PODCAST
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Episodes
Ep
94
Ep.94 – The Wolf of Fagan County - There's a Monster Among Us!
Episode
|
38 min
|
Jul 28, 2021
Episode Notes
A sleepy town has always had dark secrets but when young people turn up dead, mutilated and partially eaten a brother and sister decide they have no choice but to find out who's killing the townspeople.
The Wolf of Fagan County by David O'Hanlon
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Maybe Whistler was a nice town once. It seemed that way until the summer of ’86. The old folks always whispered about certain places—about the places you don’t go and the boogeymen that dwelled within. Everyone in Fagan County knew a local ghost story. Back then, I loved to hear those stories.
Nowadays, not so much.
My dad trucked crops from the farms into the neighboring states of Louisiana and Mississippi. I didn’t see much of him. He left before dawn and got home after sunset. The day before my thirteenth birthday, he took a load to Shreveport. I awoke to a stack of used horror comics the next morning with a note that read “You’re old enough for the good ones now, soldier.”
I loved the way those pages smelled. After all these years, I still have a couple of them in the suitcases I live out of. I’d read through the entire bundle in a week. I flipped through them and found the one I’d enjoyed the most for a second visit when my mother called from downstairs.
“Connie! Come quick,” she shouted.
I hated when she called me that. It was bad enough being named Conrad. The effeminate nickname caught on with my friends in second grade… and then with the rest of the student body by the end of recess. Something sounded off in her voice as I trudged down the narrow staircase that descended into the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table with her elbows pressing into the vinyl top and her hands hiding her face. My sister, Lisa, had her head down, shrouded in her arms. Her body convulsed as she bawled noisily inside. I held my breath all the way to the table.
No one spoke to me as I slid the chair away from the edge and eased into it. Mom reached over and put her hand on mine.
“Something terrible’s happened,” she whispered.
Something terrible had happened a few weeks ago, too. And a few weeks before that. We’d discussed both of those events as a family. No one was crying then. Sure, Mom had been shaken up by the discovery of the first body, but it seemed like nothing to worry about.
We all knew Old Man McGarrah from around town. He would pop out like a magician’s rabbit to grump about what a bunch of slack-jawed hippy-spawn all the kids were whenever you least expected it. The police said it was a heart attack that took him and that coyotes took to eating his remains.
Grotesque and unseemly as it were, my folks delivered the news to my sister and me with just the facts and reminded us to stay away from the woods. Coyotes rarely attacked people, but Dad said there’s something different about any animal—including man—once they got a taste for blood. The second time we were called to the table, it was clearly more bothersome.
Mom wasn’t handling it well, but she remained calm as she told us about the bodies found out along County Road 63. A couple of teens gone to make out got cut up real bad. Chief Hardesty said it was just a freak occurrence—a crime of opportunity—and that the killer was likely long gone. Our parents told us to be home thirty minutes before sundown after that and to never go anywhere alone, just in case.
This time was different.
“Connie,” she started, tugging at the silver locket dangling from her thin neck. Her voice trembled. “It’s Brenda.”
My stomach knotted.
Brenda Knowles had been Lisa’s best friend since kindergarten. She’d babysat for me on a few occasions and came to eat dinner with us every Wednesday. She was my first crush too. I sniffled, but held back any other reaction until Mom could finish. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought. Maybe those old Tales from the Crypt comics were poisoning my imagination the way Father Dean said they would at youth service. Maybe she was moving away. That would explain why they were so upset.
“Chief Hardesty found her this morning,” Mom continued.
Nope. It was exactly what I thought it was.
I don’t remember the exact moment that I realized the killings were a month apart, but I do remember Lisa raising her face to stare at Mom and then me in turn. Her lips quivered and then she stood up fast enough to knock the chair to the floor. She slammed her fists onto the table and screamed. That I’ll never forget. That look… and those words.
“She was eaten!”
Lisa cried until she passed out that night. I watched the news with Mom to see if the police had anything to say. The station’s newest reporter, Rex Willits, looked like he’d been sick as he raised the microphone close to his chin. His hand shook slightly and his trademark smile was nothing but a thin line of white teeth below his bushy mustache. Rex nodded slowly and started his report when the phone rang in the kitchen and Mom went to answer.
“I’m here at the Ridley Funeral Home in Fagan County to report on a grisly, unimaginable crime,” Rex started. He swallowed hard. “The body of fifteen-year-old Brenda Knowles was found just before dawn this morning. Brenda had been babysitting for family friends the prior evening. She started the short walk to her home just before eleven pm.”
I turned my attention to Mom’s shouting in the kitchen.
“What do you mean ‘two days,’ Paul?” she growled. “It doesn’t take two damn days to get a mechanic.”
Dad’s truck broke down. That happened a lot when he was hauling rice to Shreveport. Only then, though. Mom noticed too. She had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
“What about the kids?” she wailed. “You know what’s going on here! You’re leaving us alone so you—”
Her voice became muffled and I scooted closer to the television to hear what Rex had to say. I heard the phone slam against the receiver several times and Mom stomping up the steps.
“I’ve seen the body… my God in Heaven, I’ll never unsee it now,” Rex said when movement caught his attention.
He snapped his fingers and pointed his cameraman in the direction of the police chief. Other reporters rushed in around him. Rex elbowed one of them out of his way and reached out with his mic.
“Don’t you buzzards have anything better to do?” Chief Hardesty barked. “A child is dead for Christ’s sake.”
“How?” Rex asked. “How did she die?”
“Violently,” Hardesty answered in his low, gruff drawl.
“Is this related to last month’s double homicide?” a woman’s voice asked.
“We don’t have conclusive evidence linking the two, this early in the investigation,” Hardesty said. His shoulders sagged. “There are… similarities.”
“Were the other victims missing flesh and muscle?” Rex quizzed him. “Were there bite marks on them as well?”
