Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Healing Hands

Episode Date: July 29, 2022

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The first time I saw Doc Hensley heal someone still haunts my dreams. I was only 13 when I started working for him. Our family didn't make enough money after the coal mines closed. Appalachia is a difficult place to make a living. It's equally difficult to leave when you don't have the funds. My father explained to me that for us to survive, I would have to work to support the family. Too young for a legal job,

My father made an arrangement with Doc Hensley. He was a revered man in our region. Doc could provide healing that modern medicine failed to cure. From time to time, he would hire an assistant to help him with his work. The old man agreed for me to assist him each day after school. I would make a small sum of money, and Doc would use his influence to assist my family throughout trying financial times. From the moment I first arrived at his rustic cancer,

cabin at the edge of town, I knew there was something dark about him. Subtle hints of cedar, stale smoke, and dry herbs hung in the air. Shelves lined with poultice bottles and cans of ill-smelling salve covered every wall. Light from the fireplace cast bouncing shadows throughout the room as the old man spoke to the young woman in the chair. I sat on a stool by the door, watching with a sense of discomfort. Tell me, young lady, Encelie said in a gravely baritone,

What can an old man do for you? Justin and I have been married for three years. The young woman said softly. Eyes filled with tears. Her hands were pressed to her abdomen as she spoke. We've been trying to have a baby, but it never seems to take. We've tried doctors,

but they all say I'm barren. I'm afraid he will leave. Can you help? Enzley nodded his head as he shuffled toward a shelf by the fireplace. Rummaging through the tins and jars, the old man pulled a tall bottle from the back corner. Red liquid traced with silver ripples, slashed inside as he made his way toward the back of the room. Over here, he said, gesturing toward a green cot. Stretch yourself out, and let me have a look.

Doc Hensley will get you fixed. right up. Don't you even worry. hesitantly, the young lady stood from the stool and made her way to the cot. She sat first and then picked her feet off of the floor to lie down. Doc had started mumbling under his breath, and he shook the strange bottle violently in his hands. The young woman's eyes were filled with hope and terror.

Will what's in that bottle cure me? she asked. No, he replied. It just helps me figure out the nature of the ailment. Old Doc will figure out what to do after that. You just be still now. Doc reached his bony hands toward the bottom of the young woman's shirt and lifted it to reveal her navel. Discomfort joined the apprehension in her eyes

as the old man peered at the flesh of her stomach. Uncorking the bottle, he poured the red liquid into her navel until it pooled at the rim. Dipping a finger in, he began to trace strange symbols across her skin. After covering the young woman's abdomen in the strange red scrawl, Doc closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Spreading his fingers apart, he placed both hands on her stomach.

His head swayed back and forth as a toothless grimace stretched across his face. Tears were streaming out of the woman's eyes as she watched. Can you fix me? she asked, struggling to hold back. a sob. Can you help us have a baby? The old man's eyes shot open, and he met the young woman's concerned gaze. He produced a rag from his sweater pocket and began to wipe the red liquid away from her skin. His smile had faded into an intense expression. I can help you, he said in a hushed tone. It will cost a great deal, though. Old Doc can make it right, but can you pay?

We don't have much, she whimpered. How much will it cost? The old man stroked his chin and stared away into the fire. The tonic you need requires ingredients that are hard to find. I can make you better, sweet thing. But you will have to take the medicine for the rest of your days. I will! She proclaimed with excitement.

How much we will pay anything? $200 a month, he said, eyes gleaming. 200 a month, and Doc will keep you wrong. right as rain. You'll have that fat baby and a happy husband. The young woman nodded in agreement. The fear in her eyes washed away. She beamed at the old man. Know this, Doc declared, leaning over and placing his hands on her abdomen once again. If you stop paying, even just once, the tonic stops. Without it, you'll die. Maybe the child too. I cannot say with any certainty, I'll pay, she said meekly.

Every month, I'll pay. 200, just like you said. Be still, he replied with a smile. I've got to draw out the sickness. It'll hurt both of us a great deal, but when it's over, you'll be mended. Doc's hands began to press into the flesh of her stomach. Her eyes closed, and his head rolled back beyond his shoulders.

