, and a rather pricey loft apartment in the city for myself. I never cared for the concept of fame, so I'd sell my paintings under a number of aliases. My agent frowned at the concept, as she considered the name more important than the product. I never was one to seek the attention of others.

I took some convincing, but she finally backed off and allowed me the freedom I required. Regardless of the name assigned to my works, the demand for them was high. Gallery owners from coast to coast would beg my agent for more information as to the true identity of the mysterious artist. But she respected my wishes and never broke her promise. to keep my name concealed. I was a multi-millionaire by the time I reached 23, and nobody outside of my small circle of friends had the slightest idea who I was.

Mine was a life to be envied, but my only concern was my passion for the craft. It was on the eve of my 30th birthday when my dreams were stolen from me. I generally walk the streets of the city, or take the occasional taxi to get where I needed to go, being something of an introvert I didn't spend much time among the public

but there were times I enjoyed sharing some company I met with a handful of close friends at a restaurant close to my apartment we spent the night reflecting on days gone by and the plans we had for those to come it was a very pleasant evening and we would not part ways until the hour was late my solitary walk back to my home

should have only taken 20 minutes at the most but the stranger who pulled me from the path I walked had different plans for me he demanded anything of value I had on my person after he became angry at the absence of cash in my wallet I offered him my watch and the cufflinks I wore but he didn't appear convinced that they were worth as much as I had suggested he became infuriated that I had little more to offer him

so he took it upon himself to beat me with the sword-off shotgun he held on me After my face was sufficiently swollen and torn, he spent some time kicking into my gut as I lay bleeding on the ground. In my final plea to the man, I pulled off my watch and held it out in front of me as I begged him to yield his attacks. He appeared to consider this bargaining as an insult, and he fired his gun at the hand I held outstretched. I stared in horrified shock as my hand blew apart before my eyes, while spray from the blood, I could have tore into my arm, shoulder and neck. I couldn't find the ability to scream out as I gazed upon the shredded tissue and jagged bone

where a hand used to reside. The shot awoke an array of sounds from neighbouring apartments and animals that inhabited the area. Within moments, the flickering blue lights of a nearby patrol car inspired the man to flee and leave me where I lay, bordering on Catatonia. I will not get into my own. much detail concerning the following months of multiple surgeries and psychological assistance.

The only information relevant to the story I'm telling here is the degree of the injuries I sustained that night. The tissue damage that my arm and shoulder had suffered was significant. Even after multiple surgeries, I had very limited movement across the entire limb, not to mention the hand that was now absent from my wrist. There was no saving that, as it had been completely ruined by the blast. I attempted to train my left hand in the art that had been effortless to my right, but that was a losing battle from the start. I spent millions in my quest to restore what I had lost,

but that only proved to bring me closer to destitution. I had lost everything in the world that brought me joy, but my inability to produce my paintings was the most intolerable of my losses, though I was still fine. Far from poverty, the addictions I developed threatened to bring me closer to that very state. It was the pain pills at first, but after they ran out, I sought compensation. Heroin was the next logical step, as it was opioids that began my transition from a barely functioning adult to a drug-addicted burden of a man. My friends and family attempted to intervene in my self-destruction, but I rewarded their concern by forcing them out of my life completely.

I considered my life to be unworthy of salvation as I throttled deeper into despair. Nothing mattered to me other than numbing the pain that my existence had become. It was some five years after the attack that ripped my life apart, and I became the victim of another life-watering event under the moonlight. I rarely left my apartment anymore, but I still had necessities, one of which was intoxication. I'd been frequenting the dingy corner tavern for some weeks before that night. Though track marks still lined my arms, my medicine was not quite treating my anguish as it used to.

Of course I still maintain the addiction, but alcohol would prove an efficient secondary method. And I'd sufficiently obliterated my motor functions by the time the bartender recommended that I leave before he caught the police to drag me out. I staggered my way to the door and out into the night. night. It was late and the city was mostly asleep as I hobbled through the streets. Yeah, could you help a guy out with a bite to eat? A voice beckoned as I walked past a row of vacant properties. I could barely focus my eyes on the man who sat upon the steps that led to the doorway of an abandoned storefront. I don't have any crash, I slurred, holding my one working arm

out of the side for stability. I ain't gonna cost you nothing, the man replied, getting to his feet. Don't have food either, I replied, still struggling to form words. Oh, I beg to differ, he replied as he snatched me by my shirt collar and pulled me toward him.

Although my body was numb and my head loopy, I was well aware of the sharp teeth that penetrated the already scarred tissue of my neck. I felt him drain the blood from the holes he formed before he pushed me to the ground after taking in little more than a mouthful. He sneered as he coughed out the blood he just drained. I could tell you were a drunk. What a junkie, too, he spats. I struggled to gather myself up while holding my shaking hand over the open wounds.

It tastes awful. What the hell's wrong with you? He exclaimed, wiping off his tongue with the bottom half of his shirt. Wrong with me, I slurred, staggering back to my feet. You're the one freaking biting purple. I'll never get this taste out of my mouth, he said, mostly to himself as he scraped at his tongue. The man then turned around and started to walk away, still muttering under his breath. I cried out as I hobbled after him.

He ignored me and just kept walking. Just finish it, I screamed, forcing one leg in front of the other to the best of my ability. Kill me, you chicken shit. I yelled as loud as I could. He finally stopped and turned to face me. You couldn't pay me to drink another drop of that tainted syrup running through your veins. He growled. Please.

I fell to my knees. Please, just end it. I begged in the first legible sentence I'd spoken for several hours. The man just stood in place and glared at me. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but his furrow brow appeared to soften as he looked upon the pitiful lump of broken human flesh before him. He slowly paced back to me as I sobbed on the ground.

After a moment he could. crouched down in front of me. He wrapped his fingers across the top of my head and pulled my face up to look him in the eye. I was like you once, he said, turning my head from side to side as though he were looking for an expiration date. Just kill me, I whispered. That what you really want? He asked.

I can't go on like this, I said, holding up my one hand. while struggling to raise the other wrist to meet him. Someone messed you up real good. He remarked as he grabbed my right wrist, which he had used to end in five fingers. The man reached out to the open wound he'd chewed into before. He ran a finger across it before slicing into it with his fingernail, tearing the hole wider.

I could feel the blood freely flowed down my shirt, and the idea that my pain was almost over brought me more joy than I expected. "'I'm going to do you a solid friend,' he said as he ran the same fingernail across the palm of his other hand. As fluid spilled from his hand, he wrapped it around the flesh opening in my throat. He just held his hand there for a moment, while he dug his other hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a small card and slipped it into my jacket pocket. "'When your hair clears up some, you give me a call,' he said, patting his hand, on the pocket he'd just inserted the card into we'll talk about you doing me a side in return he then

pulled his hand away from my neck and stood up there's fair and all that he said as he turned around and continued on the path he'd started on before by the time the stranger turned the corner and left my sight my head had begun to grow more foggy i felt my neck to assess the damage to see only a hint of blood on my hand. Feeling dejected that my worthless life would be continuing. I raised myself up from the ground and made my way back home. Almost as soon as I walked through the doorway to my apartment, my throat began to burn. I staggered forwards, reaching up to the wound and fell to my knees for the second time that night as an unbearable agony screamed from inside my gut. I clutched my stomach before reaching back to my scolding throats. I felt my useless arm shiver and twitch

as it attempted to reach out with fingers it no longer had, and I shouted out and cursed my life until I fell into an unconscious state in the middle of the living room. I'm not entirely sure how long I was out for, but I felt quite remarkable when I awoke. Not only did the complete absence of a hangover surprised me, but I didn't even feel remotely stiff from having to be. I didn't even feel remotely stiff from having slept on the hardwood floor. I immediately headed to the shower after realizing I was incredibly filthy. I repeated my normal pattern

of not regarding myself in the mirror as I couldn't stand to look at what I'd become, though somehow I didn't feel consumed with self-hatred at the moment. To getting myself cleaned up, I couldn't help but notice the complete lack of a wound on my neck. When I took a reluctant glance at my reflection,

There wasn't even a scratch. On top of that, some of the scarring from the shotgun spray was gone from around that area too. For a moment I thought I may have dreamt the events that left me passed out on my living room floor. It wasn't until I retrieved the card from my jacket pocket, that I convinced myself it was no delusion of my sleeping subconscious. I picked up my cell phone to place a call to the mysterious individual who'd both chewed them and healed my throat, to see that the date showed it was two days later

than I would have assumed it to be. My low battery indicator was blinking since it had apparently been some time since it was last fed. After a while, my phone was charged enough to place the call that would hopefully grant me some answers. Well, the fact that I hadn't even sought out my bag of, shall we call it, medication,

well, as a mystery in itself. It had been a long time since I'd have allowed, allowed my sober mind to be free from a drug-induced state for so long. The conversation was short. The individual who now introduced himself as Reginald Linus arranged for me to meet him at a warehouse downtown after nightfall. He gave me no insight to the nature of what this meeting would entail, nor did he grant me any explanation to the events that had transpired between us before. It was sometime after nine when I arrived at the abandoned building. The place appeared to be completely deserted and there was no entrance outside of the large dock door that stood open

I walked in to see little more than a wide open space that indicated no signs of life in the building looking good friend liner said as he strolled out from the darkness he would see my have you to thank for that I replied it was my first time really seeing the man with clear vision He looked young, maybe mid-twenties at most. He had short, spiky, dark hair, and he was pale, paler than anyone I'd ever seen. I looked tan next to him, and I was a drug-addicted recluse that only left my apartment to feed my habits and necessities. He waved his hand for me to follow him. There were no lights illuminating the path ahead, but I could see everything as clearly as if the roof was missing and the sun shone down from above.

I followed the man across the empty warehouse till we came to a door at the back of the building. We walked into another open area that was more lit than the room we just left. Six more individuals were sitting on couches or leaning on the counter at the back area. There was a pool table, some arcade machines and a variety of different styles of chairs and sofas.

There was a large TV mounted to the back wall which currently had cartoons playing on it. another stray, Linus, an attractive brunette called out from the couch. Ah, you're still my favourite, Katie girl, Lina's reply with a wink. What is all this? I asked, looking around the room and its inhabitants. There was a tall, muscular bald man at the bar, a pretty African-American girl beside the brunette on the couch, too thin, brown-haired men who looked little older than 18, and another man whose face was. I could not see as he had his head down on the bar.

I could assume that the brown-haired kids were twins, or at least brothers, as they favoured each other greatly. Everyone but the guy passed out on the bar stared at me with a host of suspicious expressions on their faces. This here is my pack, Linus said with his arms spread out beside him. Pack? I asked, curious as to what qualified them as such. "'Oh, you've got to know what's going on by now,' "'lender stated with an unsettling smirk.

"'Your neck's all healed up now. "'That ain't exactly mud in medicine, you know,' he continued. "'I knew what he was getting at, "'the way he'd bitten into the flesh of my throat, "'the fact that I showed no signs of any tissue damage "'after the introduction of his blood into mine. "'It wasn't difficult to put it all together, "'but I was unsure if I was ready to...

admit it just yet so um if what you're saying is true i said suddenly feeling far more nervous than i had before if becoming like you healed my neck i continued then why i couldn't quite finish the sentence i just moved my ruined arm as much as i could and looked down at it oh you ain't exactly one of us just yet friend Linus said, You gotta have one good meal before it really takes a hoarder. He continued with a mischievous smile. Finally, the veil was completely lifted from my eyes. I knew exactly what he meant by one good meal.

Maybe I was feeling myself to think that one little blood transfer would put Humpty Dumpty back together again. If I, um, have a good meal, as you say, I said, feeling a trembling develop under my skin. "'Will it make me whole again?' I asked, "'holding back the welling in my eyes to the best of my ability.' "'Ain'n exactly that simple, friend,' "'lina said after studying in my face for a moment.

