Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Slasher vs. Mafia: Three Serial Killers Walk Into a Bar | Part 2

Episode Date: January 30, 2026

Valentine's Day BOGO Special: Get a FREE 12oz bag of NoSleep Coffee when you buy a bag at NoSleepCoffee.com – Just use promo code VDAYBOGO at checkout. Don't wait! This offer ends February 13th. Listen to the full story ad-free with a 7-DAY FREE TRIAL of ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. You can cancel anytime. No commitment. Just go to ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ to sign up. Huge thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring the show: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠⁠⁠ betterhelp.com/dns⁠⁠⁠. Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleep #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Mandy Fitz had only gotten back from an extended 16-hour shift in the ER a few hours earlier, when the hospital called her. She could hear the panic in the nurse's voice. It seemed that just as the injuries from the stadium riot were slowing, wounded prisoners from over at all saints were being brought in by the truckload. It was all hands on deck. Yeah, okay. Heading out now, I just got to drop off Gracie first.

No. still out of town, yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can. Pulling on a fresh set of scrubs and her winter coat, Mandy reluctantly scooped up her three-year-old daughter from the bed. Santa? asked Gracie, rubbing her sleepy eyes. No, baby, just mommy. We still got a few more days until Christmas. Gracie blinked and looked out the apartment window as her mom pulled her arms into her coat sleeves. It's the wheelie dog. I know.

You can sleep more in your car seat, okay? But mommy's got to go back to work again. I go in daycare? No, baby. I'm taking you to Grandpa's. Oh, I love the pub. Carrying her daughter against her chest, Mandy walked down the icy apartment steps to their minivan.

Her father-in-law was always happy to watch Gracie. but it wasn't like him to ignore her texts. But Mandy figured he probably just had his phone on Do Not Disturb for the night. What else would the old bar keep be up to at 5.30 on a blustery winter morning? Young Fitz had never felt older. He was trying his best to keep the pair of infamous killers beside him, Fitz's old friend Dermott McMurrow and serial killer Jasper David Wraith from tearing each other apart in their fury and fear,

while also hoping to get through the night all in one piece himself and avoid federal prison if he could help it. They had just driven the getaway car through the snowy alleys of Little Dublin over to the boarded-up shops behind the cathedral and deposited the vehicle in the garage of a former auto repair shop. The suited corpse was still in the car's trunk, which made fits sick to his stomach. But at least it would take the authorities longer to track it down off the street.

One big fucking headache at a time, he said, pocketing the car's keys and putting back on his hat. That's all we can do for poor Mr. Charlie for the time being. Now we three got to hurry back to the pub before anyone spots us. The sun will rise in less than an hour. Neither fugitive responded. Jasper was still too shocked about the driver's death to speak. And Dermit looked torn between anger at Jasper for causing the death, or angered himself for contributing to the death.

the situation. Fitz tried to catch Dermit's eye to remind his friend that the real urgency was getting him to the docks in time to stow away on a departing cargo ship. But Dermott's shoulders were slumped, his bearded face downcast. Fitz sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. Jasper had knocked it into the snow earlier. The screen was cracked and the whole thing was wet and cold. He clicked the side buttons. Nothing. All right, follow me and try not to look suspicious. This last request might as well have been a joke. Fits himself was nothing special, a typical Celtic man in his mid-50s,

with glasses, a gray mustache, and a beer belly that came with his profession. But Jasper David Wraith was the stuff of nightmares, tall and gaunt, with wiry muscles, both old and new scars on his face and hands, and dark eyes like a shark. Never mind that he dressed in some of Fitz's son's old clothes. A sweatshirt and khaki pants. The face of the sundown slasher was known to all in the city. And Dermit Smasher McMurrow,

the assassin who had taken down a criminal cartel, one busted skull at a time back in the 90s, well, he was almost nine feet tall now. Taller even than when he and Fitz worked together in their youth. His primal features, ginger hair and beard, and giant hands were hard to miss. He was wearing a disguise too, sweatpants and a bathrobe, though the fabric of each was stretched to its limits, trying to fit his muscled limbs and torso.

He looked ridiculous. Grateful for the cover of night in the blinding snow, Fitz pulled open the back door of the auto shop and stepped inside. The icy wind burned his cheeks. He had only taken two steps, the others close behind him. When Dermott seized the back of his coat, Fitz lurched to a stop, squinting through the snow in the air. By the flicker of the streetlights, he saw them.