Hardesty glared at Rex and then spoke with forced restraint. “At this time, I’m asking all residents of Whistler and the outlying areas to stay indoors at night. The curfew is merely a request, however.”
The wail of sirens cut the report short. We wouldn’t find out until the morning that they’d found another body. Crazy Delores lived in a shack on the edge of town. She sold herbal remedies and told fortunes for a dollar. No one knew how long she’d been dead.
I climbed into bed, but didn’t dare go to sleep. I opened a comic and thought about Dad. Maybe the rig really broke down, but I didn’t buy it. He was spending time with some woman. In a strange way, that made me feel better. He was more worried about getting laid than he was about the killer on the loose, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal.
My door creaked open and Lisa slipped through the gap. I laid the comic down. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry your best friend was brutally murdered and partially eaten’ really didn’t seem like it’d help the situation. Then again, ‘we’re going to find Brenda’s killers’ wasn’t a winner either, but that’s exactly what Lisa said as she leaned on my dresser.
I gawked at her and waited what felt like an eternity for her to say something else.
“Look, Connie,” she started, then paused and chewed her bottom lip. “Chief Hardesty is a scumbag. He’s going to pin all this on the first person that ain’t Baptist enough for him. Then the murderer is just going to drift away.”
I was still too young to know how common that sort of thing was around there. Or what kind of a man Baxter Hardesty really was. I did want to make sure that Brenda’s killer got caught, however.
“The killings are about a month a part,” I said, hesitantly, unsure of exactly what I’d discovered. I shrugged. “What if the killer travels and just stops through here every few weeks?”
“Or lives here and returns home once a month?” Lisa offered. “Dad’s friend, Ted, is a long-haul driver.”
I remembered. Ted tried to convince Dad to work with him all the time. I also remembered Ted coming to my birthday party. I shook my head.
“I’m pretty sure he’s out of town now.” I scratched the two recently sprouted hairs on my chin. “What about a delivery driver? Brown’s only gets a few deliveries a month.”
Lisa thought it over and nodded. “Okay, we’ll go by and see when they got a delivery.”
Thinking the conversation was done, I lifted my comic.
“What is that, Connie?” Lisa aske
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👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
A sleepy town has always had dark secrets but when young people turn up dead, mutilated and partially eaten a brother and sister decide they have no choice but to find out who's killing the townspeople.
The Wolf of Fagan County by David O'Hanlon
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Maybe Whistler was a nice town once. It seemed that way until the summer of ’86. The old folks always whispered about certain places—about the places you don’t go and the boogeymen that dwelled within. Everyone in Fagan County knew a local ghost story. Back then, I loved to hear those stories.
Nowadays, not so much.
My dad trucked crops from the farms into the neighboring states of Louisiana and Mississippi. I didn’t see much of him. He left before dawn and got home after sunset. The day before my thirteenth birthday, he took a load to Shreveport. I awoke to a stack of used horror comics the next morning with a note that read “You’re old enough for the good ones now, soldier.”
I loved the way those pages smelled. After all these years, I still have a couple of them in the suitcases I live out of. I’d read through the entire bundle in a week. I flipped through them and found the one I’d enjoyed the most for a second visit when my mother called from downstairs.
“Connie! Come quick,” she shouted.
I hated when she called me that. It was bad enough being named Conrad. The effeminate nickname caught on with my friends in second grade… and then with the rest of the student body by the end of recess. Something sounded off in her voice as I trudged down the narrow staircase that descended into the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table with her elbows pressing into the vinyl top and her hands hiding her face. My sister, Lisa, had her head down, shrouded in her arms. Her body convulsed as she bawled noisily inside. I held my breath all the way to the table.
No one spoke to me as I slid the chair away from the edge and eased into it. Mom reached over and put her hand on mine.
“Something terrible’s happened,” she whispered.
Something terrible had happened a few weeks ago, too. And a few weeks before that. We’d discussed both of those events as a family. No one was crying then. Sure, Mom had been shaken up by the discovery of the first body, but it seemed like nothing to worry about.
We all knew Old Man McGarrah from around town. He would pop out like a magician’s rabbit to grump about what a bunch of slack-jawed hippy-spawn all the kids were whenever you least expected it. The police said it was a heart attack that took him and that coyotes took to eating his remains.
Grotesque and unseemly as it were, my folks delivered the news to my sister and me with just the facts and reminded us to stay away from the woods. Coyotes rarely attacked people, but Dad said there’s something different about any animal—including man—once they got a taste for blood. The second time we were called to the table, it was clearly more bothersome.
Mom wasn’t handling it well, but she remained calm as she told us about the bodies found out along County Road 63. A couple of teens gone to make out got cut up real bad. Chief Hardesty said it was just a freak occurrence—a crime of opportunity—and that the killer was likely long gone. Our parents told us to be home thirty minutes before sundown after that and to never go anywhere alone, just in case.
This time was different.
“Connie,” she started, tugging at the silver locket dangling from her thin neck. Her voice trembled. “It’s Brenda.”
My stomach knotted.
Brenda Knowles had been Lisa’s best friend since kindergarten. She’d babysat for me on a few occasions and came to eat dinner with us every Wednesday. She was my first crush too. I sniffled, but held back any other reaction until Mom could finish. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought. Maybe those old Tales from the Crypt comics were poisoning my imagination the way Father Dean said they would at youth service. Maybe she was moving away. That would explain why they were so upset.
“Chief Hardesty found her this morning,” Mom continued.
Nope. It was exactly what I thought it was.
I don’t remember the exact moment that I realized the killings were a month apart, but I do remember Lisa raising her face to stare at Mom and then me in turn. Her lips quivered and then she stood up fast enough to knock the chair to the floor. She slammed her fists onto the table and screamed. That I’ll never forget. That look… and those words.
“She was eaten!”