"'Yeah, those injuries are long since healed, you see,' he continued. "'Of course not,' I thought. "'Hung my head as sadness began to creep back upon me. I wasn't completely sure if I was willing to go to such lengths to feed on another person to repair my broken body of mind, but I had had hope for a moment. I said it ain't as simple as taking your first bite, friend. Didn't say it wasn't doable. Linus smiled widely as he spoke. What?

I replied, genuinely lost for words. Ah, the wounds are all cared. You want a new arm out of the deal. You're just going to make him new again, he said. How would that work? I asked, suddenly struggling to form words. A lot easier than you'd think, he replied. Of course, if you ain't interested, you can just turn around right now and you'll be back to your old self before you know it. He said, with a half smile and a shrug.

Well, my thoughts were scattered. Was it really possible I could be my mind? my full self again, that I could possibly regain some manner of a grip on my old life. Would my necessity to feed on the life-blood of others be a burden I could live with if I chose this path? Questions. Too many questions. What about what I owe you? I continued, fearing that I be getting more in debt to this man. Oh, we'll get to that soon enough, he said. I mean, would this add to that? I felt selfish in my request, but I already feared what my payment would be for just a taste of the life I could have. This one's on the house, he said, with an expression on his face that I couldn't read.

Besides, you ain't no good to me like that. He gestured to my twitching arm. So, I'm... When? I mean, how? What do I need to do? I stammered out a mess of irrational questions all at once. "'Hmm, does that mean you're in?' he asked, tilting his head and giving me a sideways look.

Oh, the temptation was too great. My life had been meaningless for too long. I couldn't bear the idea of returning to the needle in the bottle, just to be able to barely curb with the burden of life. Whatever it takes, I didn't care anymore. I am, I replied, holding my head up, mimicking pride in my mind. my decision. Oh, when can we start?

I asked. No time like the present. Lion smiled with sinister purpose in his eyes. He gave a nod to the big guy at the bar. The Hawking Man walked over to me and wrapped his thick arms around my body and left arm.

I struggled to break free, but his strength far exceeded my own. What the hell? I exclaimed. Ah, Katie girl, be a dear and go fetch a little something from the pantry for our new friend, Linus said without acknowledging my outburst. The brunette lifted herself up from the couch and headed towards the door on the left. After a few moments she returned, pushing a gurney with an older gentleman strapped down to it. He appeared unconscious and had a drip running to his arm that led to a bag of clear fluid that hung from an attachment on the side of the rolling bed.

Linus walked up to me and looked me in the eye. I struggled against the beast who had his meat hooks around me, but my effort showed absolutely no reward. You want it quick or easy? Linus asked. What, what, what? I stuttered, feeling my heart raced as though it wanted to burst out of my chest. To be whole again, he said, raising his eyebrows.

I was hoping you'd say that, Lina had said with a wink. Before I could even think about saying another word, he grabbed my arm with his right hand. He pulled it out to the side and red back with his other hand. He slammed his open palm into my shoulder, causing me to scream out in agony as I felt the bone dislocate. He then grabbed up my limb with both hands as he spun to face away from me with my chest. my outstretched arm held behind his head as though he were about to cast a fishing line into a still lake. With one quick motion, I felt the damaged and scarred tissue of my shoulder tear apart as he heaved his grip forward, detaching my appendage from my torso.

I shouted out from the disbelief and horrified shock of my arm being torn away from me. I felt my legs give out as the large man held me in place. Linus threw my limb to the floor and dug the fingernails on both of his hands into the remaining shredded me to my shoulder before tearing away the tissue that remained. Ah, don't go passing out on me, he snarled as he pulled the gurney towards where I was barely hanging on to my ability to remain conscious. With one swipe, he tore apart the throat of the old man that lay before me, and the one who held me upright pushed me down. so that my mouth made contact with the gushing wound drink linas screamed out our new instincts took over and I buried my face deep into the tattered open throat and allow the dark blood to spray into my gaping mall as I dray and the old man I felt new life blossoming from inside me pure exhilarating ecstasy rushed through my veins as I ingested the thick fluid I'd never felt so alive.

I felt no pain. I felt no suffering. No meal that ever graced my lips before this day fulfilled me as much as this singular moment. Over the hour or so that passed after the brutal removal of my tarnished limb and the subsequent meal that followed, I felt myself lost for words. The ground beef that rested where my shoulder and arm used to be had already stopped bleeding. I felt a heavy pulsing on my right as the tissue had already begun to regrow. Once I found my voice again, I looked up at Linus from where I sat on the floor.

What was the easy way exactly? I asked with a weary smile. We would have put you out for a bit and cut it off with a hacksaw, he said with a shrug. We just stared at each other for a moment, before he burst out laughing so hard his eyes began a water. How the hell is that easier? I asked, joining him in a loud belly laugh. Easier for you, she had done more work for us, he replied, wiping the tears from his eyes. As the night progressed, Linus explained the nature of my debt to him. I would be required to join his pack and shed the life I'd lived before. He seemed to think this would be a much tougher pill to swallow than it actually was. Well, I'd long since abandoned the life I used to cherish,

so this would not be much of an adjustment on that particular front. As we continued to discuss my new circumstances, he explained that my arm would begin to rebuild itself over the course of the next week or two. It would take time for it to fully take shape again, but time would seem far less relevant now. We took a brief tour of our shared living space, and my new pack introduced me to what they called the pantry. It was a wide room that held victims they would induce into a coma. They stored food in there as a squirrel would stash away meals for the winter. It was an efficient way to ensure they would never go hungry during the times of the year

where less people walked the streets at night. Linus told me he would teach me to hunt and to feed. He would also show me how to use the abilities I would manifest. soon after my transformation, and even how to defend myself against those who hunt our kind. Though all of the information I was given was a lot to take in, I only asked him one question in return. Will I be able to paint again? Don't see why not, he shrugged. A place could use a bit of decorating anyway, he laughed, as did I.

As the months that followed went by, I found it supposed to be. surprising how little a toll it took on me to end the lives of others to feed my thirst. I tried to avoid feeding on those who appear to have lives that were worth holding on to, but I wasn't especially picky when the hunger hit. As Linus requested, I left what little I had left of my old life behind. I did begin to paint again with my newly formed limb. It proved even more talented than the one I'd lost, and the money that quickly poured back in spruced up our little warehouse quite nicely.

Some reviews of my work would even mention that I was capable of the most vibrant shade of red they'd ever laid their eyes on. My new agent respected my desire for anonymity as much as my old one had, and I insisted to my roommates that she stay off the dinner table, so to speak. The fact that they benefited from my work as much as I, left them little reason to argue against my requests. We even began performing some construction on the old mill to add more levels underground. This would be a vast undertaking that would take many years to achieve, but we weren't getting any older.

Before too long, we had a veritable mansion that led four stories beneath the earth. I assisted my pack in finding new recruits over the years, and we'd increased our numbers threefold before we even knew. knew it. Well, as time passed, Linus spoke of an uprising that could potentially occur someday soon, against the elders who looked on our kind as little more than animals. I assured him that I would stand by him if a fight ever were to arise. He'd become a close and dear friend, as did the other members of our group. Though my greatest passion still lay upon the canvas, my life felt so much more fulfilled than it had done not so long ago.

I never could have predicted that I'd find the most happiness I ever had known after my soul was set free from my now immortal shell. Regardless of how content I'd become, there was one last personal venture I'd embark on to locate the man who'd robbed me of my life, long before I gladly walked away from it. "'Oh, why are you wasting your time on that, friend?' "'Linus would ask from time to time,

"'as I made my weekly jaunt into the night alone. "'He's the last part of my old life. "'I've still been unable to shed,' I'd reply. "'Truthfully, he understood my motivations, "'but he'd still insist it wasn't worth the trouble. "'After all, were it not for that first life-changing event, "'that would never have found myself where I am today. Not to mention, I may well have ended up as a fresh meal for my good friend without my tainted blood.

It was a snowy November night when my quest finally proved fruitful. I barely recognised the man at first, as he was much older than when we'd first met. I followed the same path I had travelled many times before. That time of week was the only time I would allow myself to come close to the area in which I used to live. truth be told i didn't even realize it was that very man i'd seen from a distance that night i'd almost given up that week's search until i quite literally bumped into him in passing i continued on my stroll until it registered in my mind i quickly sped back and leapt on him from behind oh his head met the concrete and he went out like a light so i took the opportunity to carry him to the very alley at which he

tore my dreams from me. It was our special place after all. I watched over him until he awoke, and when he came around, I had a little talk with him. He begged for his life after he accepted that I was who I claimed to be, after I pulled the watch from my wrist to offer him once more. It was the same model that his shotgun had destroyed, along with the hand which held it. All the years had not been kind to the man. I ran a finger across the gash the ground had left on his head and sampled the blood that leaked out. Well, Linus had been correct in his distaste

for how the drugs affected the flavour. Perhaps I would leave this individual to dwell in the misery of his own making after all. It wasn't until I turned to leave the alley with the full intention of never return again, that a question dawned on me. How would I not pay attention to this the first time we met? I wondered. Could have just been the shock of the gun that was trained on me

that caused me not to notice this one simple thing. So I turned back to the wretched man who still wept on his knees. Before I go, would you be so kind as to answer a question for me? I asked as he stared up at me. me with eyes that swirred with fear. Are you, um, left-handed or right? Well, as a good friend once told me, fair is fair and all that.

Our second epic tale of terror this evening is, Mr. Ice Cream, by Morda Banesh. When I was eight, me and my family lived in the small town of Ogdenville. It was a normal town, with around 3,000 people living there. and all the neighbours knew each other very well, and there were a lot of neighbourhood barbecues happening in the summers. My family lived in a cul-de-sac close to the centre of town,

and at the end of the cul-de-sac, there was a park. In the park, we had a playground with swing sets, a round-about, a seesaw, chin-up bars, a sandbox, and a couple of spring riders. And I remember how often me and my friends would go to the roundabout. Yeah, it was our favourite. After the playground there was an open field of grass. It was in this field that the majority of our neighbourhood barbecues would happen.

One neighbour stands out, Aaron Barnes, or as we called him, Mr. Ice Cream. He had that nickname because he worked as an ice cream seller. He also had a truck, a big red ice cream truck. And on the size of that truck was written in big white letters on a black background, Mr. Ice Cream. It was also the picture of a clown with a big smile on his face and a couple of popsicles in each hand. Now, the clown did scare me, with his big smile, blue face and white lips. The clown was called Mr. Bingles.

Aside from that creepy clown, I can distinctly remember the feeling got whenever I heard the song coming from Mr. Ice Cream's truck. It was as if every cell in my body had to get to that ice cream truck. as fast as possible. And it was like that for every kid in town. When the tune of the ice cream truck called, we ran outside and to Mr. Ice Cream. And there he was, outside his car, smiling his wide smile and chatting in his cheery voice.

He was always happy to see us. I even remember one time. A girl I knew, Jodie was riding a bike and fell. She started crying. But he was in the vicinity. He came up to her, smiled, offering her a hand. As she got up, he offered her an ice cream, and she smiled. Mr. Ice Cream made it all good again.

I think he was generally happy for the company. You see, he didn't have a wife. The word around town was that she'd left him. It had crushed his spirit, apparently. They'd only been together for two or three years, I think. So they hadn't gotten to having children. but everyone knew how fond he was of kids. I think he saw us as his family of sorts.

Everyone knew how glad he made us kids, and everyone knew how glad us kids made him. And so did each summer go by, and everything was good in our little town of Oldhamville. Then the fateful summer of my eighth year came. No one was prepared for what was about to happen. It started innocently. enough. We had a big neighbourhood

barbecue and everyone was there. There were lots of smiles, lots of laughs, lots of play from us kids. We ran around, playing all sorts of games that you play as a kid. And at one point, we could hear the song of Mr. Ice Cream's truck

and all of us ran towards his car. We saw him stand there, smiling as always. I got my favorite strawberry delight. My friends got their favorites too. Everyone was happy, and Mr. Ice Cream drove away. Sometime later, one of the mums called out. Frankie, where are you?