Three cars were parked in the street ahead, with half a dozen silhouettes standing behind them. Guns drawn, police badges glinting at their chests. Fitz looked left, then right, and saw more cars and cops on either side. Fitz sighed. Well, fellas, he said over his shoulder. It seems as my people would say that the proverbial jig is up.

Jasper ignored this and marched forward, weaving around Fitz and coming to a stop in the center of the road. His hands clenched into fists at his side. His baggy borrowed sweatshirt blowing in the wind. The crazy bastard was going to try to fight, which meant the cops would open fire, which meant Fitz and Dermit. were about to be pumped full of lead. Fitz began to raise his hands in surrender,

but found himself suddenly lifted off the ground and tugged backward in Dermott's grip. Half a second later, he was set on his feet inside the garage again and heard Dermit shove the door shut, leaving Jaspers stranded outside. Fitz raised an eyebrow. Ah! Thanks, he said, a little breathlessly, dusting himself off.

Dermit began to rush around the garage, searching for another. way out. But the fact that they let that happen just means they're hoping to take us alive. The left surrounded the whole block, Durham. Our only hope is to turn ourselves in. Dermit ignored him and moved faster and bent forward to fit under the low ceiling. Coming upon a boarded-up doorway with rusty engine parts stacked around it, Dermott began to scoop away the junk in the boards with his giant hands. In his coat pocket, Fitz felt his phone, vibrate. Out of his habit, he pulled it out. The screen was flickering on and off, the image skewed by the cracks in the

glass, but it was working again, and he had messages waiting for him, lots of them. He tapped at the screen, trying to get the texts to load. In the street outside, Jasper stood very still, like a predatory beast his muscles taught, his gaze panning the enemies before him. So you're the famous JDW, shouted one of the cops, taking cover behind his car. A psycho killer who brings a knife to a gunfight, that somehow lives to tell the tale. You know, my wife has a sort of crush on you. Some of the other cops laughed.

I don't get it. I think you're an ugly son of a bitch. You agree, boys? Damn right, skillet, called a cop to the left. Jasper ignored their jeering, and the sounds of banging around in the garage behind him. None of that mattered. The next few seconds, his manner of attack,

The fight? That's all he had to worry about. He could feel the kitchen knife in his right pocket, four and a half inch stainless steel blade. He could work with that. But the handle was made of cheap plastic, and the tang would be short and narrow, liable to break. He'd have to keep that in mind. It's pretty funny. Your fellow twisted leaving you behind out here. Poor baby. Probably the last picked in gym class too, eh, Jasper? We'll deal with the other two, But you're the main attraction anyway. The man grinned. And you're lucky.

Ordinarily, we'd strip you down right here right now and skin you alive. It is our way. But with all this hullabaloo going on, you'll be worth more alive to the right buyer. But just remember who it was that caught you. The idiot cop took one hand off his service weapon, reached to his collar, and pulled his shirt down and to the side over his collarbone. Recognize it? Jasper narrowed his eyes, then shrugged.

It's a tattoo, dumbass! A deer skull and antlers! The same tattoo that was on 12 of your fellow inmates and all saints. Men who you sliced apart during your escape. That's plausible. I killed many fools last night. The cop scowled. You messed with the wrong gang, buddy. You messed with the mighty Venice sinners. The policeman cheered.

Jasper cocked his head. The what? Venysanters! The gang! Your gang is called the Venny sinners? As in, venison plus sinners? That's a terrible name. Shut up!

That's the worst name I've ever heard of! Sneering. The cop started to march around his car toward Jasper, but stopped at the sound of another vehicle approaching up the road. A car with a distinctive, throaty rumble. from its engine. As Jasper listened, the engine powered off, a car door slammed, and a pair of heavy feet crunched through the snow, coming toward them. The cops all snapped to attention, clapping their hands over their collarbones, and bowing as a tall police officer sauntered from

the whiteout. Jasper tensed, sliding the toe of one shoe back and over as he pivoted his body to face this new arrival, who, like him, had an air. of the predatory power about him. The officer marched right up to Jasper and stopped. They were the same height, and as Jasper glared into his eyes, the man lifted a vape pen to his mouth, sucked, and exhaled into Jasper's face. Jasper winced. The aerosol smelled like chemical fruit and farts.

So, the officer growled, looking Jasper up and down. You are the sun down. Slasher. Hmm. Hell of a thing you pulled off at All Saints. That level of carnage was to be a battle worthy of Grim Bay. And congratulations on your escape. He raised his vape again in his left hand,

and Jasper's gaze darted down to the cop's belt, where his right hand lay atop his holstered pistol. My name is Lieutenant Arlen Slager. More of the sickly sweet smoke came out with his word. and mixed in the snow in the air. Slager is originally a Dutch name, you know, and it means butcher. I thought you might find that interesting.

Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it,

that purple shop pay button, And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images.

It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's a way. award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Jaspper did not react. In his pocket, the knife now seemed to grow fiery hot. It took all his will not to pull it out now and slash open this asshole's neck. But then, the last thing he'd see was the awful vapor rising from Harlan Slager's severed throat before the dozen gunmen

took Jasper out. No doubt you can tell by my accent that I am a transport to this fine city, Slager went on. I am also, however, a student of its history. To Jasper's astonishment and confusion. The officer stepped back, removed his right hand from his holster, and began to pull off his jacket. Do you know the forgotten story of this city slasher? These streets here, they are far older than is often remembered, and their bedrock is far more saturated with the blood of glorious battle than is written in any textbook. Slager folded his jacket and set it on the snowy roof of the nearest car. His men cast curious looks at one another. as their commanding officer loosened and pulled off his necktie next,

then began to unbutton his shirt. Grim Bay was founded by Vikings, long before Christobal Columbush ever found his Italian in the new world. And the Vikings that came to this place, now they were warriors, merciless and proud. And upon the rocky shores of this bay, they did wage mighty battle against the Algonquian, Braves. As Slager pulled off his shirt and set it onto his folded coat, Jasper took note of the

many tattoos and scars on his body. Slager had the matching deer skull on his upper left chest, but also a military insignia on his right shoulder, a blood type inked on his wrist, and more tattoos too faded to make out. There were dog tags strung around his neck, and lattice pattern electrical burn scars all up and down his ribs. As he turned to face Jasper straight on, he unclasped his utility belt, pistol and all, and let them fall into the snow at his feet. A few of the cops behind the cars looked nervous, but not Slager. He grinned.

What you and I are about to do, it is like the holy ritual of Grim Bay. Do you understand, violence in its purest form? Jasper blinked to shake out the snowflakes gathering in his eyelashes. He bent his knees ever so slightly and wiggled his fingers, ready to grab for his weapon. A cycle of vengeance repeating like the seasons. And time and time again it comes down to this. The lone wolf killer. Slager's eyes flashed at Jasper and the horde that seek to strike him down.

He took one last hit on his vape. Weapons away, chance, he called out. I want this to be a fair fight. Butcher to butcher. The other officers reluctantly lowered their guns, as Slager twisted to toss his vape pen next to his clothes. And at that moment, a wicked wind arose, sharp and shrill and sweeping up a cloud of snow in front of the streetlights,

so that for one tiny instant they were cloaked in darkness. Jasper lunged, kicking up snow. on to Slager's bare back as he pulled out the knife and swung. Then the light was back, and the cop had spun to meet the attack, snatching Jasper's wrist in one fist and punching with the other. Jasper ducked to dodge the blow, dropped his knife from his seized right hand, caught it in his left and stabbed. Slager released Jasper's wrist and lurched backward.

The blade whistled, but only grazed his chest. Chater! Shattered a cop to Jasper's right. The sundown slasher moved by instinct, bending sharply backward at the waist, and he felt the whoosh of a bullet pass inches before his face. A cop to his left led out a grunt and fell into the snow. Watch your crossfire, you morons! barked Slager. And I told you, this bastard is mine, blade or not.

Jasper leaned upright again. His fist tightened around the shitty plastic handle of his weapon. He stared into Harlan Slager's eyes, determined not to let this man or any of them. since just how much he was struggling internally. Jasper had never felt such fatigue at the start of a fight. It was like a heavy blanket on his shoulders, pulling him down. The muscles in his left arm were fiery hot with pain, while the rest of him shivered in the wintry storm. His overall energy was so low,

and the butterscotch pudding churning in his stomach wouldn't be enough to fuel him for an extended battle. He had to be quick, to be efficient, to outsmart this hillbilly historian and dispatch the others one by one. Jasper exhaled, relaxed his face, and held out his right arm, the knife sideways in his grip. Through the snow, Slager watched him, one thumb tracing the fresh cut on his abs. Jasper slowly opened his hand, one finger at a time.

Fair fight. He breathed in through his nose, inflating his lungs, letting the chill in his lungs bring him focus, bring him control, bring him power. Jasper released the knife. It dropped, handle first. Eyes on Slager, Jasper brought up his right foot with a blur of speed and precision, kicking the knife straight at the policeman's face. But Slager was fast too, jerking up his right hand to shield himself.

