Haunted Cosmos - The Devil's Den, Part II

Episode Date: August 7, 2024

Please enjoy this second inter-season episode of our Patreon exclusive show, The Dusty Tome. In this episode, we continue the story of the Devil's Den!Love Haunted Cosmos? Get access to our exclusive show, The Dusty Tome, early ad-free access to main episodes, monthly AMA's, and livestreams with Ben and Brian by becoming a patron of the show: https://www.patreon.com/c/HauntedCosmosBuy the Haunted Cosmos book: https://www.newchristendompress.com/cosmos PS: It's also available as an audiobook!Want to keep nefarious fairy Bigfoots away and also avoid icky seed oils, preservatives, artificial colorants, and other nasties in your daily shower routine? Then check out the vast array of homemade soaps from our friends at Indigo Sundries Soap Co.! Go to indigosundriessoap.com to learn more—and as our gift to you, use code HAUNTEDCOSMOS for 10% off your whole order!This episode is sponsored by New Dominion Design Co. Visit their website here and learn more!This episode is sponsored by Backwards Planning Financial. Visit Joe's website here or give him a call (615-767-2555).This episode is sponsored by Squirrelly Joe's Coffee! Visit their website here to get your first bag free!  Share Coffee. Serve Humbly. Live faithfully.Finally, this episode is sponsored by Gray Toad Tallow. Visit their website here and use COSMOS15 at checkout for 15% off your order.Support the show

one and welcome to this second installment of our off-season break special sneak peek at our Patreon exclusive show, The Dusty Tome. And if that's not a confusing enough intro or prefix into this whole thing, then I don't know what is. But it is our second week off of the 10-week off season that we're going to take, and we're hard at work on developing season four. In fact, as of the time of this recording, which is Tuesday, August 6th, we are about to get into the studio, to record the first episode of season four. So, if you've been thinking about becoming a patron, just remember that those top two tiers of patronage are probably going to get that episode early and ad-free,

fully produced within the next couple or few weeks. Pretty exciting. At any rate, I hope that you guys enjoy the second installment of our dusty tome study into the incident at Devil's Den. And this episode, as always, is sponsored by Indigo Sundry Soap, Backwards, Planning, Financial, New Dominion Design Co, Grato dello, and Squirrely Joe's Coffee. We appreciate our sponsors,

and we appreciate our patrons, and of course we appreciate all of you, our listeners in general. Without you, this show is just not possible. So thanks, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. What is it about a father and his son? There may be some ladies listening to this, ladies who don't have sons yet or never had any brothers, who should be let in on a little secret. The relationship between a father and a son is one of almost unquenchable affection and longing that's permeated through and through with tension.

Please, let me explain. Manhood is different from womanhood. Girls tend to grow more naturally into what we would all agree as a mature woman, but the same can't be said for boys becoming men. Manhood is a thing to be one, not a thing to be stumbled upon or just to walk into. It must be achieved. It must be publicly affirmed by other men.

And it is a status that can be revoked at any time, like in the event of cowardice or failure to provide. Fathers know this all too well. The heavy threat of failure and its tidings multiplies in a father's life when he has any children, but especially sons. And sons know this too, almost instinctually. The result is, in the best scenario, a father who sincerely and madly loves his boy, but who also knows that his boy is a future man that stands before him needing to be shown the way. The father loves his son and wants almost more than anything else in the world to win the boy's heart. In return, the son does love his father. He sees him as the greatest hero the world has ever known,

a man that is the epitome of virtue, strength, courage, affection, encouragement, humor, and competency. A boy can have the most below-average father in the world, but for the first few years especially of his life, it doesn't matter. To a son, his father is everything a man ought to be. But again, both father and son know the all-too-often inconvenient truth. The son must not remain a boy, and so he needs to grow hardened to a degree. He needs to become tough. There is a saying that I believe is true.