There was no reply from us, and we hadn't seen Frankie in a while. We hadn't really thought anything of it. We were busy playing our games. Frankie, sweetie, come on now, we're heading home. Still no answer. Maybe he was hiding and didn't want to go. home, I thought. I could understand that. In my eight-year-old mind, there was nothing as fun as our barbecues. Frankie, come on now, son. More parents chimed in this time. My eight-year-old mind didn't quite understand it, but people were getting worried. The game had stopped. Every one of us kids was looking at each other, not really grasping the gravity of the situation. A kid was missing.

Surely he was either here or at home, safe and sound. These are the only two options when you're eight years old. My mum took me home while my dad was with Frankie's mom. Every one of us kids went home at that point, but there were still people with Frankie's mom. A search was started. I only heard about it the next day. People came in and questioned me about when I'd last seen Frankie.

And after a while, I realized it was when we were getting ice cream. So I told them, I saw him when Mr. Ice Cream came by. They thanked me and left. Two days later, a gruesome discovery was made. Frankie was found, in the woods, dead. Later I would find out that he was naked and there were signs of abuse. When news of his death came out, everyone. was shocked. Frankie's

mum was devastated, of course. She cried. She screamed and then cried some more. Everyone tried to help her in any way possible from comforting her to assisting her with the day-to-day life after the massive loss of her only child. However, when Aaron,

or Mr. Ice Cream, as the children called him, came to her to offer his condolences and any assistance, she shouted at him, telling him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't welcome on her property. My father later told me he could see how it affected him, like someone had told him he'd lost a loved one. He bowed his head, sighed and apologised.

He left, walking slowly and with his head down. My dad could see he was very much affected by all of the events and Frankie's mum's accusations. In a month's time, she would take her own life. Although it's sad, it isn't important to this story. So, two weeks pass. A new neighbourhood barbecue is held, albeit in a more sombre tone.

The parents talk to each other, trying to come to terms with the horrible fate of young Frankie. The kids, meanwhile, ran around, playing and having fun. Although we miss poor Frankie, barbecues were the epitome of fun and happiness. It was our time of childish innocence. Nothing we felt could take that away from us. Oh, how wrong we were.

As the evening went on, everyone's spirits were improving, and the grown-ups were talking about all sorts of things, although avoiding the subject of Frankie. A short while after we'd eaten, we heard the song of Mr. Ice Cream's truck. As us kids went running towards the sound of his truck, some parents looked wary, and some were shouting at the kids to be careful and to look after each other. To me, most of the kids ignored the warnings, just running towards the promise of delicious

ice cream. As we came to the parking lot, we saw Mr. Ice Cream standing, smiling. He said, Hey kids, what do you want tonight? We are full of surprises me and Mr. Bingles. Everyone shouted their preferred ice cream, and everybody got what they wanted. We strolled lazily back to the playground, devouring our ice creams. After enjoying the refreshments in the warm summer evening, we started playing our games, running even more, with our energy levels raised to a high due to the sugar we'd just absorbed.

As it got dark, the parents started calling for the children, and everyone returned. except for Josh. His mum and dad started calling out for him, but as us kids returned, there was no sign of him. Again, the mothers took the children home, while the fathers started looking for him. There was no sign of him. Josh's parents were obviously shaken by the disappearance,

his mom inconsolable for the next couple of days and his father a shadow of his former self. Then the grown-ups came to my room, and asked when I'd last seen, Josh. I thought about it, and I told them, when Mr. Ice Cream had come by. Us kids were all in a frenzy, trying to get his attention and getting our favourites. But after that, when we were on our way back, I couldn't recall if he'd followed us. And apparently, no one else could verify him returning from that point on either.

People started talking after that. two times a kid had gone missing after Mr. Ice Cream had shown up. He, of course, maintained his innocence, saying how much he loved us kids and that we were his missing family. But that simply exacerbated things. And when, two days later, they found Josh's body. In the same settings and circumstances as poor Frankie was found, the atmosphere became unglued. I remember my parents were talking to each other in rather loud voices, not arguing but angry about the situation. And then one day, my dad told me things would be taken care of.

At first, I didn't know what he was talking about. And then the realization slowly crept up on me. I ran over to Aaron's house. But one of the grown-ups and Taylor stopped me. He said, Don't go there. That man is sick. Just stay away and everything will be okay.

I looked at him, stunned. How could they possibly think that sweet old Mr. Ice Cream it had had anything to do with these horrible events? I started crying. The whole situation overwhelming me. However, in my young mind, little did I realize how far this would go. If I'd had the faintest idea of what was about to transpire,

I would have run right up to Aaron's house and warned him. However, I just went home and my mum consoled me. That night, I couldn't sleep. I tried and tried, but my mind was racing. Why were my parents angry at Aaron? Why didn't Taylor want me to go to Aaron's house? What happened to those poor kids? As my mind pondered all of these questions, sleep did eventually find me.

Time went on, and our lives turned back to normal. However, people started avoiding Aaron and telling their kids to stay away from him. This made him sad, and also a bit angry, I think. I, however, never turned my back on him. I talked to him whenever I could. Then, one day, my dad saw me talking to him. He stormed up to us and grabbed me by the shoulder. He asked him sternly.

And just what do you think you're doing talking to my boy here? Aaron looked at him puzzled. We were just talking, talking about how the neighbourhood spirits have plummeted. We were thinking of having a new barbecue to lift our collective spirits up. My dad snorted. Yeah, right. You need new victims. That's what you were thinking.

Now, I will say this only once. Stay away from my son. with each of the last sentences, my dad moved closer to Aaron, and at the end they were almost touching. Aaron turned pale and said, Wait, you think I had anything to do with those terrible deeds? My dad glared at him for a second and then said, No, I know you did. As he said the words, he poked him in the chest each time, and then he turned and we left.

I looked back at Aaron, mouthing, I'm sorry. He half-heartedly waved back, and then turned back and headed home. When we got back, my dad started berating me for even talking to Aaron. I tried reasoning with him, but he was furious. He told me in no uncertain terms I was forbidden to contact Aaron ever again. It made me feel bad, because not only did I lose a friend, but Aaron now had no one. everybody seemed to be against him. I felt so bad for him.

I went to my room. I cried for what felt like hours, but most likely it was no more than 20 or so minutes. The situation was getting to me, and probably Aaron too. I needed to do something to help him. I remembered his words about a new barbecue to help lift the spirits.

And so, after waiting a few days, I suggested to my mum that we should have a barbecue. I wanted to play with my friends and wanted to experience the fun again. And so the parents started a new plan for a barbecue. I was hopeful that it would help the neighbourhood, as well as Aaron. They would see that he didn't have anything to do with the murders of those kids. Then the day came. Us kids were so happy to play with each other,

while the parents were, for obvious reasons, quite somber and alert, watching the kids intently, making sure no one would be caught this day. Eventually, the mood rose to a happier level, and the parents started talking about other stuff. Us kids just played any game we thought of. After a while, we ate. I had some ribs, my favourite.

As we finished our meal, we heard the alluring tune of Mr. Ice Cream's truck. The kids went into almost a trance as they ran towards the truck, and Mr. Ice Cream. Some parents shouted, warning the kids not to go to Aaron. Others ran and grabbed their kids, but there were some of us who managed to get to him and shout to our favourite ice cream. Mr. Ice Cream was ready. He already knew most of our favourites. He smiled as he handed us our rewards.

And then some parents came up and shouted at him, telling him he wasn't welcome. His eyes teared up. And he said, okay, and left. The parents counted the kids. No one was missing this time. Those of us who had gotten ice cream enjoyed them, and afterwards we all started playing again. This time we played hide-and-seek. Everyone hid, and Liam started looking for us.

I'd found a superb hiding place, I thought, behind some thick bushes. Liam quickly found a score of us, and the kids went back to playing some new game while Liam continued his search. He found me, along with several others. This went on until he'd found all of us, except... Well, except he hadn't found Nicole. After a while, all of us started searching for her.

Even the parents joined the search, being fearful of a new victim of this terrible malefactor. In the end, the mothers went home with the kids, while Nicole's mum screamed for her child. The neighbour of hers took her home, while me and her. and my mom went home. I went straight to bed, feeling guilty for this latest disappearance. I cried myself to sleep, the guilt overwhelming me. My sleep was disturbed by sirens blaring. I slowly rubbed my eyes and looked out of the window. There was a fire, a large fire. Aaron's house was in flames. I ran out of my room to the stairs where I saw my mom with tears in her eyes. She looked up at me.

and then put her hands to her eyes. As she sobbed, I asked her. What's wrong, Mommy? She replied, Oh, sweetie, everything's wrong. They did something very wrong. Go to bed. Everything will be better tomorrow.

I did as she told me, but was quite confused. Who'd done what? Later, my father would tell me of the events that happened that night. after a futile search for Nicole, a few of the men snapped. They started talking pretty aggressively about Aaron, and soon they had everyone on their side, and a mob of angry men strode towards Aaron's house. They knocked on his door, while shouting obscenities towards him.

As he opened the door, the men grabbed him, pulling him outside, throwing him down onto the pavement. They then kicked him repeatedly, and he had... begged them to stop, told them he'd had nothing to do with the disappearances. He begged for mercy, telling him how much he cared for the kids, that they were like family to him. And that just made the mob angrier. They continued kicking him until he passed out. Then one of the men, Taylor, dragged him inside. Then he went to his car and took a can of gasoline. No one stopped him or even questioned him. Everyone just stood there in silence. When Taylor returned,

he doused a part of the house in gasoline, and then he set fire to it. Some of the men cheered. The fire quickly spread, and as the flames licked the frame of the house, the men heard screams from inside. Aaron had regained consciousness, but couldn't move. They looked at the flames and listened to his screams of agony. A few even laughed. And then my father told me, Aaron had said something. You bastards, you've known me for 15 years. I've served your kid's ice cream for all those years and cared for them. They've been like a family to me. Now you want me dead? For crimes I didn't commit? Mark my words. As the flames devour me, I shall return and take you. Take it. You know, mark my words, as the flames devour me, I shall return and take you.

everything from you as you have from me. A few of the guys laughed, some nervously, and after his words, a terrifying scream of pain and agony echoed throughout the neighbourhood. A few of those who'd stayed inside came outside to look at what was going on. Someone called for the cops and told what was going on. Soon the neighbourhood was full of cops and firemen, the firemen fighting a losing battle to save what was left of Aaron's house. The cops rounding up the members of the mob and questioning them.

My father was among those who'd suspend a night in jail until the cops could find out what had happened. My mum was inconsolable. I'm pretty sure she'd liked Aaron as much as I did and was devastated at what had transpired that night. I was a mess too and hugged my mum as we both cried over those events. The next days were kind of a blur. I walked around in a state of shock, doing my regular things, but not really registering what was going on. A few days later, the police came over to our house to investigate, to see if my father had been the leader of the mop. My mum shouted at them and cried, but they were soon out of our house. My father had only been a pawn in a messy game.

Two days later, the cops raided the house of Taylor. In there, they found some very disturbing things, like... Pictures of us kids playing. The schedule for when Mr. Ice Cream visited during barbecues. Plans to kidnap children when we were heading for ice cream. Ideas as to how to pin it on poor old air and hands. Most disturbingly, they found the remains of Nicole in his cellar. Everyone in the neighbourhood was shocked at this finding.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the darkest moment in the neighbourhood's history. A couple of months went by With me and my mum trying to come to turns with these events And with my dad's jail time Since the event of that night All of the members of the mob had been given sentences of two years Apart from Taylor We got lifetime without parole

Nicole's granddad was a judge in a nearby town And had made sure he would never see the outside of a prison For the rest of his life At this point you probably think this is where the story ends. Tragic events ending in a punishment for the perpetrator. But no, these events were only the catalyst for what was to come. The events that instigated what my mother and I called, the reckoning.