Lisa cried until she passed out that night. I watched the news with Mom to see if the police had anything to say. The station’s newest reporter, Rex Willits, looked like he’d been sick as he raised the microphone close to his chin. His hand shook slightly and his trademark smile was nothing but a thin line of white teeth below his bushy mustache. Rex nodded slowly and started his report when the phone rang in the kitchen and Mom went to answer.
“I’m here at the Ridley Funeral Home in Fagan County to report on a grisly, unimaginable crime,” Rex started. He swallowed hard. “The body of fifteen-year-old Brenda Knowles was found just before dawn this morning. Brenda had been babysitting for family friends the prior evening. She started the short walk to her home just before eleven pm.”
I turned my attention to Mom’s shouting in the kitchen.
“What do you mean ‘two days,’ Paul?” she growled. “It doesn’t take two damn days to get a mechanic.”
Dad’s truck broke down. That happened a lot when he was hauling rice to Shreveport. Only then, though. Mom noticed too. She had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
“What about the kids?” she wailed. “You know what’s going on here! You’re leaving us alone so you—”
Her voice became muffled and I scooted closer to the television to hear what Rex had to say. I heard the phone slam against the receiver several times and Mom stomping up the steps.
“I’ve seen the body… my God in Heaven, I’ll never unsee it now,” Rex said when movement caught his attention.
He snapped his fingers and pointed his cameraman in the direction of the police chief. Other reporters rushed in around him. Rex elbowed one of them out of his way and reached out with his mic.
“Don’t you buzzards have anything better to do?” Chief Hardesty barked. “A child is dead for Christ’s sake.”
“How?” Rex asked. “How did she die?”
“Violently,” Hardesty answered in his low, gruff drawl.
“Is this related to last month’s double homicide?” a woman’s voice asked.
“We don’t have conclusive evidence linking the two, this early in the investigation,” Hardesty said. His shoulders sagged. “There are… similarities.”
“Were the other victims missing flesh and muscle?” Rex quizzed him. “Were there bite marks on them as well?”
Hardesty glared at Rex and then spoke with forced restraint. “At this time, I’m asking all residents of Whistler and the outlying areas to stay indoors at night. The curfew is merely a request, however.”
The wail of sirens cut the report short. We wouldn’t find out until the morning that they’d found another body. Crazy Delores lived in a shack on the edge of town. She sold herbal remedies and told fortunes for a dollar. No one knew how long she’d been dead.
I climbed into bed, but didn’t dare go to sleep. I opened a comic and thought about Dad. Maybe the rig really broke down, but I didn’t buy it. He was spending time with some woman. In a strange way, that made me feel better. He was more worried about getting laid than he was about the killer on the loose, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal.
My door creaked open and Lisa slipped through the gap. I laid the comic down. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry your best friend was brutally murdered and partially eaten’ really didn’t seem like it’d help the situation. Then again, ‘we’re going to find Brenda’s killers’ wasn’t a winner either, but that’s exactly what Lisa said as she leaned on my dresser.
I gawked at her and waited what felt like an eternity for her to say something else.
“Look, Connie,” she started, then paused and chewed her bottom lip. “Chief Hardesty is a scumbag. He’s going to pin all this on the first person that ain’t Baptist enough for him. Then the murderer is just going to drift away.”
I was still too young to know how common that sort of thing was around there. Or what kind of a man Baxter Hardesty really was. I did want to make sure that Brenda’s killer got caught, however.
“The killings are about a month a part,” I said, hesitantly, unsure of exactly what I’d discovered. I shrugged. “What if the killer travels and just stops through here every few weeks?”
“Or lives here and returns home once a month?” Lisa offered. “Dad’s friend, Ted, is a long-haul driver.”
I remembered. Ted tried to convince Dad to work with him all the time. I also remembered Ted coming to my birthday party. I shook my head.
“I’m pretty sure he’s out of town now.” I scratched the two recently sprouted hairs on my chin. “What about a delivery driver? Brown’s only gets a few deliveries a month.”
Lisa thought it over and nodded. “Okay, we’ll go by and see when they got a delivery.”
Thinking the conversation was done, I lifted my comic.
“What is that, Connie?” Lisa aske
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
38 min
Ep
93
Ep.93 – The Siren's Song - Something Under the Water WANTS YOU DEAD!
Episode
|
30 min
|
Jul 21, 2021
Something under that water sings beautifully... and hides a DEADLY secret, waiting to bring you under!
Siren's Song by Joe Solmo
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Jacob watched as his uncle headed towards the rustic one room cabin that sat on the riverbank. He wondered how he was supposed enjoy himself up here with his uncle. It had only been three days since his mother’s funeral. A car accident took her from him, she was on her way to pick him up from a friend’s house, after a night of trying out Dungeons & Dragons. The night was fun, he was all smiles until the phone rang at Keith’s house and Keith’s mom had to drive him home. She wouldn’t explain why, but Jacob could tell by the look on her face something was wrong.
They never caught the person who crossed the double yellow lines and hit his mother head-on. They fled the stolen car and the scene on foot before the police arrived and found her there. Jacob overheard the officer say that she was still alive when they arrived, but passed shortly after. They found several beer cans in the other car, and thought it might have been a drunk or teens out for a joy ride, but no one knew for sure. There was no justice, just loss. It really wasn’t fair.
When Uncle Greg showed up to help them with arrangements and daily household stuff, Jacob was glad. His father seemed lost, he’d just stare out the window at the driveway, like he expected his wife to pull in any minute. At times, Jacob wanted to join him, wanted to believe that it was all a mistake and his mother would be home in time for dinner and complain has his father overcooked the roast.
The night after the funeral his father suggested he go to bed early, and to be honest, Jacob didn’t feel like staying up. As he finished brushing his teeth, he could hear his uncle and father talking on the back deck. The window was open on the warm August night. He dragged the stool over to the window he used to use to brush his teeth so he could peek out.