Strong men create good times. Good times tend to create weaker men. Weak men create bad times, and bad times tend to create stronger men. And so the good times eventually come again. Every young boy who survives into adulthood will endure some kind of the most of the potent challenge, hardships, pain, sorrow, anxiety and fear that one can imagine just by virtue of growing up. It is a father's duty to prepare his son for these things so that by God's grace he might face them with faithfulness and undiminished joy and gladness of heart. The list of things

in the world that give my own heart more anguish than seeing or thinking of my sons in pain or suffering is short. I take no pleasure in watching my son's struggle. I take great pleasure in watching them overcome struggle, but until they do, my soul is ripped in me, in my words become a man of their own. But I know that struggle is necessary even now, even when my sons are so young in the presence of their dad, so that someday, when I can't grab their hand and pull them through it, they might know what to do and have the strength and wisdom and skill to do it. So when my son falls off his bike and skins his elbow, I check my own heart and don't rush to him.

I encourage him kindly to be a tough guy. Show mom and dad how tough and strong you are. If he's really hurt, I hold him and teach him to take deep breaths. I tell him to look at me and forget about everything else. And then eventually when his mind is his again and no longer belongs to the blood scabbing on his skin, I tell him to say, tough. I give him a hug, and off he runs to play again, as if nothing had happened. But I still have to remember his face contorted with pain, and a piece of me dies.

I'm sure that by the end of my days my sons will have taken many pieces of me. So be it, life is to be spent. I'd love to die with nothing left. I just pray those pieces yield a fruitful return for them someday. But why am I talking about this? What's the point? Well, that complex and layered relationship between a father and son, so full of love and tension, can manifest itself in strange ways. And the brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, the reader meets a second-grade captain

who is the father of two daughters and a young schoolboy named Ilyusha. One day, the second grade captain is publicly humiliated and defamed by Dmitri Karamazov. He becomes an outcast of society, forced to live in squalid conditions at the mercy of some semi-beneficent landlords he can't ever really predict or trust. His wife suffers a condition in the legs, his daughters are ill, he can't afford to make them well again. But the man always finds solace, or always found solace, and his son, who so freely gave his father his heart. Every evening, even on the worst days, they would go on

walks together and laugh and dream with wide-eyed wonder about getting to move to Moscow someday, about getting to start over, maybe even by a farm, and leave all of their current troubles behind them. But one day, little Ilyusha, by providential illumination or simple aging, started to learn that his father wasn't who he thought he was. He was. He wasn't such a hero after all. He wasn't able to keep all the promises he had made to his son. He may never be able to lead his family to brighter days. And so their walk that night was one-sided.

A desperate father filled the space with blabbering about all the things his son used to love only just some days ago. He promised more and more and strained his mind to think without ever asking his boy what was wrong, how he could just get his son. the only light left in his world to talk to him. Finally, at the end of their walk, when the golden sunset kissed the Russian hills that lay needed below them from a small hilltop,

Ilyusha looked at his father and wept. His father wept, too. A disenfranchised and sad apple, who, it became clear, had not fallen far from the tree. And it broke the second-grade captain to lose the unwavering admiration of his son. What must it have felt like for the boy?

Dostoyevsky doesn't tell us. Perhaps thinking of that was too sad, even for him. Are you a Christian struggling to find companies that align with your values and beliefs? Well, Squirrely Joe's has you covered for at least all of your coffee needs. All of their coffee is hand-selected and roasted fresh every day by a family of fellow believers. Try them out and you'll savor exceptional coffee, while not. knowing that your investment supports a company committed to following God's teachings and upholding truth and righteousness, ensuring your hard-earned money contributes to the growth of God's kingdom.

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slash haunted cosmos to claim your free bag of coffee. Let's flip and go. Link in the description below. I'm a poet. Didn't even know it. The dark room seemed dense and heavy, like a thin black ocean at the bottom of a vion pit

somewhere near the doorway to an outer void at the utter and last end of the world. It was the fourth time in half as many weeks that little eight-year-old Terry Lovelace had awoken in the same semi-aware stupor. The longing drowsiness present in his heavy eyes bid him to go back to sleep, but he dared not. He knew what evil lingered in the shadows and could not let it take him, not again.