The blade sunk through his palm and out the back of the hand. And before he could do anything besides grimace, Jasper was flying into him, hammering down with his right elbow to jam the knife into Slaker. Slager's face. It sunk through skinning bone, just above his mustache on the left side, and pierced down through the roof of his mouth. Hand pinned to his own face, Slager fell backward into the snow. Kill this! He spluttered, blood-filling his mouth. Jasper drove. The air around him splitting with the roar of gunfire. He twisted to land on his back in a slide, grabbed the fender of the nearest car, and yanked himself under it. Spinning on the icy ground, he emerged between

the wheels, just at the boots of another officer. The cop moved to aim down at Jasper, but he wasn't fast enough. Jasper snatched his gun by the barrel and forced it upward. It fired, shooting the leg of the next cop. Pulling himself out from under the car, Jasper smashed the gunman's head into the driver's side window. As the body slumped to the ground, and more shots rang out, Jasper seized, two long shards of broken glass from the car window, snapped them free. Gritting his teeth at the pain in his palms, he spun, charged at the next assailant,

and raising his sparkling blades over his head. He slashed. While the sound of the battle raged in the street outside, back in the dim garage, Dermit finally got to the obstructed door and kicked it open. Grimising at the pain this caused his right knee, he turned back to Fitz, but his friend wasn't moving. Fitz was staring down at the phone in his hand, his eyes wide. Fitz blinked and looked up. It's manding.

My daughter-in-law. She messaged 20 minutes ago. She said, he swallowed. She's got to go into work early, and that she's bringing Gracie over. She's bringing my granddaughter to the pub. Dermit froze. Oh, God, Derm, he's in there.

All the color drained from Fitz's face. Nicky! For an instant, they stood rooted in their dread. Then Dermit spun, tripping over rusted scrap, and charged into the dark hallway beyond the door, barreling into a dusty abandoned apartment next door. He ran blindly forward,

his hulking shoulder slamming against cabinets and doorframes, ripping the fabric of his sleeves and cutting at his skin. Turning a corner, his forehead smashed against a chandelier so that dust rained down around him. Snarling, Dermit stumbled in a circle, trying to ignore the stars in his vision and the way his whole spine was starting to seize up. He spotted a boarded-up doorway

and stampeded through it. In a dingy living room on the other side, an old woman had been sleeping on an armchair and awoke with a gasp as the dusty giant and a torn bathrobe burst through her wall. A little dog in her lap started barking madly. Dermit swung his head to search for an exit and spotted a window across the room.

Snow falling onto the main street outside, he charged through the living room and leapt, driving his shoulder against the window. Dermit's landing in the street was, rough. He stumbled and slipped, glass and bits of wood and icy snow raining down around him, and felt a lightning bolt of pain, shoot up his left ankle and into the back of his leg. Grunting, he tried to run again, but his leg wouldn't take the weight, and he fell to one knee, screamed a man's voice. Dermott looked up, panting, as a cop outside his parked police car,

threw down a cigarette and whipped out his pistol. Squeezing his hands into fists, Dermit grinned his teeth and pushed off from the ground, leaping at the cop. The pistol came up, but Dermott's fist was faster. His backhand sent the cop reeling sideways into his car, denting in the door. The body slumped into the snow. Dermit took another step and another. Swinging his ape-like arms, he broke into a limping jog, breath hissing through his clamped jaws as he pushed through his pain,

speeding up, racing through the neighborhood of his youth. He had to go faster. He had to make it. He had to. Mandy parked out front of the pub and left the minivan running as she lifted Gracie from her car seat. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Gracie was now very much awake and excited by the snowflakes in the air. The first glow of dawn was turning the world silvery blue,

and in the child's eyes, it really was a winter wonderland. Mandy carried her to the front door and was about to go for the spare key in her pocket when she noticed the broken handle and the plank of wood shoved in front of the door. What in the world? She shoved the board free and pushed the door open. Pops? What happened here? Did somebody tried to break in or? Mandy stepped inside, shivering, and pulled the door closed the best she could. The place was dark. Except for the Christmas lights over the bar,

the stools and some of the tables had been shifted, and a pair of grungy orange garments lay heaped in a corner. Pops? She called out, setting Gracie on her feet and taking hold of her hand. Did you see my texts? There was no answer. Mandy started toward the back hall, but Gracie tugged on her hand. Gracie, come on. We gotta...

Sh! Gracie insisted, hopping up and down on her feet excitedly. He's here, Mommy. What? Vanta. Santa. Santa's in the pub. He...