So, a few months after the trials and the sentencing of those responsible for the fate of poor Aaron, the neighbourhood began to come unglued. It started with Taylor's apparent suicide. The guards had found him in his cell where he'd made a makeshift rope out of a sheet and proceeded to hang himself. The official story was suicide. Nothing unusual.

Prisoners were known to commit suicides. However, with Taylor, this seemed to be implausible. Taylor didn't seem to have any remorse for his actions, with either the kids nor with Aaron. And a guard we knew, Stephen, had said something about the case. My mum had met him while grocery shopping one day. He was a good friend of the family, and they chatted a bit. My mum said that when she asked about the tailor case,

his face turned pale, and he apologised and explained that he couldn't reveal anything about the case. Both had turned silent and just looked at each other. after a few moments though he whispered to her about what had really happened the part with the sheet was correct however what had been left out was that it was as if it had been not tied to anything

rather it just somehow had been tied to a pipe inside the ceiling and that had led many guys to believe it had some supernatural origin they'd also found something weird on the floor a wrapper from an ice cream. He couldn't remember the brand, but he shouldn't have been there.

When my mum told me this, the cold chill ran down my spine, as I thought of poor Aaron. Little did I know about the events that were about to unfold. A few days went by. With the atmosphere being at its lowest point in its history, people were talking about moving. Not many felt like staying after the bus. barbaric crimes of Taylor and the loss of Aaron, along with many of the men and dads being

imprisoned for the foreseeable future, people were thinking of seeking pastes new. People were slowly getting to terms with what had happened, so we hadn't had a barbecue since the night of Aaron's passing. I began asking my mum if we would have one soon, since our neighbourhood needed to recuperate, needed a better mood, better spirits, better times. She looked at me and smiled. sure honey that sounds just like what we all need now go up to your room i'm pretty sure it needed some cleaning i grumbled as i walked up the stairs and into my room she then proceeded to make a few phone calls and after a few minutes she came up to my room smiling great news honey she said next saturday we will be holding a new barbecue not everyone will be coming some are still shaken up by the events but the ones who will come have assured me that they want to start fresh and get the fun times rolling again.

She then gave me a big hug. I remember the hug lasting longer than usual, so I ended up asking, Mom, is everything okay? She let go, looked me in the eyes and said, Yes, honey, everything's okay. After she left, I was in a good mood. I couldn't wait for the barbecue. hopefully the start of a new chapter for all our troubled neighbourhood

The next days I met with a couple of friends and we played As eight-year-olds do People were in a more buoyant mood And everyone was looking forward to the barbecue Then the day arrived The day of the barbecue The long-awaited barbecue As I woke up that day

My head felt like it was made of rock I had an intense headache my nose was runny and I had a sore throat. I'd been stricken with a cold. When my mum came up to my room, I almost cried because I thought I would miss the barbecue. Mom, I'm not feeling well, I told her. She came over, felt my forehead and said, Oh, sweetie, you have fever. Just rest for a while.

We'll see how it goes later. I sighed and tried to go to sleep again. I didn't sleep any good at all. kept on waking up with aches and pains in my joints and my head. Eventually, my mum came up and asked, How are you, sweetie? Not good, I replied sadly. She said,

Well, honey, I know how much you've been waiting for this. We'll go, but we go home early, okay? I smiled and said, Oh yeah, that sounds great. We started preparing, packing our food and drinks, as well as some medication my mum decided to take just in case. It still wasn't well, but it was a bit better than in the morning. As we made our way to the park, we could see some of the regulars had arrived.

I quickly found some friends, and we started running and playing our favourite games. We played and had so much fun. At some point I stopped and just surveyed the scene. The kids were playing and running, of course. The parents, mostly moms, were sitting on the benches and chatting. A much more lively chat than it had been for weeks. I even heard laughter. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside,

and I thought that this was the beginning of a new era for our neighbourhood. I went back to playing with my friends, and everything was good. As usual, we ate around six. Again, I had my favourite ribs. When we were finished, me and my mum started packing up, since we were going home early. When we were about halfway done, we heard it. A song.

the song we all recognised Mr Ice Cream song and yet it was not it was somehow twisted the tune was the same but slower and yet it had the same effect on the kids all of them ran towards the sound

as if in a trance I felt a need to go towards the sound but something inside me also warned me I'm not sure, but it might have been something to do with my cold that day. I slowly crept along with the children and hid behind a tree. What I saw she owed me to the boat. The kids were going towards Aaron or what was left of him. I'm not sure why no one screamed,

but the music might have had them in some sort of a weird trance. I saw his truck, with the hideous, clown Mr. Bingles painted on the side of it, smiling as creepily as ever. Aaron, on the other hand, put on some sort of makeup, to look like Mr. Bingles, I guess. Only he didn't. Through the makeup, I could see a charred face, an eye screamed. He looked up, slowly, smiling. Oh, don't you worry, he said with a dry raspy voice there's plenty of time eventually i will be coming for you and he laughed the scariest creepiest laugh i had ever heard or will ever hear i screamed again and was rooted to the spot due to fear i saw mr ice cream or aaron handing out ice creams to the kids as they took their first despite they fell down on the ground, dead. Mr. Ice Cream then made some gestures with his hands,

swaying them back and forth, and to the sight in a rhythmic motion. Then, to my horror, the kid stood up again. Eyes glazed and staring at Mr. Ice Cream. He looked at me and laughed. Don't worry. Today is not your day. Today is the day of my day.

revenge or the first day of my revenge I'll be back and eventually everyone that had anything to do with my death will have their just deserts he laughed maniacally at his own pun I however screamed as hard as I could he also felt tears running down my cheek the horror of the situation crashing on me like a tsunami mr ice cream in the back of his truck and the kids went in. I stood there and watched in horror as they all went in somehow and afterwards Mr. Ice Cream waved at me, still laughing as he himself went in and the truck vanished. Eventually my mum and the other parents came over to me asking what was wrong and where the others had gone. I couldn't speak for two whole days. The event traumatised me.

I still wake up in a sweat as I have nightmares about this horrid event. After that night, everyone just moved. A lot of families split up, including my own, as my mum just wanted a new start. I still had contact with my dad, so it all worked out for us, I guess. But the reason, the main reason for me to share this with you now is that yesterday, around half-past six, I heard something Something chilling I heard the sound

Of a forgotten ice cream truck Mr Ice Cream's truck Raisers in the candy By Brittleby I always hated that old spinster On the corner of Red Bud Dry When I was growing up and didn't know any better I used to think she was a witch or a monster or something

I didn't know about crazy cat ladies and alcoholism at the time. So for some reason, in my child's brain, I just assumed she was cutting up little girls and boys to feed her army of strays. Well, since everyone in my class was convinced that she was the spawn of Satan, I asked my dad why no one did anything about it.

He rode his eyes as if humoring me and said, well, nowadays we don't burn witches, we just avoid them. I'd always pedal my bike fast at that corner, ignoring the stop-side and even the honks of oncoming traffic as I steered my lavender cruiser homewards. I remember the fast clickety-clack of the playing cards every afternoon as I frantically peddled to put a safe distance behind me.

Ten years down the road was enough distance for me to acknowledge she was probably just a lonely middle-aged woman who thought drinking with cats was less sad than drinking alone. Maybe she was right. I know I'd open a bottle of wine with my dog some of those lonely nights when I was back home from college. I was content to keep our uneasy truths where I'd return a half-hearted wave at her silhouette in the window when passing.

Well, if she didn't try to come any closer to me. Unfortunately, that was something I couldn't do on Halloween. Even back when I was a kid, the only other thing the old lady on Redbud was known for, aside from day-drinking and pissing off the local animal control, was her baked treats. Four times a year, she'd participate in the local ISD bake sale, despite not having a kid.

The PTA insisted, they practically begged her to provide a tart-cinem-apple pie for the silent auction. Even though she seemed to be kept alive by Jim Bean and Cat Dander, she could definitely bake a mean pastry. And so my little brother was quite insistent that we stopped at her house to round out the night of trick or treating. I'd driven in for the weekend, homesick and missing my parents. I might even have missed my snotty little brother, Matt, well, yeah, a little bit. They were so thrilled to see me after so long, and they immediately took the opportunity to turn me into an unpaid babysitter

so they could go to a Halloween party. Considering it fair compensation, I'd had a couple of glasses from mum's open bottle of Mulbeck to dull the tedious misery of trick-or-treating with my little brother, and it was working, the warm buzz behind my eyes softening the sharp edges of Matt's constant adolescent, pradley. I'd tune in for every third or fourth word, nodding encouragingly with a disinterested smile.

He was dressed up as a little iron man, his chest beam and handlights making electronic humming noises as they illuminated the sidewalk in front of us. It had been a pretty good haul. Matt's bag was so full of candy that he kept shifting it from one plastic laser gaunt to another when his arms got tired. We were almost done with the last block.

Everyone's door knocked on, except for the corner house. Three in the afternoon, and from a safe distance, I'd managed to suppress my childhood fears. But just past nine on Halloween, the old paranoia started to creep back into my stomach. I was trying to think of something I'd bribe Matt with, so he would at least let us skip the house, when he made a whoosh noise and ran up the driveway towards the witch's door.

I was tempted to right the little bastard off as a lost cause and head home, but he turned around halfway to make sure I was coming with him. The gravel crunched under my sneakers as I walked past the station wagon, a sheep parked there before I was even born. I turned nervously to glance towards the dusty side windows of the dead vehicle. Through the grime, a half-dozen cats watched me from the safety of the other side of the glass. I could hear their chorus of rumbling growls. warning me not to try anything funny or get close.

There were more of them peeking from beneath the house, their eyes glowing from the headlights for passing calm. They paced behind the overgrown skirt of the house, dozens of them having made the foundation of her house their nest. I tried to ignore the army of strays as Matt took the stairs up the witch's porch two at a time. He hopped onto the welcome mat with both feet, straining for a moment to reach the doorbell.

As soon as it buzzed, he struck up a pose, ready to blast the lady if she didn't comply. The door creaked open ominously, just as I caught up with Matthew. It was dark inside, aside from the dull orange glow of the fireplace and flickering blue and white of an old television. Lit from behind, the witch's silhouette was a lanky and twisted thing. Her spine was tilted at severe and horrible angles, as if her back had given out under the sheer weight of all her evil. Only the fringes of her wild black hair caught the light, giving her a terrifying halo like an insect's nest,

as she reached out a bony and gnarled hand to pass the doorframe. She grasped hungry towards us, her vile claw sweeping up a few inches of Matt's head to take hold of a slender chain. The witch's knuckles popped audibly as she gripped the pull chain tightly and yanked it down. It made a sound like a chicken's neck snapping and the hanging. porch light groaned with a dull hum as the fluorescent bulb warmed up. Matt was frozen in place, just as terrified as I was as the witch led out a laugh that was a moist gurgle. It rose to a hiss deep in the back of her throat, a whole twisted frame shuddering menacingly as the light finally came to live. Oh, hello, aren't you precious? She gushed over Matt, coughing into her hand, declared

her throat. Her voice was less wicked, witch, and more Minnesota mother, as she threw out a friendly, I thought all the trick-or-treaters went home for the night, don't you know. She blended the last three words into a single, don't you know, before straightening up. In the bright fluorescent, I could make out the multiple kittens and the glitter on her faded pink sweatshirt. She smiled a big white-toothed smile at Matt expectantly, and it took him a moment to remember his line. His little brain was obviously having trouble processing the sudden change in mood, as he asked, more than threatened her with a timid, trick-or-treat. The vile tangle on top of her head that I'd mistaken for snakes and crawling insects turned out to be a simple bedhead

from where she'd apparently crashed hard on the couch. Her black frizzy hair was matted wildly off to one side in the kind of cowlick you could only get from sleeping off a few too many drinks. The witch lifted her eyes towards me, while my own eyes were watering from the stink of whiskey and far too much perfume. He's adorable. I... She seemed to lose her train of thought as she stared at me curiously, a smile broadening ever so slightly as if she recognized me. I... have a special treat for the both of you. Oh, just be a moment. She vanished back inside her house for a few seconds.

hardly time for the stench of her perfume to dissipate before she returned with an aluminum baking sheet and a thin spatula. With a deft swoop of her hand and a sharp pop, she pried a cookie-free. She set down the spatula and held out the prize to Matt. It was a gingerbread cat, the scent of caramel and fresh vanilla, cutting through the fog of her boozy stench as Matt took it from her. Oh, the treat was so fresh and soft, I could see it dimple from the pressure of my face. Matt's tiny plastic fingertips. Its fur was lovingly scored into the cookie,

chocolate and caramel traced meticulously into the linework. I had to admit that if she ever got tired of being a drunken cat lady, she could probably get a job as a high-end baker. As Matt breathed in almost silent, Thank you, the witch turned her attention to me. Oh, and something for big sis. She set down the now empty cookie pan, the surface marred by the burnt outlines where the five kiddie cookies had been baked. From the side table she produced a small brown craft-coloured rectangular box.