His father was still wearing his white shirt and tie, the latter hanging loosely to the side as his father raised a glass to his lips. He turned towards his Glen.
“You know why I don’t want to go back up there,” Jacob’s father said after swallowing.
“It would do the both of you good to get away. Come up to the river camp. It will be like old times, Jason,” Glen replied. “The boy should be up there too, get away from this place.”
“Too many memories. Memories of her. You know not all the memories up there are good ones,” Jason said. They sat in silence for a minute and Jacob got bored. He climbed down and put his wooden stool away. He thought it was odd that his father told his uncle that he met mom at the cabin. When he asked for a school project, his parents had told him they met at a school dance.
Jacob snapped out of his memory and looked at the river as it flowed by. So, this was where his father and mother met. He looked up and down the shore and wondered which of the houses had belonged to his mother’s family. He had never met anyone from his mother’s side. She told him they had all died when she was young.
Before he knew it, he was standing at the water’s edge. Something had drawn him there. There was something comforting about the way the water lazily passed by the large boulder near the weathered dock. He walked out onto the aged wooden planks until he reached the edge and looked down at the reflection of the sunset and mountains in the river. He stared intensely into the water, there was something there, just under the surface, but he couldn’t make it out. Pastels reminiscent of Easter covered the swirling water, keeping its underwater secrets from him.
He slapped a mosquito as it tried to make a meal of him. A look out on the water showed all kinds of insects swimming just above the surface of the water, and he regretted not bringing a long sleeve shirt to cover up. Jacob had never been fishing before, he wondered if he would like it. Maybe if it was a video game. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the bugs.
“There you are Jake,” came Uncle Greg’s voice from behind him. “Let’s get all the bags inside. It’s really cooling down; the browns should be out soon.”
Jacob didn’t know what a brown was. He assumed it was some kind of fish, or maybe an insect since there were so many of those out. He grabbed his duffel bag from the back of the truck and with a grunt lifted it over the side of the truck. It took both hands to carry it to the house with a week’s worth of clothes inside it. “What’s a brown?” he asked his uncle as he caught up to him, out of breath.
“Trout, boy. Brown trout. It’s on the menu for tonight. They love to eat those bugs there and will be right up near the surface. Easy pickin’s,” Uncle Greg replied.
“Eww, they eat bugs?” Jacob asked.
“Sure do, it’s a source of protein for them.”
“Do they taste like bugs when you eat them?” asked Jacob.
“Not at all, they’re delicious,” his uncle replied with a laugh and put his bag down on the old worn couch. “You take the bed; I will take the couch.”
Jacob looked at the bed by the window. It had a nice view of the river; he carried his bag over to the bed and plopped in on there without taking his eyes off the river. A boat was heading upriver, the steady drone of its motor almost trancelike. He watched it until it was out of site.
“How come you don’t have a motorboat like that, Uncle Glen?” Jacob asked.
“Well honestly, I can’t afford one. I am not very good with money,” Glen said laughing as he set down the cooler by the old sink. Jacob had not even seen his uncle to go back out to the truck to get the cooler.
“Dad says you whizz it away, but I don’t know what that means,” Jacob said.
“Yeah well, when we were growing up, your father had it easier that I did making friends. I found my friend in a bottle. Y’understand?” Uncle Glen asked gathering up the fishing gear and heading towards the door.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, but had no idea what his uncle was talking about.
The canoe was so shaky it felt like if Jacob sneezed he would send the thing over and he’d have to swim back to the cabin. So he sat very still, white-knuckle gripping the sides of the aluminum canoe in order to prevent his imaginary catastrophe. His uncle paddled them upriver a bit to a spot he said he knew where there was a deep pool that the browns liked to hang out in. They would drift with the current from above it so the fish wouldn’t hear the splashing of the oars and get spooked.
Even though he was terrified of the canoe tipping, Jacob wasn’t afraid of the river itself. Once again, he felt a calmness when he looked out on it. There was something familiar about the river, something comforting. It took a few minutes for him to get up the nerve to let go of one side of the canoe and reach down to the water, letting his fingers drag in the cool water.
“Well, here we are,” his uncle said and slid the canoe just upstream of a fallen log to keep the watercraft in place. “You ready to catch some fish?”
Jacob watched his uncle take a rod out from a tube and fit the ends together until the thing was almost as long as the canoe. He had seen rods in fishing shows before, but this one was super long and the line was brightly colored. He watched as is uncle tied a tiny little poofy thing to the end.
“Here take this,” Glen said, thrusting the rod towards his nephew. Jacob reached out slowly to take the rod from his uncle, daring to rise a little from his safely seated position. As he sat back down, he felt something bump the canoe.
“What was that?” he asked nervously, looking around wide-eyed.
“We just brushed up against a log, nothing to worry about,” his uncle said and started to fit together another rod. “All I have are these fly-fishing rods, it’s a little harder to cast, but the browns love the flies on the end,” his uncle explained and stood up in the canoe making it shake more than Jacob would have liked.
Uncle Glen gave a false cast and sent the line shooting out the end upstream. Jacob watched the graceful cast. It was easy to see the bright orange line make its way back downriver to them. His uncle cast this way three more times, explaining to Jacob how it worked, but Jacob wasn’t about to stand up in the boat now.
He felt another bump on the canoe. This time he swore he felt something tapping on the bottom of the boat. “What is that?” Jacob asked, terrified.
“There are all kinds of noises, kid. It could be anything, a branch, a turtle. Nothing to worry about either way,” Uncle Glen explained and sat back down in the canoe. He reached into the bag he brought with them and pulled out a beer. “If you were another year older, I would let you have one, but eleven is just too young to drink beer.”
“That’s ok. I don’t want a drink,” Jacob said.