He focused his mind and strained his eyes to try and pierce through the overwhelming dark. He yearned for any sliver of light, any surface a bit brighter than the next one to it, to help him start making out the familiar setup of his room. Finally, due to some moonlight peeking silver blue through the blinds of a bathroom window that lit up his cracked door with a slight outline, he started to get his bearings. But just as quickly as he traced the doorframe, he saw the beginning of what he so much dread. A shadow darted across the veil of blue light, as if a creature had silently pounced to the opposite wall of his room.

This dance continued, Terry moving his head, jerking it back right and now back left. to try and catch the shadows that stayed so tantalizingly in the corner of his vision. He knew this could not go on much longer, and he was right. After a few more moments, the four figures he most expected and most feared came slowly creeping up to his bed, one on either side and two at the far corners. They were not monkeys, nor were they men. There were some uncanny combination of the two with painted on smiles of benevolence, of benevolence and playfulness.

It was as though each one was an exact copy of the other, the same face, the same unnaturally proportioned frame, the same smile, that smile. Terry, come play with us. We've been waiting to play with you. Young Terry didn't know what to say. He never knew what to say. For some reason, he never really wanted to scream either,

though his heart of hearts always beckoned him to with all his might. His refusal to reply led to a sudden change in these entities. The four of them all at the exact same instant began swaying lightly from side to side as their masked faces turned from a bright smile to a sinister smirk. The grin overall remained quite the same, but the eyes grew angry and piercing. The room's darkness became thicker. Come with us, Terry, we'll bring you back so soon. The smiles became frowns and reflected the rage the eyes had already told him.

These things, whatever they were, hated him. What will we do? What will you do to me? Just come play with us. They inched closer and formed a semicircle around the bed. Terry's boyhood back was now pressed hard against his headboard, and he strained with his legs to kick himself further, but his feet only met air. Finally, he snapped out of whatever lack of awareness the whole scene had pulled him into and screamed as loud as he could.

He didn't wake up. He was awake already. The scream caused the whole house to stir. The parents ran to Terry and two sisters turned their lights on and stepped out of their rooms wondering what was happening. His dad broke in, asking if it was the monkeys again, who had suddenly vanished. And scooping his son up in his arms, he took him to sleep with he and his mother that night. for the fourth time in two weeks.

He was eight years old. He was too old for this. The next morning, Terry overheard his parents talking at the kitchen table. He sat quietly on the top step of the stairs and was deflated to confirm what he already suspected. They were talking about him. His mother kept him home from school that day to ask him about the nightmares. He grew more and more frustrated each time they called them that.

Whatever it was, it wasn't a nightmare. Those things were really there. His mom didn't help him. Later, his dad showed him some special tape that he had picked up at the store. Yep, this is Monkey Man tape. It's certain to keep those things out of your room, no doubt about it. And I'll tell you what, we can leave the light on for you too. How about that, bud?

Terry didn't tell his dad that him saying that made his belief in these things being real only grow. His dad was just trying to help. but as a lie the best way, Terry thought not. At any rate, though, the tape worked supposedly, and the monkeys never came back. Unfortunately, young Terry's ordeals were far from over. About eight weeks later, the boy stood in his backyard and aimed an arrow at the very center of the hay target he'd been firing at.

He released the bowstring and enjoyed the satisfying twang that rang out, music to an eight-year-old's ear. His arrow found its target, or thereabouts, and Terry proudly walked up to retrieve it and do it all again, for perhaps the hundredth time that day. Before he had made it all the way back to his shooting spot, he looked up and all around him. What compelled him to do this, no one can say, but he noticed something. In the middle of a suburban neighborhood subdivision, rows of homes full of kids his age and a bit older that normally made endless noise up and down the street, There was utter silence and stillness. No bird sang.