Something rattled inside softly as she handed it to me. But I noticed, tied to the hand-curled orange and black ribbons on the front, were a trio of small bottles of pumpkin-spiced vodka. The witch didn't let go of the box, offering me a playful wink. "'Oh, you're 21, right?' "'I smirked and lied with a wordless nod. "'She let go of the box, enough of me, "'in knowing smile before she warned me.

"'Well, a good babysitter needs something to take the edge off. "'Just have a couple, though. "'Don't open the big surprise, "'unless little Ironman here starts to get out of hand. "'Then you should open it, and thank me for the help. "'Ah, thank you now, okay. I replied, feeling a little silly after all these years of self-induced trauma. When you have a happy Halloween, Mrs. Sir.

I let it hang because, after all these years, I'd never actually bothered to learn her name. She smiled her big bright smile one more time, brushing cookie crumbs off her kitten sweatshirt to she giggles. I always have a happy Halloween. After all, I'm the witch of Redwood. I spent the rest of the walk home feeling utterly stupid I knew the tooth fairy in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny weren't real a decade ago but for some small childish part of me I'd still believe that a sad lonely old woman

was going to eat me if I got too close to her at least Matt wouldn't have to grow up in this town believing stupid crap like that now that he'd actually met the witch he was merrily scoffing down the gingerbread cat as reward the gummy caramel causing him to smack and chew loudly with each bite until it softened. By the time we got home, he had a little Tony Stark mustache and goatee made of dark chocolate, and I told him to go wash it off. I prepped a cup of decaf, waiting for the curing to spit and hiss at the end

before emptying two many bottles of pumpkin vodka into the cup. My buzz was whirring off, and I knew Matt was going to be up for at least another hour, well, from the sugar high alone. He returned from the bathroom with his helmet and glass taken off, knowing full well he'd need the full range of motion in his fingers if he was going to sort through the candy efficiently. Well, efficient candy sorting went like this. We dumped the bags over, separating the hard candy bullshit from the good stuff like zip blocks of cookies and fudge, fun-sized chocolates and big spend of full-sized bags. For safety-concern purposes, we would eat every fifth or sixth piece to make sure there was no THSYP-Sysm.

see your razor blades hidden in the Snickers bars. After two peanut buttercups, half a toblerone, a bag of chocolate cookies, a mini toffee bar, and the third bottle of pumpkin vodka. I was done with the inspection. But Matt wasn't content, and gorged on what had to have been half his bodyweight in sugar. I sent him up to bed just before eleven.

He was wise beyond his years and made me pinky swear not to eat any more of his candy while he slept. Knowing a pinky swear I wouldn't hold up for shit in court, I helped myself to the other half of the Toblerone before passing out on the couch. I was awakened by a clammy child's hand pushing on my face. I sat upright suddenly, arms flailing like I'd just woken up from a power blackout at a frat house party. As my bleary eyes focused, I could see Matt was standing by the coffee table, clutching his stomach and sniffling at me.

Oh, my stomach hurts. "'Oh, shit,' I replied, before remembering that I was dealing with a child. He was still new to the idea that overindulging led to consequences. It was better he learned on chocolate instead of booze, like his sister. "'You ate a lot of candy. Have you taken a pepto? Matt shook his head slowly, opening his mouth to speak. Instead of words, a torrent of blood and congealed chocolate spilled past his lips and onto my face. I screamed, leaping up off the couch and trying to wipe the gore out of my eyes.

I felt my own gorge rise as I tasted the blood and peanut butter, instantly awake and sober. Matt continued to empty the contents of his guts onto the white sofa, and even though I was worried for Matt, my first thought was that my parents were definitely going to blame the couch on me. I carried him to the kitchen as the vomiting subsided. Unfortunately, without that awful knowledge, to occupy his throat. Now Matt was screaming shrilly and flailing on the tile in the grip of a seizure. I called 911, rattling off our address while Matt tore his shirt off with a muleing shriek. The dispatcher was telling me it would be around ten minutes as I watched my brother's stomach

twist and deform. Something was inside him, desperately trying to get out. Matt's stomach was distended, as if he were pregnant, the thrashing limbs of something inhuman within, causing the skin to redden and bulge. He twisted and kicked, desperate for the pain to end. Knocking the sole of his tiny foot against the kitchen table, the box the witch had given me fell over the edge and landed with a thunk and a rattle. On the bottom of the box, written with a playful filigree with the words, You should open me now!

In that moment I remembered the almost playful way, she said that if Matt started to get out of hand, I should open it. Desperate beyond any rational thought, I leapt onto the box tearing it open. I felt my heart sink at the sight of what she'd packed for me. Inside, nestled on the top of a purple and black tissue paper, was a bright orange-handled box cutter. In the same cheerful and elegant handwriting were two words. You're welcome.

I kicked the box away, shaking my head as Matt squealed and coughed up a dark, bubble of blood. He was growing pale now, a blue tinge settling into his quivering lower lip. His stomach settled as his chest rose. Madden stopped breathing, his eyes pleading as whatever thing was inside him decided to try and escape through his esophagus. He was choking on whatever it was as it tried to burrow out of his throat. Tears streaked down his face, cutting paths through the blood on his cheeks. I reached for the box cutter. the razor blade extending with a soft click as I crawled over to him on all fours. I ran my fingers across his still distended stomach, and the thing shifted at the touch.

It retreated back into his stomach, and Matt took in a deep and grateful and grateful breath before squealing again. A limb of some kind pushed back against my fingers as if to reassure me that I was in the right place. I didn't want to watch, but I wasn't going to cut Matt open with my eyes closed. He struggled. His little frame was surprisingly strong as I put a knee on top of his chest to hold him down with all my weight. The blade was blessedly sharp

and the tissue almost leapt apart as I cut in. Blood gushed from the wound but I paid it no mind as I widened the hole. I had a sense of deja vu as I finished the two-foot-long cut and I held open the gash. All the thing inside sounded just like the witch's cats warning me away with a keening growl.

It came out headfirst, a chocolate and tan calico cat. Its fur caked in blood and streaks of actual chocolate. The thing had an appalling likeness to the gingerbread cookie version, even sporting a single mismatched dot of white fur where stray frosting had landed on the original. It let past me and ran out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of bloody pawprints on the white tile,

I was too busy trying to stifle the blood with Matt's t-shirt to chase the thing. The paramedics were a couple of minutes early, thankfully, but too late by far to have saved Matt if I hadn't opened him up. The police officer was kind enough to tell me during the questioning that Matt was going to be fine, and he reassured me that I'd get to see my parents again once he'd finished taking my statement. I was too broken at that point to even consider lying. I told him everything. I confessed to everything, even stealing Mom's Wine.

It's only as I finished that it dawned on me that no one would believe me. I was going to be arrested, or worse, committed to some loony bin where my parents would never visit, and I'd never be let out. What's going to happen to me? We're done. I got your statement. Your parents are waiting, but I'm going to have a word with them first. What's going to happen to me? I repeated, the strain causing my voice to break as he closed his notebook. A year ago and home, he replied.

I was too wrapped up in my own trauma to notice that the detective was clearly going through some shit of his own. His eyes were bloodshot and dark as if he hadn't slept till week. He sighed and rested a hand on mine. I'll have to go tart of the other kids. Just wait here until I finish and I'll take you to your parents. other kids it was when he said other kids that everything fell into place and I understood I remembered that the witch's baking sheet had the outline of five cookies baked into it and I remembered all of those cats on her property glaring at people and warning them away

all of those cats I knew then that if I ever went by and watched long enough I'd spot that chocolate and tan calico with the white spots I never tested that theory, and the cops never arrested her. They hadn't even bothered to question her in 20 years of Halloween. What would they put on the report? That she was growing cats out of gingerbread in children's bellies. It was insane. No one outside of town would ever believe it.

Two-thirds of the townies themselves wouldn't believe it. Like my dad had said all those years ago, Nowadays we don't burn witches, we just avoid them. So, all I can do is warn you. Stay away from the old witch at the corner of redbutt. And if you can't do that, at least check for razors in the candy. Our final tale this evening is...

The truth is in the bottle and the blood. In vino et sanguis veritas. In wine and in blood there is truth. The intoxicated mind expresses truth more clearly and occasionally more loudly than does the sober, and blood will always tell. I didn't like to admit it, even to myself, but I had a drinking problem. Of late I didn't drink because I wanted to, or because I enjoyed the fine wines and booze, which I did. I drank to fend off the shakes, the misery my life had become.

But most of all, I drank out of weakness. I couldn't bring myself to do what I needed to do to handle my problems, so I hid in the mind-numbing bliss of the alcoholic. I wasn't supposed to admit that. Well, who am I kidding? My name's Vincent. I come from a long, illustrious line of cliché Italian gangsters. My wife hated it when I said it that way,

so naturally I did my best to annoy her. I was a child of one of dad's secondary wives, but he'd ensured that I had it good. All the best for Papua next kids. Even we bastardals. Yep, live in the dream. Among my current problems was that my favourite purveyor of fine wines and distilled beverages had shut down because someone had decided to widen a freeway into his store, while not in the way of the direct path.

It had to close because the exit had been closed and construction delayed until he was squeezed out of business. Talk about Bastaro's. Stupid highway department. Took away my favourite oasis. I drove around and looked blearily for a store that would have what I wanted. No, what I craved, what I needed. I maintained enough alcohol in my system that my once quick mind had turned a sludge, slow-moving and dreary. It took a moment, but I recognised the area of town

where I was currently putting the other drivers and myriad pedestrians at risk. It doesn't matter, I'm on an important mission. I reassured myself and then let out a boozy, wet laugh. Pathetic. If my mind had still worked properly, I'd have been sickened with myself. Hey, what's that place? I'd never noticed it. Wienney's delight, spirits and fine wines.

Well, I might have been a booze hound, but I like my spirits fine, and at that moment I could still afford them that way. The employee who greeted me was a lady of indeterminate age. She sported long, henna-died locks that cascaded about her shoulders in a very attractive fashion. I was instantly smitten by her gracious manner and winsome smile. Welcome, traveller. How may we help you today? Well, good evening. I'm looking for a particular Italian red, actually a Sicilian vintage. I explained what I wanted, and the lady nodded along in understanding.