They both began to shake violently, and I thought he would fall from his stool. The young woman began to shriek in agony as the old man's fingers pressed deeper into her skin. After a few agonizing moments, Doc's fingers began to ball into fists as he lifted his hands away from her. In his skeletal grasp,

there was a wet pile of quivering black flesh. Drops of blood and flecks of viscera fell onto the young woman's exposed stomach. Against all reason, there was no wound, where his hands had been. She stopped shaking and gulped desperately for air. Doc perched on the stool, sweat pouring from his skin, holding the tumor-like mound. Bring me a jar, boy, he said weakly.

Be quick about it. I darted from the stool and pulled a mason jar from the shelf. Stumbling across the room, I removed the lid and held it out toward the old man. His hands shook as he leaned forward and dropped the blood. a black mound of flesh into the jar. I sealed it as soon as it hit the bottom. The weight was incredible for such a small thing, nearly causing me to drop it to the floor.

Take it to the cellar, he barked. Leave it on the table, and I will take care of the rest. Doc Hensley pointed to a rusting metal ring on the floor. I pulled at it, and the hinges squealed wildly. A dark pit opened on the floor, revealing a rough-hewn wooden ladder leading to the cellar floor. In the last bit of the dim firelight that fell into the opening, I could see an old table. I moved slowly down the rungs of the ladder until my feet met with soft earth.

The cellar smelled of mildew and rancid meat. Chittering noises and clinking of glass came from the dark edges of the room. My pulse hammered and my breathing became rapid. As I inched closer to the table, the rattling of jars and skittering. noises intensified. Dropping the jar to the table, I darted back to the relative safety of the ladder and clambered back up into the cabin. Doc Hensley was still sitting on the stool, breathing raggedly.

The young woman was walking out of the door as I closed the trap door to the cellar. You'll go to her house on the first Monday of each month to provide her with the tonic. He panted. She will give you the money, and you will. bring it to me. Keep 10% for yourself. Work hard for me, boy. And your family will live a comfortable life." I nodded in agreement. What do I do if she doesn't give me the money, sir? The old man lifted his eyes to mine, and an expression of malice plastered his face.

If she doesn't pay you, you bring the tonic back to me. I'll have something else for you to deliver in its place. The young woman died four years later when she stopped paying. Doc quit sending the medicine. Instead, he sent her a heavy black jar. No one lives very long once I hide one of their property. I hated delivering those damn black jars, but we needed the money. It's amazing the guiltial stomach to survive.

Each day after school, I would ride my bike to Doc's cabin on the outskirts of town. From Monday to Friday, I would fill my backpack with tonics, salves, and poultices and pedal from house to house. Each person would hand me a few crumpled bills. In return, I would find whatever medicine in my bag that had their name on it. They thanked me, and I would go on my way. On a rare occasion, someone would tell me that they weren't able to pay that day. These people would always beg me to leave the medicine and promise to pay me the following day. I would try as kindly as I could to explain Doc's orders, but they still begged.

It made my heart ache to see the desperation on their faces, but I was too scared of Doc to disobey. He had never threatened to hurt me. Doc was kind-hearted and warm when I was there. If he cooked, I always ate with him. He would allow me to borrow books from his dusty old bookcase. During the holidays, he always sent me home with extra money for my family. Our lives improved greatly after I began working for him. Regardless of how kind he could be to me, I knew there was a price for crossing him. After a day of hard work,

I would pedal my bike back to the old cabin to give him his money. He would count it, setting aside my 10% as he went. When he finished, if the sum was less than he expected, he would ask me who did not pay. I would pull the undelivered bottles out, and place them on the table in front of him. He would carefully read the names on each and nod to himself.

After placing them back on a shelf, he would crawl into the cellar and retrieve a black glass jar for each person who failed to pay. The first time I saw him make the descent, I was scared for such a feeble old man to use the latter, but the anger I saw in his face seemed to strengthen his body, no matter how many times I offered to get those black bottles from the cellar, he declined. The only time I was allowed down there was to leave the new jars of tumor-like flesh

on the table after he healed someone. Whenever I would go down next, the table sat empty. I never saw what he did with them, but he always took great care, never to tend to them while I was in the house. Once he returned from the cellar with the black jars, he would take a white grease pen and write the name of the recipient on the lid. On the sides, he would drive. He would drive to Intricate designs and runic symbols before wrapping each jar with cheesecloth. Tight bindings of twine were added to hold the cloth in place. You give these right to the people, you hear? He said firmly the first time I had to deliver the black jars.