No car drove. The underlying and constant hum of fast tires on the interstate a half mile or so away wasn't there for once. He couldn't even hear the faint voices pouring out of the window from the television his mom was watching in their house. There was nothing at all. The air seemed strange. Though the wind was gone, his skin still jerked in goosebumps from something else. It was like little hands filled the air that reached down to pull each hair on his arms and legs straight up. He thought he could feel some of the hairs on his head even lifting slightly,

like the whole world had been rubbed quickly by a balloon. From here, he saw the shadow of a perfect circle moving behind him, the shadow being projected onto the ground below in front of him. He whipped around, energized by the still electricity, and saw a perfectly silver, perfectly round, and perfectly round, and perfectly featureless thing hovering in the sky. It was hard to tell how far above him it was, despite staying in the same exact spot for what felt like half an hour.

Terry watched the whole time, transfixed by the grace of the thing. Never before it he'd seen anything fly so sturdily and with so much control. He remembers noting how odd it was that he couldn't see any trace of riveted panels on the underside of whatever he was looking at. It was just smooth, silver like polished glass. Eventually, it tilted slightly and flew away, going from still to bullet speed in a single instant. It was gone quicker than it had arrived.

Terry, now back to his normal wits, began screaming for his mother. Did you see it, Mom? Did you see? Ever cognizant of the neighbors, his mother scolded him for his yelling, which, strangely, was constant and frantic, and far too loud for the situation to watch. warrant, and she ordered him inside to say his peace. The young boy followed his mother in and told her everything. It was like a flying saucer or something. It was a real UFO, Mom. What does it mean? The mother, bless her, was at a loss. Since the nightmares had ceased so many weeks prior,

she had been grateful for the unbroken sleep, but had also grown unsettled, subtle changes in her son. He seemed almost afraid of wide open spaces now. It was as though an open feeling. It was as though an open field of the big blue sky was an enemy to be avoided like the plague or like a stranger enticing children into his van. He was afraid of nighttime. If he was caught out playing near to sunset, he would suddenly sprint home without another word to his friends once the streetlights kicked on. It was chaos in the boy's mind, and yet he would not have told anyone anything was wrong had he been asked. And so, not out of frustration, but out of exhaustion, but out of exhaust. exhausted exasperation, Terry's mother looked at him and said gently,

let's talk about it with dad when he comes home. And here we come to it, for Terry knew what that meant. Despite every good intention, it almost certainly lay at the root of his parents' handling of this stuff. He knew that waiting for dad meant he would have to suppress it, to submit, and force himself to carry on without expecting any help from his parents. His dad came home and talked to his son. Terry argued his case for there having been a real UFO unmarked and behaving strangely in their backyard yesterday, but it was all for not. His father would not hear it.

And though his correction of his son began gently, he steadily grew more frustrated until Terry knew that the screaming was soon to come. No son of Adam is perfect. Okay, dad, I believe you. I'll stop. He was not okay. He didn't believe his dad. He knew that none of it would stop. Terry's father lost his son's heart that day.

Soon after this interaction, one that weighed heavily on Terry for the rest of his life, but may have been forgotten within the week by his well-intentioned dad, the nightmares came back. Only this time it wasn't the dreaded monkey men that came to Terry in the waking dreams. He began to be tormented by love. of crafty and monsters from Diss's dark threshold. Humanoid giants with the head of a praying mantis

and terribly long, slender fingers that tortured the boy in the night. They would poke and prod and operate, and Terry would be left to suffer in silence, not wanting to wake his family up again. At some point in this phase of his troubled childhood, he saw a second UFO. He woke up in the night, already sitting bored straight up in his bed,

head and was alarmed to see lights flickering through the sheer drapes that covered his window. Reds and greens and yellows trickled into his room like drops out of a leaky gutter. A pulsing mechanical hum lingered in his ears and made his heart race with strong thuds against his ribs. Though he had woken with a start, he felt an odd sensation of apathy towards what was going on. It mattered not. Nonetheless, the boyhood curiosity compelled him, and so he slipped out of his cover. and crept to the window for a closer look. He pushed the fabrics to either side around him