Sir, I apologise, but we're currently out of that brand. However, we have an older vintage that inspired the flavors you seek. It's a nice match and is aged, well, more significantly than is typical, but it is slightly more expensive. It took me a moment to cipher through what she'd said. At first I got a little mad. Shit, she's trying to gouge me, I thought. Yet her sincere smile and, well, the fact that she was exquisitely beautiful,

with a hint of the exotic, combined with my wife's recent coldness, which was one of my many problems. Well, I decided to cut her a break. Okay, I'm up for something special. It's the weekend after all, well, after tomorrow. It's only Thursday, right? It gave a wheezy little laugh to cover the fact that I truly wasn't sure what day it was. She was game, and that smile, that lovely enticing smile, widened, became even more of the fact. radiant. It is only thirsty after all. If you come this way? She indicated the counter

area with her left hand. Her hand was open, inviting, tempting. I went. She took a key from a little pouch at her waist. She were a lovely skirt that covered way too much, but revealed a nice peek at her shapely calves. Okay, best check that. She may not be interested. Don't need any scandals, well, any more scandals. I was on thin ice with my business partners, my family with a capital F. I was a cabinet that stretched floor to ceiling behind the counter, and the glass doors included gold lettering that proclaimed special reserve. The bottom third was enclosed with rich wood, and the doors to it were carved with symbols of naked women, trees, and men with goat legs. Sutteres, maybe faunce, maybe panes. Maybe ponds.

himself they played some pipes and the naked women held forth a cup to the figure in the center a human-looking male seated on a throne made of grapevines i've been staring at the carving for a moment bakus the lady said as though she'd already said it once maybe she had i've been pretty zoned out there for a moment the roman version of dionysus according to some to others he's a separate italic deity. He's the one seated in the middle. I nodded blankly and she let loose that radiant smile once more. Then crouched and stuck the key into Bacchus's groin,

just below where his to gorethogor hovered above his, well, you know, gods have all the Buona Fortuna. And she was in the way, so when the cabinet doors opened and she reached in for a moment, I didn't really see what she did. I was busy watching her crouch. she had such enticing curves. Then the next thing I knew,

she was once more standing and proffering a very old-looking bottle of wine to me. She held it out carefully and in a way that invited me to take hold of it if I wanted to, well, if I wanted to preview the bottle as it rested in her hands. I didn't really need to look at it.

I wanted it. If she offered it, it had to be the best. I somehow knew this in my heart. They nodded and took out my platinum card. and I was soon the proud owner of a bottle of very old wine that came with a nice velvet sack to keep the fragile container safe. I had another sack, one of paper that concealed a more recently distilled brandy. As I walked out, I noticed it was nearly dark.

How long was I in that place? I wondered. Crap. I'd have to listen to Francesca gripe and chew my ass. Oh well, at least I could get juiced and tune out that one. wine she got in her voice when she was mad. I didn't wait on the brandy. I had a nice glass that fit perfectly inside my metal coffee cup. I could drink what I wanted and any nosy citizen or stupid cop that look would just see me sipping cafe. Sure enough, I barely hit the driveway and pulled in around back when there she was, hopping away before I even exited the car.

Where have you been? We've been worried about you. We had dinner an hour ago. I was about to start calling hospitals and police stations. On and on. I almost told her that I didn't need her wine. I had a very special reserve bottle of my own, but I didn't. I refused to confront her any more than I'd confront my personal demons.

And on, she continued. Chiaran needs some help with tuition again. Dante needs new books and a new computer. You promised you'd take care of them. They really are trying hard to do well in school. But is she still going on? I winced internally as I shuffled toward the side door to our far too lavish home. A home that I owned, but which was now filled with luxuries we could barely afford,

at least on what I made for a living these days. I clutched the soft velvet of the wine bottle sleeve in the crook of my arm and slouched my way into the house and straight to my little office. Francesca chatted away like an angry squirrel close on my heels the entire time until I closed the door on her and locked it. She stood quietly for a moment, then raised her voice and started accusing me of neglect and even abuse. How dare I ignore her?

How dare I shut a door in her face? Then she started in with a crocodile tears. God, did that ever work? Well, yeah, in our early days. She could push my guilt buttons because I loved her and wanted her to be happy, but all of that had been washed away in emotional fragility and liquid fire. I heard her stump away as I dug out my nice corkscrew and opened the bottle of my new favourite drink. I took only a shot glass full of the wine. It had been very expensive but well worth it.

Still, I wanted to conserve the beverage and enjoy it over time. I was already fixed from the brandy, so the wine was purely a connoisseur's delight. Even mildly inebriated, I enjoyed the smooth and many-layered textures of the ancient Vintner's arms. By the time I decided to stumble to bed, I was surprised by my son in the hallway. He'd been clearly waiting close by to ambush me. Dad, I can't believe you closed the door or mum like that. You know I've been waiting like all afternoon to speak to you. That's what his mouth appeared to be saying,

speaking in his sniveling tone and peppering each sentence with the word like and ending with an upward whining inflection, as though every statement was a question because he was too spying. to make a statement unless he knew that the other party would just ignore him as I normally did. What I actually heard, though, in my mind was, I don't know why I bother speaking with you. I wish you'd just send a deposit to my account and then go pass out. I effing hate you.

It was a surreal experience, as though he was a foreign language movie with a dub voice. Well, I, like, ain't none too fond of like you hire the boy. why do you like grow up and like get a job you sniveling little loser the words were out of me before i could stop myself but well they felt pretty good and were certainly well deserved and long overdue the little idiot had no idea what i did for the family every day and of what i'd done in the past his biggest responsibility in life so far was to pick out a video game for his moronic friends when they got together online no one would put up with a little turd in person. Oh, I said more. I lit into him until he was sitting on the floor, head buried between his knees, and covered with his folded arms, crying. And then I went upstairs. I was no longer

groggy. In fact, my mind had become preternaturally sharp, not in the way that an inebriated person believes himself to be, but with senses humming and my mind focused, my feet sure on the stair steps. Oh, great. The boy's outburst, or more likely my response, had awakened the harpy. Francesca met me outside of what had been our room for so many years. I had all but moved into the guest room in recent months. There it was again. Her mouth was moving, saying things, predictable things.

But what I heard was, you attacked our poor boy. He's so sad. All the prescriptions he needs, but no sympathy from you, you monster. I truly hate you. We all do. I want a divorce, but we're stuck until the kids get through college and move out on their own. Well, at least I can keep screwing Gary and get the satisfaction of cheating on you with a whim. What? You're screwing Gary.

You cheat, and the best you can do is our piece of shit accountant. He's a total pencil-neck geek. You truly are a whining and worthless skank. You want a divorce? Why wait? I'll file tomorrow morning on my way to work. in the meantime you and your poor boy can pack well she stood there gaping like a freshly caught fish this time her mouth moved but she didn't speak at all she couldn't speak what's the matter or gary cats got your tongue i stork past her and toward my room it was mine for real i wasn't going to leave i owned the place and she'd signed a pre-nut if anybody left it to be her and that it was one worthless brach she'd whelped and spoiled.

The next morning I awakened, well-rested and in a bright frame of mind. I realized that I clutched the bottle of very fine wine in my arms and I placed a shot glass on the nightstand. Normally I'd be trembling and craving a drink, yet this morning I didn't. Well, I wanted a drink, but I didn't need one. Got ready for work, Friday at last. I felt a little hungry but I really didn't want to have to speak with my family

and I certainly didn't want to listen to any of them so I felt the tiny glass and sipped at the amazing vintage until it was bone dry he eased out the back door and managed to escape the driveway before anyone noticed Dante would be too embarrassed

to even look at me for a while and Francesca well that slut would be too scared she'd admitted her infidelity hadn't she well she certainly hadn't denied it I stopped for a light breakfast, a little neighbourhood diner I like. The lady behind the counter, Margaret, greeted me as she once did more regularly, but

I hadn't been eating much lately. I've been on a liquid diet. Hey Vincent, good morning. I haven't seen you in a while. You're doing okay? That's what her mouth said, but what I heard was. Wow. Looks like you actually took a shower. I haven't seen you this, getting well dressed in a while, and, whew, miracle, no booze breath. Good for you, Vincent. He was always a nice customer before. I paused in the process of taking my seats.

And this was weird. Last night I could excuse the illusion as part of my intoxication. You hear it was daylight. Me completely, well, as close as I'd been in a long while to being sober, but it was happening. I was hearing the word she wanted to say rather than what she actually said. It was such a disorienting juxtaposition. I didn't know what to say, so I just smiled and took a seat on one of the stools at the counter.

I ended up leaving her a nice tip for her kind thoughts. After breakfast, I called in and let the secretary know. I'd be late since I needed to drop by and visit my attorney. The response I heard was, Yeah, sure. I bet you need your rest, lush. Don't worry, though. Everyone else will take up your slack.

Now I'll have to listen to your bitch half-sister rant about how worthless drunk of a brother. Oh, thanks, asshole. I wondered while I was eating whether my perception would still be different than what people actually said to me when I used the phone. No way Anna would have spoken to me that way. No matter what an ass I was, she was invariably plight. Her features consistently inscrutable. Something weird was happening. With my new found clarity, I knew that it had something to do with the wine.

And I'd have to go by Pliny's Delight again and speak with that hostess about just what was included in this elder vintage. Oh, great. Like I have time for your bullshit this morning. Why can't you greasy gangster wannabies understand that you need to make an appointment? That's what I heard, instead of the falsely polite greeting that Joel intended to send. I smiled and just decided to use the gift for a while. Oh hey, I'm sorry I didn't make an appointment. I know you're getting early to do prep work and took advantage of that knowledge. It's just that I'm...

Well, we're ready to divorce and I'll need your help on this one. She crossed the Rubicon. She was unfaithful. Clear violation of the pre-nut. He stared at me a little blankly, processing the information. He was a dick but an excellent. attorney. Never mind what he said. This is what I heard. Yeah, well, who could blame her? She has a great counterclaim, with you being a boozehout and all. She even have any proof of the infidelity.

She's a nice-looking woman. Might certainly do her. Well, might as well dive off into the Q&A. Apparently I could hear mental clutter as well as conscious thoughts for as long as the person spoke. I spent the next half hour answering his questions and figuring out what I'd need to do to get the ball rolling before she could prepare it was hard to separate at first but the more we talk shop the more his words coincided with the movement of his mouth I didn't know for certain whether his mind and words had synced or my perception had clouded

maybe the effects of the wine had worn off we wrapped up and I left the office afraid I'd already lost track of my newfound abilities. If not, this power would be great if we had to go to court. When I got back to my car, a parking, enforcement officer, was printing a citation on her little ticket-riding device. I couldn't have been more than a minute over the time. Excuse me, ma'am. That's my car. I'm here and ready to go.

She turned around with a nasty little bureaucratic smirk. Yeah, well, too late, Dicket. I've already printed so you can take it up with the municipal judge. Go ahead, argue with me. Come on, sucker. After I embarrass and humiliate you, I'll get on the radio and call Officer Turner over to sling your ass in jail. As best I could tell, she'd said pretty much the same thing,

but mocked politely and without the immediate threat to call in an actual officer. I thanked her, explained how I truly appreciated her service, hard work and that had only meant to save her some time. She looked astonished that her little snarky trap had been sprung but left empty. I took this stupid citation and got underway. Well, the true test would be my legitimate business partner, Linda, my half-sister by yet another secondary wife. She'd been mad-mouthing me for a while, granted with good cause of late, but it had started long before my drinking had gotten out of hand. Come to think, of it, except for the special reserve wine, I hadn't consumed any alcohol since the brandy last night.

I was feeling fine, still alert, still sharp, not even a slight tremor. I greeted Anna as I breeze by to head to my office. Good morning, Anna. Thank you for holding the fort. Anything pressing? I knew there wouldn't be, but I wanted to hear what she'd really say. She looked at me with a little surprise. Good morning. Morning, sir. Nothing waiting for you, but a fight with your little sister. She's going to kick your ass. I waved and nodded and continued on my way, and sure enough, when I entered my office, there was Linda, crouched over the keyboard at my desk. She was already scowling and spared me a look of utter contempt as I closed the door behind me. Oh, I couldn't wait to hear what was really on her mind.