You take them and put them in the bushes or up in a tree on their property. Has to be their property. Understand, son? Yes, sir, I responded. What are they? He smiled his toothless smile and slid the jar. toward me. I placed them in the backpack cautiously. He patted me on the head as though I were a dog. I take away the illness and they pay me, he said in an amused tone. They stopped paying. I give him back what I took away. Fair's fair, my boy. Do you ever give anyone a second chance to pay? I asked.

No. You let one get away without paying. Then they'll all say they can't pay. How's an old man gonna eat if he ain't got no money. Just seems like you could let one slide sometimes, Doc, I replied. Doc smiled at me and pulled a wad of cash from his coat pocket. He unrolled it and dropped a $100 bill on the table for each black jar I was to deliver. Pushing it toward me, he began to chuckle. Doc Hensley's a fair man. You pay, you live.

Stop paying. You don't. Unless you want to cover what they owe. So, deliver them jars. I pondered the thought for a moment. It was tempting at first until I thought of my family. Mom and Dad both worked, but they didn't make enough. My work for Doc Hensley brought in more money than both of them combined.

I could pay for someone's medicine now and again, but too often, and my family wouldn't have enough money to sustain ourselves. Feeling unfathomable shame, I slung the heavy backpack on my shoulders. slid the money into my pocket and walked out the door. Smart boy! I heard him call. Smart boy! Each time I delivered those obsidian jars,

I would see that person's obituary in the local paper a few days later. They always said, passed away unexpectedly. Their black and white photos showing smiling faces next to the column. But I always remembered the looks of horror on their face when they couldn't pay. young and old, men and if Doc didn't receive his payment, they received the jars. No questions, no second chances. The older I got, the more black jars I delivered. I lost count of how many I had hidden years ago.

The weight of what I was doing was too heavy for a child. Numnness and apathy became my only solution. The jars became just another task, neither good nor evil. Just a means to help keep the lights on and our stomach's full. During my senior year of high school, my mom got sick. Her weight began to drop rapidly, and she was fatigued most of the time. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer after a handful of emergency room visits and consultations. I bought an old car with some of the money Doc paid me, and I used it to take mom to the city to see some specialists.

Dad took her to appointments as often as he. could. His job at the convenience store was the only thing allowing us to keep health insurance. Taking my ailing mother to most of her medical appointments caused me to miss a lot of days at school, but those kinds of things get overlooked in poverty-stricken areas like mine. Ma'am, your cancer is spread into your bones, the doctor said. We can continue with treatment if you would like, but I think it is time to consider comfort measures. Make the most of the time you still have left. My mother cried, as the doctor described various methods to provide her relief in the coming months.

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admire and and profite. Villarai, the voice that we love that we love. But there was nothing I could do. As emotionally detached as I had become due to the nature of my work, the weight of my mother's imminent death was a sensation I couldn't shake.

There has to be something you can do! I shouted. Don't tell me there isn't medicine that would help her. Tell us what it is. We'll pay anything. You've got to help her. Son, the doctor said. If there was anything I could do for her, I would.

But we are out of options. We will do everything we can to keep her comfortable and give her the best quality of life we can. Short of a miracle, there is nothing left to be done. We made most of the drive home in silence. At first, my mother cried and apologized to me. I reassured her that she had nothing to be sorry for, that none of this was her fault, but my words provided her with no real comfort. Tears streamed down her face until she dreamed.

drifted off to sleep. Her strength was so low that she could barely stay awake for more than two hours at a time. I let her rest. Short of a miracle. The doctor's words flew around my mind like a sparrow caught in a chimney. My hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel as the phrase echoed in my mind. I knew where to find a miracle. Dad and I had discussed the possibility of taking her to Doc Hensley countless times. More than once, I was a woman. I had almost given in, but the price was so much higher than my father could understand. My mother was the voice of reason. The doctors have said we've exhausted all of the treatment options.

She said. That's the end of the discussion. You know there is another option. My father said desperately. Henceley can heal you. You don't have to die. My mother smiled and placed her hand on my father's. They were both crying.