“Good boy, don’t want to end up like me,” His uncle answered putting down the beer to grab his paddle. “Let’s move a little farther downstream and give it another go.”
Jacob nodded and looked overboard as his uncle maneuvered them out into the current to take them downstream.
Jacob. Jacob can you hear me.
His young eyes widened as he heard the familiar voice. It couldn’t be. How could he hear his mother? She w
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
Siren's Song by Joe Solmo
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Jacob watched as his uncle headed towards the rustic one room cabin that sat on the riverbank. He wondered how he was supposed enjoy himself up here with his uncle. It had only been three days since his mother’s funeral. A car accident took her from him, she was on her way to pick him up from a friend’s house, after a night of trying out Dungeons & Dragons. The night was fun, he was all smiles until the phone rang at Keith’s house and Keith’s mom had to drive him home. She wouldn’t explain why, but Jacob could tell by the look on her face something was wrong.
They never caught the person who crossed the double yellow lines and hit his mother head-on. They fled the stolen car and the scene on foot before the police arrived and found her there. Jacob overheard the officer say that she was still alive when they arrived, but passed shortly after. They found several beer cans in the other car, and thought it might have been a drunk or teens out for a joy ride, but no one knew for sure. There was no justice, just loss. It really wasn’t fair.
When Uncle Greg showed up to help them with arrangements and daily household stuff, Jacob was glad. His father seemed lost, he’d just stare out the window at the driveway, like he expected his wife to pull in any minute. At times, Jacob wanted to join him, wanted to believe that it was all a mistake and his mother would be home in time for dinner and complain has his father overcooked the roast.
The night after the funeral his father suggested he go to bed early, and to be honest, Jacob didn’t feel like staying up. As he finished brushing his teeth, he could hear his uncle and father talking on the back deck. The window was open on the warm August night. He dragged the stool over to the window he used to use to brush his teeth so he could peek out.
His father was still wearing his white shirt and tie, the latter hanging loosely to the side as his father raised a glass to his lips. He turned towards his Glen.
“You know why I don’t want to go back up there,” Jacob’s father said after swallowing.
“It would do the both of you good to get away. Come up to the river camp. It will be like old times, Jason,” Glen replied. “The boy should be up there too, get away from this place.”
“Too many memories. Memories of her. You know not all the memories up there are good ones,” Jason said. They sat in silence for a minute and Jacob got bored. He climbed down and put his wooden stool away. He thought it was odd that his father told his uncle that he met mom at the cabin. When he asked for a school project, his parents had told him they met at a school dance.
Jacob snapped out of his memory and looked at the river as it flowed by. So, this was where his father and mother met. He looked up and down the shore and wondered which of the houses had belonged to his mother’s family. He had never met anyone from his mother’s side. She told him they had all died when she was young.
Before he knew it, he was standing at the water’s edge. Something had drawn him there. There was something comforting about the way the water lazily passed by the large boulder near the weathered dock. He walked out onto the aged wooden planks until he reached the edge and looked down at the reflection of the sunset and mountains in the river. He stared intensely into the water, there was something there, just under the surface, but he couldn’t make it out. Pastels reminiscent of Easter covered the swirling water, keeping its underwater secrets from him.
He slapped a mosquito as it tried to make a meal of him. A look out on the water showed all kinds of insects swimming just above the surface of the water, and he regretted not bringing a long sleeve shirt to cover up. Jacob had never been fishing before, he wondered if he would like it. Maybe if it was a video game. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the bugs.
“There you are Jake,” came Uncle Greg’s voice from behind him. “Let’s get all the bags inside. It’s really cooling down; the browns should be out soon.”
Jacob didn’t know what a brown was. He assumed it was some kind of fish, or maybe an insect since there were so many of those out. He grabbed his duffel bag from the back of the truck and with a grunt lifted it over the side of the truck. It took both hands to carry it to the house with a week’s worth of clothes inside it. “What’s a brown?” he asked his uncle as he caught up to him, out of breath.
“Trout, boy. Brown trout. It’s on the menu for tonight. They love to eat those bugs there and will be right up near the surface. Easy pickin’s,” Uncle Greg replied.
“Eww, they eat bugs?” Jacob asked.
“Sure do, it’s a source of protein for them.”
“Do they taste like bugs when you eat them?” asked Jacob.
“Not at all, they’re delicious,” his uncle replied with a laugh and put his bag down on the old worn couch. “You take the bed; I will take the couch.”
Jacob looked at the bed by the window. It had a nice view of the river; he carried his bag over to the bed and plopped in on there without taking his eyes off the river. A boat was heading upriver, the steady drone of its motor almost trancelike. He watched it until it was out of site.
“How come you don’t have a motorboat like that, Uncle Glen?” Jacob asked.
“Well honestly, I can’t afford one. I am not very good with money,” Glen said laughing as he set down the cooler by the old sink. Jacob had not even seen his uncle to go back out to the truck to get the cooler.
“Dad says you whizz it away, but I don’t know what that means,” Jacob said.
“Yeah well, when we were growing up, your father had it easier that I did making friends. I found my friend in a bottle. Y’understand?” Uncle Glen asked gathering up the fishing gear and heading towards the door.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, but had no idea what his uncle was talking about.
The canoe was so shaky it felt like if Jacob sneezed he would send the thing over and he’d have to swim back to the cabin. So he sat very still, white-knuckle gripping the sides of the aluminum canoe in order to prevent his imaginary catastrophe. His uncle paddled them upriver a bit to a spot he said he knew where there was a deep pool that the browns liked to hang out in. They would drift with the current from above it so the fish wouldn’t hear the splashing of the oars and get spooked.
Even though he was terrified of the canoe tipping, Jacob wasn’t afraid of the river itself. Once again, he felt a calmness when he looked out on it. There was something familiar about the river, something comforting. It took a few minutes for him to get up the nerve to let go of one side of the canoe and reach down to the water, letting his fingers drag in the cool water.