and stared with disinterested eyes upon a flying saucer, perched in the air just outside of his bedroom, over his own front yard, lofted on a thick cloud of fog that seemed to emanate from the thing itself like it was breathing and this was the discharge. He left his curtains open, groggily paced back to his bed,

fell down into it, and slept. deeply. Brian, I got bad news. The other day, I was using one of the big box soap products to wash myself, and I got this weird urge to go buy a Stanley cup and fill it with iced coffee. And it started to feel a little cold in the house. I just wanted to wrap myself up in like a heavy wool blanket. And then also, I started Googling ticket prices to Taylor Swift concerts. Ben, what are you doing? Don't you know that these big box soap companies just jam all their soaps full of hormone disrupting chemicals? They're probably turning you into a girl. Well, I know that now, but what am I supposed to do about it?

Ben, you ignorant normie, all you've needed to do is go to indigo sundry soap.com and support a great Christian family business that's making all sorts of soaps that are completely free of hormone disrupting chemicals and other nasties. Okay, I am literally going to indigo sundry soap.com right now. Tell me what to buy. Ben, what I would recommend doing is clicking on bundles and then selecting the best one for you. You could get the men's six-pack. You could get my favorite, the the clay bundle. Ooh, I like the pipe and jug bundle. That seems cool.

Or a men six pack, because that'll make me feel like I have something that I actually don't. So true, King. And you know what else I heard? Because they're such good friends of the show, Indigo Sundry's soap company is offering 10% off your order

if you just use all caps, discount code, haunted cosmos, no spaces. Wait, Brian, you're going way too fast. I didn't get all that. Is that information in the show description? Ben, you ignorant normie, it's always in the show description. Okay.

I'm going to go to indigosundry soap.com. I'm going to pick the men's six-pack bundle, and I'm going to use code Haunted Cosmos at checkout, all caps, no spaces. And if I forgot all that, it's in the description of the show. Of course, Ben. And if you just do that, then you will stop wanting to do all of those girly things, and maybe you'll, I don't know,

maybe want to buy a classic car to restore or something dignified. We are living in the beginning of a new Reformation. Christian content is being produced at a rapid rate. Art, businesses, publications, ministries, and a thousand other mediums are acting as agents to get us out of our current anti-Christian world. And all of these mediums are going to need marketing to help them get more eyes and ears on them. New Dominion Design Co is ready to provide that help. Unashamedly Christian, New Dominion Design Co exists to labor alongside fellow members of the body of Christ as we engage in this great work of Reformation. With over 15 years of design and marketing experience spanning across multiple industries,

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new tallow sunscreen. What? Enter code Cosmos 15, that's COS MOS 15, all caps, for 15% off your order. Terry and Toby squatted next to each other in their tent as they peered out of the little window flap. Both men were tired and indescribably afraid. Toby's face was shimmering in yellow and green as the the lights from outside flashed on where his tears had been.

They looked with anxiety and dread upon a large black triangle hovering about thirty feet above them. It was so big it swallowed the whole sky. Their meadow was lit with dancing hues of silver by the three lights on each corner of this maleficent monolith. Terry, through wide eyes, noted how thick the thing was. Rows of small square lights peppered the two sides that he could partially see. like in an office building in the city.

Below the center of the craft, he saw children moving quietly and with measured steps in the unfamiliar grass. What are kids doing here? Terry asked. Toby's answer came with sullen apprehension. Those aren't kids. They aren't human. They took us. They took you.