Mandy felt a chill. She'll run down her back. Mommy doesn't have time for this baby. But he's white deer behind you. Mandy sighed and turned around. Gracie, we really can't. Gracie winced as her mother released her hand and slumped to the floor. The girl's eyes welled with tears.

She didn't understand. Santa? From the shadows, red beady eyes stared at her. Then the short fat man crept forward, dropping something heavy onto the floor. Gracie took a step backward. The man giggled and hopped over her mother's body. Gracie's bottom lip trembled. The Christmas lights that Gracie had helped Grandpa hang up,

reflected on the old man's bald head, and in his unblinking eyes, green, orange, red. Santa! Nicolai Scarpanado licked his lips and raised his gnarled, wrinkled hands as he approached the child. Drewl dribbled from his mouth. mouth into his beard.

Oh! He reached out, yellow fingernails, scraping up her winter coat. Oh! He seized his hands around her neck. Oh! And squeezed. Dermott's right hand seized both of Nikki's wrists and jerked the man backward, as his left hand reached around Gracie and lifted her up.

He turned in place, cradling the child against his heaving chest and blocking her view of the demented cannibal and of her mother on the floor. beside the fire extinguisher with her blood, dripping off its lower rim. For a moment, Gracie was stiff and wide-eyed in his arms. Then she released a trembling cry and started to wriggle and kick. Dermit didn't let her go. He held her tight, his cheek against her curly hair, tears streaming down his face. She was safe.

He had gotten there in time. She was safe! She was safe! He choked on a sob, his whole body shaking. Through the front door, which Dermit had smashed to. pieces as he entered. Footsteps sounded. Fitz ran into view, clutching a stitch at his side, his hat gone, his pale face glistening with sweat. He stood in the doorway, wheezing. Through his lopsided glasses, he stared at Dermott, and the child in his arms. Is she? Dermott looked over at him, and so did Gracie. Dermott exhaled and bent to set the

girl down. She ran across the room and into Fitz's waiting arms. Oh, sweetheart! He's side, clutching her to him. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I know white Santa. I know want him come quiff'smas. He hurt mommy. Fitz gasped and looked around the pub. Oh, Christ, Mandy!

Dermit watched as Fitz carried his granddaughter and rushed to check the woman on the floor. She's, she's breathing. I got to call an ambulance. He looked up at Dermit. I got a call right now. Dermott nodded, swooning on his feet. He reached up. a hand at the bar to study himself as the pub seemed to spin in his dizzy vision. Swallowing thickly,

Dermott looked around. For Nicky, his elderly cellmate had scurried over to hide under a table in the corner. Dermott could see his eyes glinting there, and he could hear him, whimpering softly, like a dog caught being naughty, ashamed but also annoyed, at having a treat taken away before it could bite and chew. I need an ambulance! Fitz yelled into his phone. The Ballygo Pub on Warf Street. Little Dublin, yeah, hurry! He lowered the phone.

Derm! Dermott turned and met his eyes. You still have time! Dermott glanced out the window. The morning was hazy, and through the snow, the surface of the bay shone like an antique silver mirror. Promise me, you'll make it. Dermott breathed in and breathed out.

He nodded. Straightening up, he looked down at his body. The sweatpants were ripped and wet, and the bathrobe was little more. more than threads. He stumbled over to the bench by the window, grabbed a blanket, and tossed it over one shoulder. Then, moving back to Nikki's table, Dermott bent forward and gestured wearily for the man to come out. Nicky giggled. Then he crawled out from the side and tried to scurry off behind the bar. Dermit reached out and caught him by the arm. Nicky pouted, but allowed himself

to be picked up and held against Dermott's chest, like little Gracie had been. Dermott limped toward the door, wincing with each heavy step. Before going outside, he looked back at young fits, but his old friend was busy, taking care of the ones he loved. Dermit held Nikki. He didn't want to do it in front of the pub, so he limped down the road, the bay on their right, the brick houses and shops on their left.

Some of those houses were boarded up, but others had wreaths on the doors, icicle lights on the roof. One even had a Christmas tree shining brightly in the front window. with twinkling lights and balls and ornaments of every shape and color. Nikki got excited when he saw that, so Dermott halted and turned to let his cellmate look at all the pretty colors. Nicky giggled. Dermott adjusted his grip, cradling Nicky's head in one arm, then opened his hand and wrapped his fingers snug around the old man's skull.