“Well, here we are,” his uncle said and slid the canoe just upstream of a fallen log to keep the watercraft in place. “You ready to catch some fish?”
Jacob watched his uncle take a rod out from a tube and fit the ends together until the thing was almost as long as the canoe. He had seen rods in fishing shows before, but this one was super long and the line was brightly colored. He watched as is uncle tied a tiny little poofy thing to the end.
“Here take this,” Glen said, thrusting the rod towards his nephew. Jacob reached out slowly to take the rod from his uncle, daring to rise a little from his safely seated position. As he sat back down, he felt something bump the canoe.
“What was that?” he asked nervously, looking around wide-eyed.
“We just brushed up against a log, nothing to worry about,” his uncle said and started to fit together another rod. “All I have are these fly-fishing rods, it’s a little harder to cast, but the browns love the flies on the end,” his uncle explained and stood up in the canoe making it shake more than Jacob would have liked.
Uncle Glen gave a false cast and sent the line shooting out the end upstream. Jacob watched the graceful cast. It was easy to see the bright orange line make its way back downriver to them. His uncle cast this way three more times, explaining to Jacob how it worked, but Jacob wasn’t about to stand up in the boat now.
He felt another bump on the canoe. This time he swore he felt something tapping on the bottom of the boat. “What is that?” Jacob asked, terrified.
“There are all kinds of noises, kid. It could be anything, a branch, a turtle. Nothing to worry about either way,” Uncle Glen explained and sat back down in the canoe. He reached into the bag he brought with them and pulled out a beer. “If you were another year older, I would let you have one, but eleven is just too young to drink beer.”
“That’s ok. I don’t want a drink,” Jacob said.
“Good boy, don’t want to end up like me,” His uncle answered putting down the beer to grab his paddle. “Let’s move a little farther downstream and give it another go.”
Jacob nodded and looked overboard as his uncle maneuvered them out into the current to take them downstream.
Jacob. Jacob can you hear me.
His young eyes widened as he heard the familiar voice. It couldn’t be. How could he hear his mother? She w
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🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
30 min
Ep
92
Ep.92 – Hunter Black - Writing Becomes a BLOODY REALITY!
Episode
|
38 min
|
Jul 14, 2021
Episode Notes
A brand new typewriter gives an author a new creative lease on life, especially as his creations start to become a reality. A terrible violent, blood soaked reality!
Hunter Black by Rob Fields
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Simon Griffin sat in his bedroom and typed away. When he finished his current page, he pulled it out of the typewriter and loaded a new sheet. When he resumed typing, he could feel a presence near him.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Even through his typing, he could see his mom taking his plate and his empty glass. She replaced the empty glass with a full one. “Still hard at work, I see.”
Simon stopped typing. “Mom, I’m this close to being done with my latest novel. Once I’m finished, I’ll be ready to send it out. Just a few more chapters to go.”
She smiled a little. “I’m surprised that you’re still using that beat-up, old typewriter. It belonged to your grandfather, you know.” She paused. “Really, Simon, you’d save a lot of time if you would just use the word processor that came with your computer.”
Simon smiled a little himself. “Mom, I know you mean well. But Grandpa did all of his writing using this very typewriter right here. He never caved in to modern technology. He used to say there were some things you just can’t replace, no matter how much better it is. Take the compact disc. Remember how the music industry tried to replace vinyl records with it? It never did because people knew! You just can’t beat the sound quality that comes on records. That’s how it is with a typewriter. I just want to be the same writer that Grandpa was, that’s all.”
“And you are, honey,” she complimented. “You’ve already published nine Hunter Black books. To be honest, I’m surprised that Sunset Press over in Erie City actually takes your paper submissions.”
“Well, that’s where Grandpa got his stories published,” Simon pointed out. “I decided to go with them since they treated him really good. And now, they’re treating me really good.”
“They sure are.” His mom reached out and patted his shoulder. “Okay, I won’t bother you anymore about using a word processor. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be done soon.”
His mom left his room. Then he resumed typing. His latest novel was actually the next in a science fiction series which dealt with a villainous character from the year 2250 in the form of Hunter Black, a hitman for hire. Black was both the central character and the antagonist at the same time. Whenever the criminal underworld had a job that required his skills, they would pay his fee. From there, he would get the job done. Aside from a recurring female character named Felicity Scorne, no one crossed him – and lived.
The next morning, Simon walked into Strickfield High School. As always, he wore dark trousers, a pressed shirt, a vest, a red bowtie, loafers, and glasses. This was the very same fashion that his grandfather wore back in his day. Whether it was just the love and dedication that he felt towards his late grandfather or his stubbornness, wearing these cloths may have been all right during his grandfather’s day. However, in these current times . . .
As Simon passed by a group of jocks and their girlfriends, he knew that it was going to be the same thing that happened every morning.
Dana Shackleton pointed right at him. “Hey, look who’s back! It’s Orville Redenbacher!” Then she called out to Simon, “Hey, Orville, shouldn’t you be at the movie theater?”
Her boyfriend, Nathan Coaver, sneered at him. “Yeah, fuckstick! This ain’t 1955. Get with the times.”
As always, Simon tried to ignore them. While only a select few knew that he was a published writer and was financially independent, the rest of the school population didn’t. Not when he used a pen name. As far as the rest of his classmates were concerned, Simon Griffin was nothing but a nerdy loser.
Suddenly, Simon was brought out of his thoughts when he felt himself being lifted off his feet by two of the jocks. The next thing he knew, he was being turned and taken into a nearby restroom. Simon squirmed, but he only weighed around a hundred-and-ten pounds – if that! Then he heard the click of the restroom door’s lock and knew that he was in trouble.
“This one looks good,” Dana told the jocks.