They hurt us, Terry. Suddenly Terry's mind sprung to life and flashes of memory that he would kill to forget. I know, he said. They watched as tall shadows from the forest joined these little things with an abroad beam of light beneath the craft's center and vanish into thin air. The pyramid of doom slowly rose

and drifted away into the night until the three-corner lights coalesced into one indiscernible speck of glimmer against the Knicks blanket. Upon its leaving, Terry descended once more into men's, memory flashes. A bright light subdued him until he regained consciousness inside of a massive vessel of white and silver. Its volume was vast, vast enough to house three of the same familiar flying saucers from Terry's distant past. He saw them to his left. He had almost forgotten

about those. Strange and indiscernible symbols peppered the walls, writing. He saw 50 or 60 the other people, all huddled together in a scared and cold group. Humans had been there with him. Where had they gone? With this question prompted by Survivor's guilt, he could recall nothing more, not yet, but he knew much more remained. He snapped back to a more present alertness and saw Toby lacing up his boots. He glanced down at his own, the ones he had kept tightly tied on his feet when he fell asleep the night before. They were loose and untied now. He did them up quickly, and without many words shared, both men agreed they needed to leave immediately. They unzipped the tent and sprinted back to the car, leaving everything they had brought to

eventually be recovered by park rangers and hopefully just disposed of. They slammed the car doors behind them and locked themselves in. The car's interior dome light stayed on long enough for both men to confirm that they were alone inside. They turned the engine over, kicked on the high, beams and slowly made their way out of the wilderness while Toby studied the rudimentary map he had drawn on their way in. Hours later, as the two men endured the oppressive brightness of the sun beating on their swollen and red faces, they finally arrived at a gas station that was open and relieved themselves before getting something to drink. Terry, when he was in the bathroom,

noticed how despite their extensive use of bug spray, he was covered in massive red sores from head to toe. His eyes were puffy almost to the point of being shut. His arms and legs, though covered by long clothes, were burned beat red with no tan lines. At any rate, Toby's burns seemed far worse, and he appeared completely unable to stand on his own. The pair bought some cold drinks, paid for their gas, and Terry offered to finish the drive so Toby could try and sleep some more. Only he couldn't sleep that well again. The burning pain on his skin proved too severe. Instead, Terry and Toby sat for hours in nearly total silence. Neither said anything of what had occurred the previous night. Something in their friendship had changed. Something was different now. Something stood between

their affection and confused it, and whatever it was, it would prove to never go away. Terry sat in the hospital bed on his final evening before being discharged to return to work. The extreme level of dehydration he and Toby had suffered prompted their wives to immediately take them to the ER. His CEO had been kind to him, visiting him, and ensuring he knew that his shifts were happily covered by other sergeants who wanted to help Terry make a full recovery. Apparently the doctors had impressed upon the CEO the very real severity and threat that this level of dehydration and fever brought along with it. it. The lights, as had been the case for his entire stay, were dimmed in his room to give rest to his eyes and to help his lingering headache. So when the nurse opened the door to give him his final medication, the piercing hallway light sent a tinge across his face and he squinted ever so

slightly. Weirdly, two men in civilian clothes with folders and briefcases filed in after the nurse. They flipped the light switch on without hesitation and drowned Terry. Cary's calm evening and pounding temples. They informed the nurse that she was to delay the final treatment until they, who were revealed to be agents for OSI, the Air Force's internal investigation wing, could finish a quick chat with Sergeant Lovelace. To reprint the entirety of the exchange here would be tedious and uninteresting. Suffice it to say that with a slew of intimidation tactics poured out on Terry, whose mind

was still moving slowly by the way, OSI officer. Gregory interrogated him about the events of that night, feigning a concern that two airmen trespassing on federal land may be up to some drug-related activity. He occasionally tossed out the term court-martial to make sure his point was being driven home for Terry. It was. Strangely, in the midst of all these questions about why they camped there and what they were doing, and if they had ever been to that spot before, and why they left all of their gear in such a rush, officer Gregory was also keenly interested in any pictures that Terry had taken during their brief trip. Terry informed him slightly embarrassed that though that was one of the main reasons they had gone on the trip to take pictures of wildlife,

he had actually forgotten his camera at home and didn't have any pictures to give. OSI didn't believe him. Eventually the officers informed Terry that he'd be reassigned. He would still stay on base, Whitman Air Force Base, but would be pushed to the back burner of an enlisted sergeant's available roles. Terry was, all things is considered, relieved at this. But then right before he left, Officer Gregory stood still over his bed and in a calm voice asked, those lights weren't just stars, were they? You got really hurt, didn't you? I bet you know what