It's about time you got here, you worthless sack. What's the matter? Tie one on last night. Like every other night. I'm tired of complaining to Daddy. You need to go. Your crap's sinking the ship. I took one of my guest chairs. They were in many ways more comfortable than my office chair anyway. I had to stop by to see my lawyer. Not your concern, but I'm divorcing Francesca, so I may have to work on that summer over the next few months. I know you snivel to Daddy regularly. You've been doing it since the start. placing the blame for every failure, yours and mine, at my doorstep. That's just who you are. I held up my hand to forestall her verbal repost.

Thing is, neither of us would have had anything if our father hadn't given us this little business. It's easy enough work, and we don't even own it. Just manage it for his cooperation. When I'd held up my hand to actually finish saying what I wanted, the gesture had made her angry. How dare I speak up on my own behalf? Okay, what I heard. Of course I tell father, I'm in it to win it. You've always just gone through the motions.

Don't be too sure that I won't own it all soon. Daddy's getting old and is ready to start dividing up his empire. Then you'll be out on your ass. You and your whole wife and those deadbeat brats are yours. If they are yours. If only you knew that she's screwing our outside accountant. I caught on months of you. I must admit that I was shocked that she knew about Francesca and Gary and hadn't said anything.

I was even more shocked that Papa Nick was about to cut me loose. I didn't think it was that bad. Yet I played it safe and went through the motions of apologising and catering to her, the loser bit to which she had become accustomed. Oh, if only she knew. When Lonechtime rolled around, I called Papa Nick and asked for a meeting. I would have had to speak to him about Francesca anyway. He was old school to a ridiculous degree.

Some things he'd let slide, but he frowned on divorce. Yes, I was sure that this was one instance where he'd sighed with me. It was one thing for a crime boss and his associates to have secondary wives, but in the double standards of his world, wives just couldn't have affairs. That was a deadly sin to him. He was surprisingly available. After I parked my car outside of his office building, I stopped and drank a lunch of of Verid Sangu, whatever that label on the bottle said.

The label was old and distorted. I couldn't take any chances. I really needed to know the truth of whatever my father was going to say. His secretary greeted me calmly and sent me straight in to see the big Gahooner. He didn't rise nor offered to shake my hands. His favorite Goun-Frank loomed in the corner and nodded as I took me. my seats. Frank was unlikely to speak or participate. He was essentially a piece of lethal furniture just in case. The old Vino was working well. So how do you want to waste my time today?

Come to snivel about your slutwife. I may not be able to let it slide but I can't really blame her. You dickless little turd. Outman by an accountant. Maybe we should do a DNA test to see if you're really my son. Who am I kidding? With that nose and those eyebrows? Got to be mine. Besides, his mother would never have screwed around on me. I think I surprised him when I smiled.

All I'd seen his mouth say was, I'm busy, so make this fast. I'm sure he expected me to assume a grovelling pose. Yeah, well, I'm sure Linda's already told you. Francesca's having an affair with the outside. accountant. I hope you'll hold off on any direct action until we reach an agreement. I'm still putting together proof. Well, I will definitely get a DNA test on Dante. That dickless little Turk can't possibly be mine. Chiara, though, poor girl, with that nose and the need to constantly

pluck her brows. Gotta be mine. He blanched a bit. I thought he might have a stroke on the spot. Well, at least I wished. I don't want any favors. I know I've let things slide for far too long. I crawled inside the bottle to get away from my problems. It's not where I belong and I will fix it. I will get back on top of the office. I just wanted to be respectful and let you know what had happened and what I was doing.

I waited. His intended outward response was conciliatory, a bad sign, especially when I heard his actual plans. I really loved your mother. And I had high hopes for you, son, but it's too little too late, and you've broken too many promises to get yourself straight. I have legitimate sons and daughters, and Linda's doing a great job. You're just a drain on our bottom line.

We'll take care of Francesca and Gary, but the grandkids may as well get everything. You just flush it down the tiber. Scratch that, the whiskey river. Best be careful when you leave the building. Never know who might follow and what they might do. Well, it was my turn to Blanche. Et tu pater. I knew he was not a patient man, but I'd never imagined that he becomes so angry, so disgusted with me.

He'd been disappointed when I hadn't taken on the criminal side of his operations full-time. He wanted his legitimate heirs to stay legitimate. But bastardos, like me, could get involved with any nasty activities that would take care of his needs and allow his real kids to keep their hands clean and consciences clear. I'd always tried to please Papa, but that short time among the walls, like Romulus and Remus, had led to my drinking.

I'd apparently become so worthless in his eyes, such a disappointment that he could casually discard my meaningless life. He rose and opened his arms for an embrace. You're an embarrassment. I'm old and dying, but I have pride and I will not have a drunk as any part of my legacy. I embraced him. and we bust cheeks in the old style.

I knew it was a send-off. He truly was the last of the old-time stereotypical mobsters. As I left, I saw Frank Jr. in the lobby. He was definitely a source of pride for his father. Looked just like him, same last name, same bulky goon frame. He smiled at me without humour and flipped up his chin in silent greeting as I passed. I turned around as I walked through the elevator doors and flick my fingers under my chin and toward him to gesture,

Fong-Hul. He looked mildly surprised as the doors closed on his intimidating frame. I looked around to ensure that no other goons were already on my tail. Then I realized that Papua Nick might not have meant it. It may just have been something

that crossed his mind. No, no, he was a hard case. He meant it. He just didn't have anything prepared, nothing more than a threat, and that was still lonely in his mind, or so he believed. He would set up something soon.

It was definitely on his mind to kill his Bastardo Vinny. It's probably where Frank Jr. was headed to the big meeting. I needed to get out ahead of the problem. First, I needed to visit that liquor store. I part in the sidelot of Pliny's Delights and walked through the very modern-looking entrance. I didn't remember it looking like that. Yesterday it possessed a classic charming look.

The lighting was now much brighter, and the place looked sterile and cold, not like the warm little shop I'd visited fewer than 24 hours previous. Guess I had been pretty lit. An older man sat behind the counter. You were a neutral expression, perhaps a little bored. Excuse me, I was in here yesterday and spoke with a nice lady. Is she here today?

I just need to ask about a very fine product she sold. Well, I didn't care about his response. I listened for what he really said. But all I got was what he intended to come out of his mouth. I learned to tell the difference. Sir, we currently have no female employees. Perhaps you're in a different store or are mistaken about whom you met. I must have assumed a stupid expression as I stood back,

confused and looked around the store again. The cabinet. It was there just as I recorded, only now. it didn't reach the ceiling and on top was a very old photo. It was black and white, well, yellowish with age and era of photography. But there was no doubt. It was her. There, he said, and pointed at the ancient photo.

That's her in the picture. Was that one of those old-timey photo setups? He briefly glanced over his shoulder and looked at me sourly. Sir, I think you're definitely mistaken. That's the owner's great-great-grandmother. Now, the owner's elderly, so I'm sure the lady in the photo, the very authentic photo, is long deceased. Now, would you like to make a purchase or look at any of our products? I stood there, nonplussed, and trying to think.

Something was definitely off about this place, about this man, and about what had happened just yesterday. So, um, she sold me something from that old cabinet behind the counter. A great but very old vintage. Before I could go any further, he raised his hand and interrupted. So there's nothing in that cabinet. It's an antique, purely for show. We don't even have a key for it anymore. Now, if you like older wines, we have a few in our top shelf selection.

I could tell that he was impatient and really wanted me to buy something or leave. I didn't need the vina for that message to get through. I thanked him, maybe apologised, some mumbled inane response. Perhaps the vina had worn off or no longer affected me. I rushed to my car in a panic and just took a small swig. I felt a little rush of energy, but nothing else. I knew I had to fix things. It might lead to more nightmares and problems,

but it was time to do or die, literally, as I drove my memories strayed back to my youth. I'd had pretensions of becoming a wise guy like my old man. I threw out his name and used his reputation rather than building one of my own, and that's where the problem started. Eventually I got crosswise with a man who didn't fear Papa Nick, much less one of his punk kids. Big Jim Elliot had his own criminal enterprise and his own staff.

Papa Nick could have taken him. His organisation was bigger and more established, but there was no need, and wars were costly. Tell that to a 19-year-old trying to prove himself worthy of his father's attention. I made the fatal error of disparaging Big Jim in public, calling him small-time and a wannabe. Dumbass that I was, these appellations applied more to me than to him. On some level I must have craved a fight, and I got it. In addition to shooting off my mouth, I was shooting pool at Lacey's Park with some of my up-and-coming idiot friends.

I was about to sink the eight ball and win another round. A cigarette dangled from my mouth. I had to talk some smack as I prepared to shoot, like I was in some black and white gangster movie from the old days. Yeah, well, I say big jims are lightweight, nothing without his crew of flying monkeys. And that's when the lightweight in these flying monkeys made their presence known. A shadow loomed over the pool table.

Did I mention the big gym was called Biggium. for a reason. His goons back down my nascent crew with nothing more than hard stairs. So you have something to say about me and my crew? Try saying it to my face, sonny boy. He was definitely not taking this with grace or a hint of forgiveness in his heart. I glanced around and saw that my allies had turned instantly into quivering punks. They needed their leader to take a stand. Yeah, well, if you know, know that's as far as I got I don't even remember the rest of the thrashing and stomping I got and didn't feel it until I regained consciousness in the hospital he'd knock me out cold and

then given me the thumping I'd needed for my entire life to that point Papa Nick stopped by the hospital to visit and to ensure that I didn't finish digging my grave you will publicly apologize to Big Jim he pronounced it like a sentence and that's what it felt like. Through the labored breath, caused by my crack ribs and broken nose, I tried to object. But Papa, everyone knows he's just a fad. He has no staying power like us. We... He held up a hand. I'll stop you there, Vinny. There is no weak. If you want to follow in my footsteps, you'll have to prove yourself. You have no right to write on my name. You'll have to do things that will wash away any notion that you're soft, weak of a fool. Take actions that'll instill

fear in others so they completely forget what a punk you were today. Well, now, it seems a Vino worked on me even when I talked to myself. I saw my next destination ahead. A building were a certain accountant was, a real pencil net. My blood began to boil, but I had to remain calm, composed, so he had no idea that I knew. He'd assumed that I was drunk and had mistakenly stopped for a non-existent appointment. He worked out of an older building downtown. There was a camera on the main entrance, but not anywhere else. We weren't the only clients who used the backdoor and preferred anonymity.

Gary was a whiz with tax codes. We had regular accountants for day-to-day operations, but he kept us away from federal, state and local scrutiny. I timed it perfectly. His receptionist took off at three on Friday afternoons. It was 3.15 when I sorted into his waiting room. I paused to listen at his door. No conversations, so no witnesses.

Just some pussy-ass pop satellite music he liked to listen to while he worked. I knocked on his door. Way more loudly and forcefully than necessary. Hey, I was a drunken loser who couldn't keep hold of his wife, right? I opened the door and bopped him with the edge as he approached from the other side to open it himself. Oh, sorry, Gary. That was really bad timing on my part, I said with a drunken slur. He backed away his hand clutched to his left cheek and the red spot that grew and promised to become a shiner.

I stepped closer to him, pretending to have concern. Are you going to be okay, buddy? Wow, that was really a knock. It's okay, though. Makes you look tough, like a gladiator or something. One of those guys in that spart, Woozid show. He stood there shaking in mortified anger. He wanted to lash out, but he knew that he couldn't.