I sat and watched, feeling helpless. I love you both so much, she replied. This is how I wanted to end. Being in debt to Doc is more than this family needs. Let me go. Her health continued its rapid decline. Most days, she wasn't able to get out of bed. When she did eat, it never stayed down.

Even the smell of food made her sick. The pain medication helps. helped, but she tried not to take them often, since they left her mind feeling clouded. I continued with my work for Doc. Now that I had a car, I would drive people to and from his cabin for him. The car expanded his reach. He was treating people from small towns across the region. My medicine deliveries increased rapidly, but so did my delivery of the black jars. Our family had never been in a better financial position, but my mother's illness consumed any happiness that the money brought. The cost of our improved finances was paid

in my more frequent absence from home. More deliveries meant more time away. I had taken this job to care for my family, but I saw them less and less. It hurts me a bit, but you never talk to me about your mother, Doc said one afternoon as I cleaned the cabin. You know I could help her, my boy. tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. While he had never been cruel to me, it had sounded more like a taunt than an offer. I had told him she was sick, but he had never mentioned it until that day.

If something happened, we couldn't pay. She would die anyway, I replied. Holding back the overwhelming urge to sob had caused my voice to shake. If I ever had to take a black jar home, Doc Hensley pushed himself up from the bench and began to shuffle toward me. I watched as he padded across the cabin floor.

The man was old, but it wasn't until that moment that I realized he didn't seem to have aged from the day I met him. His mind was still sharp, his mobility had endured, and his health never seemed to diminish. When he reached me, he put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. There'll be no black jar for your mother, he said. His voice almost soothing. There will be no payments.

All I ask of you is one small favor. What? Stay in my employ, he said. Learn my trade, young man. I'm old. Much older than you know. I provide a service to folks around here, but I grow tired.

If you learn to do what I do, perhaps old doc can get some rest. What do you say? I agreed. How could I have turned him down? Working for him had always been a means to help my parents. Letting my mother die when a solution was so easily in reach was too much to pass by. Good, he said, tottering back to his stool by the fire. Bring her here tomorrow. You'll wait outside this time. I know watching my work makes you uncomfortable, but I won't make you watch as I heal your mother. Once she is well, you'll take her home.

But then return here. Our lessons will begin immediate. It took a great deal of convincing before my mother would agree. At first, she flatly rejected the offer. I tried to explain to her that there would be no financial cost, but she thought it was a trick. My father echoed my pleas. She finally agreed to speak with Doc so she could understand his terms.

The next afternoon I helped Mom into the car. She was almost skeletal by then. Every bone and strand of sinew and her body danced under her taut skin when she moved. Dad and I had taken her to the car in a wheelchair. She barely had the energy to slide from the chair to the car seat. We arrived at the cabin a short while later, and she had already fallen asleep. Retrieving the wheelchair from the trunk, I put it beside the car and opened the door, tapping her shoulder, she didn't respond. Her breathing was shallow. I put my index and middle finger

to her neck and felt a weak pulse. I picked my mother up and rushed her into the cabin. Doc was perched on his stool next to the fire. He turned his head toward me, and he pointed toward the green cot against the back wall. Put her down quickly and leave, he commanded. I can feel that she ain't long for this world. I did as he asked. As I backed toward the door, I watched the old man make his way to my mother. Her chest was still, and her skin was the color of ash. I froze for a moment, fearing she was already gone. Go, boy!

He shouted. Wait in your car. I will fix this, but you gotta leave. Stumbling back, I pulled the door shut behind me. My stomach began to roar, and I vomited off the side of the old porch. The forest was silent as I walked back to the car. car. My hand was on the handle, but I couldn't open. If my mother was alive, she should have been screaming by then. They always screamed. All at once, the forest came to life with a piercing howl from inside the cabin. Birds scattered from the crooked trees all around me. My heart

thundered in response to the sudden cry. Relief and agony gripped my heart as I crawled into the car and turned the radio up to block out the shrill cries. After what felt like an eternity, I saw the door to the cabin open. While I had expected dock to beckon me in, I was surprised to see the thin frame of my mother. She was smiling and waving happily. Her hand was grasping the doorframe for balance, but she seemed healthier than I had seen her in months.

I raced to the door and swept her into a hug. Even with all of her muscle loss, her arms wrapped around me and hugged me tighter than any embrace I could recall. She kissed me on the cheek, But all I could do was sob and reply. A leathery hand tapped me on the arm. When I opened my eyes, the time-worn face of Doc stood before me. He was covered in sweat, and panting.