Simon struggled harder but to no avail. He couldn’t do anything as he was lowered to his knees, only to have his head shoved into the cold water of the toilet. He was held under for a bit before the flushing came. The only thing he could hear over all else was Dana Shackleton and the other girls laughing scornfully at him.
After school, Simon was in his room. His best friend and next-door neighbor, Connie Graves, was there with him.
“Every day, Connie,” Simon complained. “Every day they always have to give me a hard time.” He told her about the restroom incident earlier that morning.
Connie sighed apologetically. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t go to school with you today. I had to be there real early to help put the school paper together.” Whenever Connie and Simon went to school together, the bullies never laid a hand on Simon. They still taunted him, however.
Simon pointed at her. “And that’s another thing, those meatheads are always giving me a hard time. They say I need you to fight my battles for me.” He looked down now. “Not that I don’t appreciate you helping me. I do. I really do.” He sighed. “Listen, I don’t blame you if you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”
Connie put her hand on his chin and raised his head up. “Hey! Don’t you ever say that again. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. We swore we would always be friends. We’ve always kept that promise. Now enough of that shit talk.”
The two of them shared a hug. Then Simon wanted to be alone, mostly so he could finish his novel. He had tried to finish it the night before but hit a stumbling block with the ending. Connie said goodbye and left. Now it was time for Simon to write the final chapters in which Hunter Black would face Detective Richard Hartman, who had come up against Black once before and barely survived with his life. This would be the final conflict. Simon loaded the paper into the typewriter and began to type away.
And then . . . disaster struck!
“What?! No! No way!” Simon cried.
Much to Simon’s disbelief, the typewriter’s element had fallen off. He picked it up and saw that there was no way that he would just be able to get a new element and repair it. No, the old typewriter had finally had it. Now he had three choices: One, find a place that would repair typewriters. Two, buy a new typewriter altogether. Three, finally break down and start using the word processor on his computer. His deadline was coming up, and he needed to finish his novel. However, he had too much pride to resort to modern technology. He would never use a modern word processor if he had anything to say about it. He was an old-school writer, just like his grandfather.
He decided to go out and see if he could pick up a new typewriter. He had a few ideas of where he might find one in downtown Strickfield. After calling Connie, the two of them got on their bicycles and began riding.
Simon and Connie checked out a few antique shops and even the local department store, but there were no typewriters available. They even checked out their local thrift store, but to no avail. They had nearly exhausted all of Simon’s possibilities in Strickfield. He really didn’t want to use a word processor, nor did he want an electric typewriter. He needed an old-school one. There was just something about the feel of it. Then Connie suggested trying Strickfield Plaza as a last resort. It would be a couple of miles out of the way, but it was worth a try.
Simon and Connie pulled into the parking lot of Strickfield Plaza, which was located on the south end of the village. As they chained up their bikes, Simon looked at the nearly-empty parking lot and took an exasperated breath. He remembered that his grandfather had told him how this giant plaza, and the mall north of the village, would never succeed in Strickfield. Grandpa was proven right, of course. Both the plaza and the mall were full of life and had many of the big-name stores for at least the first year. Then, one by one, the stores were leaving. People just weren’t shopping at either place. No, people were too attached to shopping in downtown Strickfield and the many vintage local businesses there. Now, there were only a few select big-name anchor stores left in both places, along with some mom-and-pop stores. Still, what did Simon have to lose?
The two of them knew that Staples was still open. After having no luck there, they got back on their bikes. They were almost to the road when Connie saw the one lone store further down the strip, which was called Tinker’s. “Let’s check down there, Simon.”
They rode to the store, parked their bikes, and went in. Tinker’s was full of seemingly old odds and ends. Simon looked around to see if – YES!! There it was! He quickly moved to the old typewriter sitting there on the shelf. It looked just as ancient as his grandfather’s old typewriter.
“I can’t believe they actually have one of these old typewriters here,” Connie said.
“This old typewriter is rather
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
A brand new typewriter gives an author a new creative lease on life, especially as his creations start to become a reality. A terrible violent, blood soaked reality!
Hunter Black by Rob Fields
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Simon Griffin sat in his bedroom and typed away. When he finished his current page, he pulled it out of the typewriter and loaded a new sheet. When he resumed typing, he could feel a presence near him.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Even through his typing, he could see his mom taking his plate and his empty glass. She replaced the empty glass with a full one. “Still hard at work, I see.”
Simon stopped typing. “Mom, I’m this close to being done with my latest novel. Once I’m finished, I’ll be ready to send it out. Just a few more chapters to go.”
She smiled a little. “I’m surprised that you’re still using that beat-up, old typewriter. It belonged to your grandfather, you know.” She paused. “Really, Simon, you’d save a lot of time if you would just use the word processor that came with your computer.”
Simon smiled a little himself. “Mom, I know you mean well. But Grandpa did all of his writing using this very typewriter right here. He never caved in to modern technology. He used to say there were some things you just can’t replace, no matter how much better it is. Take the compact disc. Remember how the music industry tried to replace vinyl records with it? It never did because people knew! You just can’t beat the sound quality that comes on records. That’s how it is with a typewriter. I just want to be the same writer that Grandpa was, that’s all.”
“And you are, honey,” she complimented. “You’ve already published nine Hunter Black books. To be honest, I’m surprised that Sunset Press over in Erie City actually takes your paper submissions.”
“Well, that’s where Grandpa got his stories published,” Simon pointed out. “I decided to go with them since they treated him really good. And now, they’re treating me really good.”
“They sure are.” His mom reached out and patted his shoulder. “Okay, I won’t bother you anymore about using a word processor. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be done soon.”
His mom left his room. Then he resumed typing. His latest novel was actually the next in a science fiction series which dealt with a villainous character from the year 2250 in the form of Hunter Black, a hitman for hire. Black was both the central character and the antagonist at the same time. Whenever the criminal underworld had a job that required his skills, they would pay his fee. From there, he would get the job done. Aside from a recurring female character named Felicity Scorne, no one crossed him – and lived.