He spoke assuaging words of forgiveness, but this is what I heard. You drunk a moron, if you'd stay sober long enough to plow your idiot wife, then she'd stop bugging me. Not only a limp dick, but you're clumsy. Why don't you go dive off a bridge, something. I smiled, satisfied that the Vino still worked. And then I decked him. I draped his body

over my shoulder and hefted him up the back stairs to the maintenance access door on the roof. I looked around for witnesses, but unless someone in the next closest building deliberately watched with a telescope, I wouldn't see anything unusual. I quickly carried him to the edge of the building that had an alley below. He'd started to regain consciousness, so he'd started to regain consciousness, so I stood him on his feet at the ledge and slapped him the rest of the way away. So, Pencilneck, you think I'm digless? At least we agree that Francesca isn't much fun in the sack. I had the satisfaction of watching his eyes grow enormously wide and filled with fear.

He stammered out what he intended to be placating words. No, wait, please, you psycho, you can't do this. Everyone knows I cuckolded you. You're a drunken fool, but people are. People will notice I'm gone. They'll miss me. Why can't you just jump off the building and leave me be? I gave him my best wicked grin. I'm not driving off any bridges or jumping from any buildings. I find that I have something to live for. He gave me an owlish, questioning look, tinge with a hint of hope. Well, I dashed it just as the insuring fall dashed his brains in the alley below.

Unlikely anyone would find him until Monday trash pickup at the earliest. very appropriate. Maybe his fellow rats would take care of some of the potential evidence. No one would believe a suicide, but there would be no suspects by that time. Anyone with a stake would be taken care of one way or another. It was now time to go to the last place Papa Nick would suspect. It wasn't easy to get in, but I still had keys and coes to everything from the last time I'd had to earn my keep the hard way for dear old dad.

I knew that, except for the cleaning staff and a goon on guard, guard. No one would be at his home. His real wife would be at yoga. It was getting late. He'd be leaving the office soon and headed home to where he did his true work, where he talked without reservations about his criminal enterprises, his sanctum sanctorum. I made it into the residence. Servants' entrances are awesome and usually forgotten, especially in these days when few people had regular servants, just contractors. Of course, when one had to keep crucial, secrets, he tended to hire people and ensure that they had a vested interest in keeping their mouths shut. It looked like the cooking and cleaning staff was gone for the day.

A ease past the media room where a hulking figure sprawled watching some sports show. The on-duty security. Almost there and Excelsior. The office. I rifled the circus maximum-sized desk and found what I wanted for supplies. I used the restroom and then took up my hunting stand in what would have been the closet if this had been used as a bedroom. Hunting stand. I laughed internally, like I'd ever hunted mere animals. I liked animals and I didn't need to prove anything, plus who wanted to go to the woods? Well, the time I'd spent in them had been invariably unpleasant. I settled onto a box and lean back against the wall. I dozed off with thoughts of my first trip to the woods, but the

hunt had already been completed before we arrived. I wasn't in the woods. I was in a car. Frank Sr. sat beside me. He was my handler and coach on this first return of glory mission. I was nervous naturally. I participated in getting some people back on track with a little rough stuff, but this was next level. I was in college. I should have been home writing papers or something. Instead, I was in this beater car with a souped up engine, sitting beside Frank Senior. He was a his garlic breath, waiting on a certain business associate of dads to leave his favorite side pieces apartments. The memory was just like then, but I drifted out of my body and saw from above as the

30-something man in an expensive but rumble suit walked out of the building. I heard Frank Senior say, that's him. I didn't feel the nudge, but my younger body did, and both of us left the vehicle, and walked towards the man. Frank Senior kept an eye out in all directions, but my body was laser focused on the intended target. As we drew near, the man, about to put the key into the lock of his car door, paused and looked up, startled. So much for the afterglow of lovemaking, I thought to my dream self. Then my body raised a little revolver and put it to the man's eye.

I heard a faint pop as a small caliber pistol fired, and the man collapsed, quite thursday. thoroughly and very convincingly dead. The dream flashed forward to Frank Senior, pulling me by the arm to get me going, of his calming words as we dragged the body quickly over to the beater, and then drove out to the disposal site. Ah, this is why I dreamed of woods. A big state park, handy for hiding bodies. Flash forward again to this very room,

to Papa Nick praising me for paying the bills. No, I hadn't fixed the problem yet, but I was on my way. I still needed to rehabilitate my reputation and, well, I still owed him. I awakened to hear the door to the room close and voices speak. Papa Nick and... Yeah, the Franks. I don't really care about updates and excuses. I have decreed him dead, and that needs to happen quickly.

Frank Jr. responded. Yes, sir. I'll go find him myself and take care of it. He reversed course and bustled back out of the room. After the door closed, Frank Senior chuckled. Ah, he's a good kid, Nick. Got him some slack. Your boy was acting weird today.

More so than usual. No idea where the guy's lost him, but he maybe ain't as far gone as we were thinking. Nick flooded his hands. He's gone to me, bastardo. Always needy that one. Always wanted notice and affection. I gave him everything anyone could want in life. Yeah, he kept.

failing. Oh good of business at all. Had to keep doing contracts to repay me. Don't get me wrong, that was useful. He eliminated a fair number of problem people for us. I had real talent for that, but no stomach.

He sat behind the colossal mahogany desk and steepled his fingers. Maybe I should have brought him on the crew instead of letting him flail away at the business world, for which he hadn't, still has no ability. He certainly showed more talent for slaughter than he did for anything else.

Frank Sienia took the seat to the right of his boss and handed him one of the two drinks he'd prepared. Yeah, he had the talent, but he took it to heart and let the work turn him into a monster. Monsters are careless. What he became, made him weak

on all the wrong ways, made him vulnerable to the bottle. He did the only thing you could have, he assured my father. Nick nodded. Oh yeah, all but let him take out big Jim. Some other outfit did it. Vinnie was right about it too. Big Jim was a punk. He sucker punched my boy and my boy's big mistake was picking a pussy crew. He started him down the wrong

road and he never gained any self-respect. He sighed with finality. Oh well, water another bridge, soon to be a body in the river. He grinned and raised his glass in salute to his closest friend and is soon to be dead some. I sat and listened and wondered if I was hearing the unvarnished truth. I'd slept and hadn't had a dose of vino. Yet these two were old friends. No doubt they were speaking as honestly as either ever did. For all I knew, they were talking about something else,

and I merely heard the truth. In any case, my father, whose approval was all I craved in youth, and his best friend whom I'd wanted desperately to see as an uncle, a mentor, a centurion to hold my skills, had just agreed that I was a right-off. I had to stifle a laugh, right-off, reminded me of Gary the taxman as I faced him forward for his plunge

and gave him just a little bit of wedgy before I released him to the air. That meant that I wasn't wearing the stern and righteously angry countenance I'd intended when I stepped out from the closet. I didn't burst out all fury and mayhem as I'd planned, but wearing a grin. Wouldn't have mattered.

The room was soundproofed and dear old dad's large-caliber pistol was acquit with a silencer. Yet the drama became all business when I walked into the office room. First, I shot Frank Sr. in the heads. Once for fun and wants to be done. The way he himself had taught me, though the large calibre did make a mess of things. Papa Nick whipped open his top drawer and dug for the pistol that currently filled my own hands. I waved it in a side-to-side gesture that mimicked a shaking head. He reached down to retrieve the little derringy he kept on his ankle.

I stepped around the side of the desk and stomped on that ankle. He barked out a high-pitched cry of agony, then slumped out of the chair and curled himself on the floor, all while clutching at his wounds. Oh, come now, Father, we must show some dignities and stiles and gravitors, the lessons you ground into me. must keep up appearances, best practices and all. He stammered with the pain, with age with an already diseased and damaged heart.

Vinnie, please, we can talk. Why are you doing this? I favoured him with my most sinister smile. Oh, you talked, and I heard. Not what you said, but what you really had in mind. Now you and Frank just confirmed what I suspected. You meant to have me killed. For what? You think I'm an embarrassment? I started drinking because of the nightmares, because of what you drove me to do.

The bodies I've taken out and stanked in unmarked graves under the pines for you. Then I started drinking some more. My grin turned savage. I guess my piece of shit half-sister hasn't caught on yet. You have plenty of cause to have me eliminated. I've been robbing the company blind for years. Just thought you should know. before you die.

I'd been terribly stressed. I slipped into the bottle all unawares, but I'm completely sober, and I'm enjoying this moment. At that point, I was startled by a knock at the door. It's me, Frank Jr., sir. That brown-nosing piece of weasel shit.

I chuckled. This was getting better by the minute. I placed the barrel of the pistol to my lips to shush Nick, who looked hopefully at the portal. I saw the look and shook my head in mock pity. Not gonna help you. I yanked open the door and grabbed the thug by the front of his shirt and hit him with the barrel of the pistol. Then pulled him inside and shut the door behind him.

He stumbled forward but stayed on his feet. He scrambled for his own pistol but stopped when he saw his father's body with the extruded brains stretched in front of the desk. He knelt beside the still warm corpse and grabbed its hand. I like to think that just before I fired the round to the back of his skull that he felt immense grief, immense loss and failure. Stop, I ordered before I even turned back to Papa Nick. He tried to sneak over to the door while I was savoring my triumph. He started and hunched his shoulders.

At first I thought it was in resignation, but, oh, no, this night kept getting better. I made my escape into the darkness. The bodyguard was still watching television and now had a pair of companions, presumably Frank Jr's team. No point in taking out the trash. I'd use Papa's phone to call in an emergency and just left the line open. I'd love to see their faces when the police arrived. Francesca the Harpy fled before me when I arrived at my home.

She didn't want to chatter anymore. I didn't give her a choice. Freshly fortified by the Vino. I cornered her in our bedroom My bedroom And I heard Vinnie I'm truly scared

The kids and I just want to be free I'm so scared Please don't kill me I did love you once But you got so cold And then the drinking started And then the scrubs at work Please don't kill me

And please don't hurt the kids Not them, never them No After a while I couldn't tell What she was saying from what I heard It was the same babbled which I grown accustomed. I can't believe that I ever loved

this thing. Now she disgusted me. Used up, frightened, feeling genuine terror at my approach, at what I'm sure appeared to her like a stone-faced enforcer. Well, in wine,

there is truth, and in fear there is as well. I didn't hurt her, just told her to leave, that I didn't need to kill her. She was already dead to me. He even let her pack a few things. She, of course, hadn't taken me seriously that night.

Dante emerged from his room, headphones dangling and that vapid look on his face from when he'd been immersed in his video game fantasy wars for too long. You can, like, get your shit too, pal. I'm sure your mother will need a ride. Oh, Francesca, you'll need to take numb nuts here for a DNA test. I don't think he's mine. And within six months, I cleaned up my world.

I didn't keep the money I'd embezzled from the company. I used it to trap my hosebag half-sister. I really hadn't meant to become an alky. At first it was just a way to numb my conscience. Then it was a show, a farce that became reality. I patted the old bottle with the exquisite velvet cover. It was nearly empty now. I'd used it often to great effect,

and the corporation, under the guidance of my half-brother, one of the legitimate heirs, had bought out my shares at a considerable profit in my favour. For some reason he was intimidated by me. Pliny's delight was open. The lights inside the classic storefront twinkled and beckoned and all appeared as it had on that first visit, the one when I was so hammered out of my skull.

There were several cars in the locks, and it looked and sounded like there was a party inside. When I made my way through the front door, there she was, that lovely, lady, mere photograph but here and alive. Welcome back, Vincent. I see that you enjoyed the veritasist in sanguine and vintage. I trust that you found the truth that you saw. I just finished off the Vino, and I understood the true question. Yes, I know who I am and what I am. I come from a long line of hard man who did hard things. I tried to be something else for the sake of my

wife, my family. In the end, it was my family with a capital F that stirred my blood. She smiled. No doubt she'd received many such confessions, heard the realizations. She gestured with those lovely hands and smiled that enticing smile and drew me toward the cabinet to try a new vintage. Plur escapula, quangladius. More die from drunkenness than the salt. And so once again, 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 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, same place, and I do so hope

you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.