A toothless grin pierced his exhaustion as he patted me gently on the shoulder. Take her home, he weased. Your father will want to see this wonderful thing, and you have the bargain to keep. Return here after you get her safely in the house. Our training begins tonight. I returned to the cabin later that evening. It had paid me to leave my mother so soon after her recovery, but I couldn't risk breaking my deal with the old man.

Doc was waiting for me on the porch when I pulled up the gravel drive. Smoke billowed from the clay pipe drooping out of his lips. He beckoned me inside. While I pulled the heavy cellar door up, He grabbed a box of matches from beside his potterly stove. Doc crawled onto the ladder and lowered himself into the darkness below. Once he was safely on the cellar floor, I crawled down. By the time my feet met the soft earth, Doc was swallowed in darkness.

Mildew and rot filled my nostrils. A flame flickered to life as he struck a match and began to light kerosene lanterns around the perimeter of the cellar. I had been down there countless times, but only to the wooden table in the center. I had never seen the entire room. Dozens of wooden shelves filled the cellar, each filled with black jars. Thick straps of leather were nailed into the posts of the shelf, keeping the jars from falling to the floor. Each of them rattled gently in place. Scraping and chittering filled the air, as the things inside the jars seemed to become aware of our presence.

Back here, child, Doc said from behind a row of shelves. I walked toward him, gazing at the chattering black jars. I have something for you. When I rounded the final shelf, I saw Doc standing at another wooden table. Three old leather-bound books were sitting on the edge next to a clear jar, filled with writhing black flesh. Next to the jar, I saw a mortar and pestle. He dropped a piece of charcoal into the bowl and poured white.

on top. He began to mash the coal and water into a paste. Once it was mixed, he dipped his hands into the stone bowl and scooped out the mixture before rubbing it onto the sides of the jar. His shaking hand took a lit candle from the table and held it to the black paste to help it dry. They don't move as much in the dark, he said in a low voice. I coat the jars and keep them in the cellar so they remain docile. What are they? I asked as I stepped closer. The illnesses I remove, he said. They don't perish after they are removed.

Can't be destroyed, so it seems. So I place him here for safekeeping, dark, ugly things. My stomach turned as I watched the jar rattle his hands. Cancer that had been inside of my mother only hours before, rived in the jar. Doc placed it on a shelf behind one of the leather. straps before returning to me. They get more vicious with time. Hungry.

Hateful. Damn things want to get back into the body they came from. If they break free and can't find their original host, they'll crawl inside the nearest person and start all over again. A knot twisted in my throat. I had taken dozens, maybe hundreds of these things back to people over the years. Before, I was able to fool myself. into believing that the deaths could be a coincidence.

But now all I could see were these monstrous tumors carving their way back into the people they had been pulled from. Take these home and read them, Doc said, adding me the leather books from the table. Lots to take in there, my boy. Generations worth of knowledge. Gonna take you a while to get through him. Tells you everything you'll need to know. He sent me home that night, and I began to read the old books immediately. It wasn't long before I dropped out of school altogether. My grades were awful, and it was clear my trade had been chosen for me years before.

Mom and Dad argued against it briefly, but they signed the forms when I reminded them of the deal I made with Doc. With school no longer taking up my time, my days were spent, working at the cabin. Deliveries and healing sessions were performed earlier than in previous years. I was home by early afternoon and got to enjoy some time with my family. My evenings, though, were consumed with reading the ancient books. The pages were filled with nearly unbelievable information. Roans and prayers were provided to cure almost every ailment known to man. Diagrams showed where on the body to place the symbols

and the cadence to follow as you spoke the chance. Chapters were dedicated to the study of the fleshing horrors, that were removed from the bodies of the sick and dying. Hundreds of entries in different handwriting styles detailed attempts to destroy the creatures without success. Trial and error methods of containing them shifted through the accounts. A fanciful curse of scrawl that I recognized as belonging to Doc Hensley described the current process of storing them in jars, coated with dried charcoal,

and storing them underground in the dark. I wondered to myself if in the future, Once Doc was retired, and I had taken his place, if I would fill any of the space in these books with my studies. Through the coming months, I read the books over and over. Some of the runes and placements I had even managed to commit to memory. As Doc would prepare it to remove illnesses from our patients, he would often let me test my knowledge by telling him where to place the runes. My fear of the future waned for a time.