Dermott closed his eyes and squeezed. Nikolai Giuseppe Scarpinata was 85 years. years old. He had been born to a prominent mafia family in 1940. He was doted on by his mother and beaten daily by his father, and abused often by a brother, a cousin, a teacher, and a priest. He witnessed his first murder when he was eight years old. He committed his first murder at age 10. By the time he was finally caught, he had strangled 28 children and cooked and eaten 15 of them. He had spent the last 50 years behind bars, where he was hated by everyone. He had a recorded IQ of 40. And until he had been transferred to the tower at All Saints Federal Prison and met his new

cellmate, he had never had a friend, nor anyone in his life who had known what he was, and loved him anyway. Nicky loved Christmas. He loved to cook and to eat, and he loved Dermit, and he felt safe. in the giant's arms. Dermit opened his eyes and releasing a shaky breath. He lowered the headless body of the Christmas cannibal into the snowy street. Still bending low, he scooped up handfuls of the fresh snow from the curb and used it to clean the blood and the brains and the filth from his hands. Then he straightened up, sniffling, and unfolded the blanket on his shoulder. He used two fingers to poke a hole in its center, then put his head through the hole and draped the the blanket over himself like a poncho. He started forward again, alone now, hugging his arms

around his chest. It was very cold. From around the bend of the bay, the horn of a cargo ship blared out. He moved faster. Behind the wintry fog, the sun was rising fast, and Dermott had a ride to catch and a promise to keep. Jasper dropped the glass blades to the ground. He stood up panting, blood streaming from both his hands onto the snow around his final combatant. Looking around at the empty cars and the body strewn on the snowy pavement, he wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes with the back of a sleeve, then walked back to where the battle had started. Lieutenant Harlan Slager still lay on his back where Jasper had left him, now dusted with a centimeter of fresh snow. He was stiff and twitching, and Jasper could hear him breathing in weak,

blood-gurgling little gasps. Jasper knelt beside him and reached to check the officer's pants pocket. After a moment, he grinned and held up Slager's car keys in front of his blue-tinted face. Jasper rattled the keys. Slager's eyelids quivered and opened. Jasper leaned in close. He stood up again, spinning the car keys on one finger, then raised one foot to rest the heel of his shoe on the handle of the knife in Slager's face. Slager moaned wetly. Jasper left him there, bleeding out in the snow, and walked to the parked car just up the road.

He let out a low whistle. It was a 1987 Buick, G&X, sleek, black, powerful. Jasper pulled himself into the driver's seat, stifling a yawn, then put the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life like a purring beast. Jasper sighed.

his breath coming out as a cloud. Throwing the car into drive, he kicked at the gas. The wheels spun out on the ice for a second. Then the car launched forward, swerving across the icy pavement. Jasper switched into second gear, jerking the wheel to drift around the next corner. He settled back in the leather seat, savoring the feel of the wheel beneath his stinging palms. He'd probably have to ditch the recognizable car and steal another at some point, but it would be hours before the fools looking for him

pieced together the chaotic chapter of his story that had taken place in little Dublin that night and the role their corrupt compatriot Slager had played in it. He sped from the city, driving through the snow and fog and into the hilly state park north of town. Jasper liked those woods. He used to go out there sometimes when he was younger.

They were a good place to practice some killing and to clear his head. And right now, he had a lot of mental clearing to do. The future of the sundown slasher was uncertain, but the present did feel a lot better with the world whooshing by outside, and the vibration of the turbocharged V6 across his skin, like a full body massage. And hey, all in all, as far as birthdays went for Jasper David Raith, this one, not too shabby. When the shipping container doors were finally opened,

The first things Dermott noticed were the smells of sea air and fresh soil and pine trees. He heard the splashing of the waves and the calling of sea birds. His legs were very stiff as he wriggled out and stood, blinking in the sunlight. The sky was blue and the day was brisk. The sea was at his back, a hilly countryside before him. An old man in rubber boots and a thick woolen sweater stood in the grass nearby, smoking a pipe. So then, the old man said, chewing the end of his pipe. You're the cousin I'm taking in, eh? Big lad, that's for sure.

Well, I hope you're not expecting any grand nights outland. I farm is miles from the nearest village. There's plenty of work that'll need doing. With the animals and that, a bit of gardening, tis a quiet life. Think that'll suit you, son. Dermit McMura inhaled through his nostrils, letting in the fresh air.

The corners of his mouth twitched in a soft smile. We're off. The farm returned and marched down a path through the pines, and Dermott followed, limping over mossy stones and ducking beneath branches as they wound their way up, up into those green, green hills. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.