did it too. Terry replied with a feeble, yes, sir. You will no long. be allowed to speak with Tobias. He's being reassigned as well to a new base. It doesn't concern you as to which one, but if I catch wind of you contacting him, even via third party, I will have you strung up, son. You don't call, you don't write, and it would behoove you not to think about Tobias ever again. Got it? Again, a week, yes, sir, was replied. Well, you two idiots stumbled on to something that made you very sick. If you come across any pictures, give me a call. I'll need to see him. Gregory smiled an apparently very sincere smile and turned the overhead lights back off before closing the door. Soon thereafter, the nurse came in and gave him his final dose of medication.

Terry was confused. He couldn't seem to reconcile himself or his own emotions. He hated OSI for treating him so badly. He understood, to some degree, though, why they were. He feared for Toby, his friend. He also, for some reason, no longer thought of him as a friend. He felt as though never talking to Toby again would not only be easy but preferred. He felt bad that he was being moved, but he wanted nothing more than for Toby to be moved. He wallowed in confusion for the night until a doctor came in the next morning before his discharge home. The comforting man sat on the side of his bed, nearer to Terry's knees than face, and began in a hushed tone. Keep your nose clean and your mouth shut and everything will be fine.

You're being reassigned. You can come back to your old post once Tobias moves, hopefully. You'll not reenlist once your time is up. You will leave the Air Force. You will not mess around with these OSI guys. Got it? They'll ruin you. Steer clear of them.

But if they contact you, just do exactly as they say. Terry looked at him with despair. Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you very much for the advice. And one more thing, Sergeant. The medication we gave you can make you have funny dreams. It can affect your memory, too.

The dreams will feel very vivid, very real. But don't be concerned. You and your friend were bitten by chiggers and mosquitoes. You camped on top of a uranium deposit, and the burns on your skin was from some radiation mixed with sun exposure. You drank too much beer and not enough water, and you got a little dehydrated. Is that clear?

Yes, sir, that's clear. It was as though an eight-year-old Terry was sitting in front of his father yet again. Right before he walked out of the hospital with his wife to drive the short distance home, a doctor caught him by the arm and gave him a small bottle of generic looking pills. We almost forgot, Sergeant, one more subscription. Be sure to take these as prescribed. Follow the directions closely, okay? Terry gave him a confused look.

He held an unmarked bottle in his hand with nothing on it except some dosage directions. What even were these things? Every day after that, for some time, a nurse would arrive at their home each morning. She was professional enough, never asking how Terry felt, or if he was suffering any side effects, like weird dreams, for example. She just asked him if he had taken his pills for the day yet. Each day he said no. Each day she wouldn't leave until he did.

And after only three days of this, a process that would last at least 14 days, for that was how many pills he had in the bottle, his memories started to deteriorate quickly. Terry didn't want to forget, and his wife supported him in this. He started flushing the day's meds down the toilet early on so that the nurse could count the pills and be none the wiser. What was happening to him? Eventually the day came for Toby and his family to leave. As Terry and Sheila left in their car to run some errands, they passed Toby's street. Come on, hon. Just stop really quick.

I need to say goodbye. It won't be a minute. I owe him that at least. His wife reluctantly complied to Terry's request. Toby's wife answered the door. It was clear she didn't want Terry to be there. She greeted him coldly, as if she blamed him alone for all of their troubles. Toby noticed Terry at the door from first.

further inside of his house, and the now disheveled man who reeked of alcohol and stared at his old friend with bloodshot eyes, walked slowly up to him, shook his hand, and asked in a shaking voice, do you remember? Did it all really happen, Terry? All of it? More haunted Cosmos? Then make your way over to Patreon, where you can get early access to our content as well as exclusive content in regular dusty tomes and monthly live streams with Brian and myself. So go to patreon.com slash hauntedcosmos and sign up now.