I had come to accept my position as a healer and concentrated on the things I would do for the community. The future looked bright for once, until I realized something must be missing from the books. There was no mentions of the tonics or elixers that Doc prepared for after the healing rituals. It was late in the evening, and I was readying myself to leave. We were in the cellar coating jars in the black charcoal paste, when the absence of the tonic recipes tickled the back of my mind. Doc, I said as the old man placed the black jar in the shelf. When will I learn to make the medicine needed after the healing ritual?

The old man froze. He grunted. Recipes for the medicines? You said everything I needed was in those books, I stated. None of the chapters mentioned needing medications after the healing is completed. Doc ran his fingers through his wispy hair. but didn't turn to face me. It was unusual that he didn't jump at the chance to fill me with knowledge.

In recent months, he thrived on passing down the knowledge of his craft. His silence was unsettling. Son, he muttered almost sadly. They don't need the medicine after I heal them. That's snake oil. Fake. I'd do that for the money. They don't need it?

I stammered. Doc turned to face me. He looked sad, almost guilty. He turned his head side to side, gesturing to the shelves full of black vessels. Look, son, I give these people their life back. Most people here are so poor they hardly got a pot to piss in. You can't get much money for the gift up front. This is my way of getting what I earned without charging them all at once. Medicine is like insurance. Makes sure they pay. My head started to spin. I had delivered countless black jars to people over the last few years. The things inside had broken free to kill the people we had once healed.

They hadn't even needed the tonics they couldn't pay for. What will you even do with the money? I asked. You can't possibly have that many years left. Do you think I've taught you all my secrets, boy? I haven't toiled all these years to wither away in this husk. If I can pull sickness from others, imagine what I can do with my own body. A lifetime of work will be traded in for another lifetime of leisure.

My stomach turned. I'm done here, I said, and started walking toward the ladder. I'm telling everyone what you are. The old man began to cackle. His wails of delight made my face burn with anger. I wrapped my hands around the rung of the ladder. You tell anyone what I'm doing, and your mama is going to have a really bad time soon if you follow my meaning. He's bad.

I turned to face him, rage boiling. They won't believe you anyway. Even if they did, they want what I offer him. I'm a miracle man, boy. Chittering in the sound of clinking glass filled the room. A lifetime of black jars rattled on their shelves as the old man laughed. The maddening sounds blended with my rage for the old man's deceit. I slammed my boot into the shove closest to the ladder

and watched as they began to fall like a row of dominoes. What the hell are you doing? Doc Hensley shriek. The black glass exploded across the floor as more and more of the vessels tumbled to the ground. Metal lids rolled like wagon wheels across the dirt floor. I scrambled up the ladder and back onto the main floor of the cabin. Doc tried to make his way to the ladder,

but his shuffling gait caused him to try to. trip on broken pieces of the shelf, he sprawled forward into the broken glass. The fleshlings began to quiver and crawl toward the old man. I pulled the ladder free from the trapdoor frame and pulled it into the cabin. A wave of writhing black flesh enveloped Doc Hansley as his blood-curdling screams pulled the air. They began to burrow into his flesh, one by one, until all of the damn things were inside. The old man's body became swollen and distended.

His eyes burned red with rage as his body rippled and pulsed. Once more, his mouth opened to scream, but only the chittering of the fleshlings came out. Doc began to shudder violently before falling still. His skin mottled and turned black. Cracks spread across his now bloated frame. Inch by inch, Doc Hensley's body dissolved into dust. The remains drifted into the drafty air of the cellar. I watched with delight as the old man faded into nothingness. For a sparse moment, I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Free from the old man, I would never again deliver one of those damnable black jars.

As I made my way toward the cabin door, I felt something warm and strong wrap around my ankle. It felt like a snake was slithering up my body and wrapping around my torso. Looking down, I could see a black mound of pulsing flesh, itself into my navel and I began to howl in pain. My abdomen throbbed, bringing me to my knees. I could feel the vibrations as the thing burrowed deeper inside. As I collapsed in pain, my mind echoed the same harrowing thought on the beat. I should have pulled up the ladder sooner.