The next morning, Simon walked into Strickfield High School. As always, he wore dark trousers, a pressed shirt, a vest, a red bowtie, loafers, and glasses. This was the very same fashion that his grandfather wore back in his day. Whether it was just the love and dedication that he felt towards his late grandfather or his stubbornness, wearing these cloths may have been all right during his grandfather’s day. However, in these current times . . .
As Simon passed by a group of jocks and their girlfriends, he knew that it was going to be the same thing that happened every morning.
Dana Shackleton pointed right at him. “Hey, look who’s back! It’s Orville Redenbacher!” Then she called out to Simon, “Hey, Orville, shouldn’t you be at the movie theater?”
Her boyfriend, Nathan Coaver, sneered at him. “Yeah, fuckstick! This ain’t 1955. Get with the times.”
As always, Simon tried to ignore them. While only a select few knew that he was a published writer and was financially independent, the rest of the school population didn’t. Not when he used a pen name. As far as the rest of his classmates were concerned, Simon Griffin was nothing but a nerdy loser.
Suddenly, Simon was brought out of his thoughts when he felt himself being lifted off his feet by two of the jocks. The next thing he knew, he was being turned and taken into a nearby restroom. Simon squirmed, but he only weighed around a hundred-and-ten pounds – if that! Then he heard the click of the restroom door’s lock and knew that he was in trouble.
“This one looks good,” Dana told the jocks.
Simon struggled harder but to no avail. He couldn’t do anything as he was lowered to his knees, only to have his head shoved into the cold water of the toilet. He was held under for a bit before the flushing came. The only thing he could hear over all else was Dana Shackleton and the other girls laughing scornfully at him.
After school, Simon was in his room. His best friend and next-door neighbor, Connie Graves, was there with him.
“Every day, Connie,” Simon complained. “Every day they always have to give me a hard time.” He told her about the restroom incident earlier that morning.
Connie sighed apologetically. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t go to school with you today. I had to be there real early to help put the school paper together.” Whenever Connie and Simon went to school together, the bullies never laid a hand on Simon. They still taunted him, however.
Simon pointed at her. “And that’s another thing, those meatheads are always giving me a hard time. They say I need you to fight my battles for me.” He looked down now. “Not that I don’t appreciate you helping me. I do. I really do.” He sighed. “Listen, I don’t blame you if you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”
Connie put her hand on his chin and raised his head up. “Hey! Don’t you ever say that again. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. We swore we would always be friends. We’ve always kept that promise. Now enough of that shit talk.”
The two of them shared a hug. Then Simon wanted to be alone, mostly so he could finish his novel. He had tried to finish it the night before but hit a stumbling block with the ending. Connie said goodbye and left. Now it was time for Simon to write the final chapters in which Hunter Black would face Detective Richard Hartman, who had come up against Black once before and barely survived with his life. This would be the final conflict. Simon loaded the paper into the typewriter and began to type away.
And then . . . disaster struck!
“What?! No! No way!” Simon cried.
Much to Simon’s disbelief, the typewriter’s element had fallen off. He picked it up and saw that there was no way that he would just be able to get a new element and repair it. No, the old typewriter had finally had it. Now he had three choices: One, find a place that would repair typewriters. Two, buy a new typewriter altogether. Three, finally break down and start using the word processor on his computer. His deadline was coming up, and he needed to finish his novel. However, he had too much pride to resort to modern technology. He would never use a modern word processor if he had anything to say about it. He was an old-school writer, just like his grandfather.
He decided to go out and see if he could pick up a new typewriter. He had a few ideas of where he might find one in downtown Strickfield. After calling Connie, the two of them got on their bicycles and began riding.
Simon and Connie checked out a few antique shops and even the local department store, but there were no typewriters available. They even checked out their local thrift store, but to no avail. They had nearly exhausted all of Simon’s possibilities in Strickfield. He really didn’t want to use a word processor, nor did he want an electric typewriter. He needed an old-school one. There was just something about the feel of it. Then Connie suggested trying Strickfield Plaza as a last resort. It would be a couple of miles out of the way, but it was worth a try.
Simon and Connie pulled into the parking lot of Strickfield Plaza, which was located on the south end of the village. As they chained up their bikes, Simon looked at the nearly-empty parking lot and took an exasperated breath. He remembered that his grandfather had told him how this giant plaza, and the mall north of the village, would never succeed in Strickfield. Grandpa was proven right, of course. Both the plaza and the mall were full of life and had many of the big-name stores for at least the first year. Then, one by one, the stores were leaving. People just weren’t shopping at either place. No, people were too attached to shopping in downtown Strickfield and the many vintage local businesses there. Now, there were only a few select big-name anchor stores left in both places, along with some mom-and-pop stores. Still, what did Simon have to lose?
The two of them knew that Staples was still open. After having no luck there, they got back on their bikes. They were almost to the road when Connie saw the one lone store further down the strip, which was called Tinker’s. “Let’s check down there, Simon.”
They rode to the store, parked their bikes, and went in. Tinker’s was full of seemingly old odds and ends. Simon looked around to see if – YES!! There it was! He quickly moved to the old typewriter sitting there on the shelf. It looked just as ancient as his grandfather’s old typewriter.
“I can’t believe they actually have one of these old typewriters here,” Connie said.
“This old typewriter is rather
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
38 min
Ep
91
Ep.91 – Camp Dead and Buried - This Summer is Hot and DEADLY
Episode
|
30 min
|
Jul 7, 2021
Episode Notes
It was the last night of the 1980 season at a run-down old summer camp, and the hottest night in Indiana history. So hot that somebody might lose their mind, and not every counselor will survive the night!
Camp Dead and Buried by John Oak Dalton
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
It was the last night of the 1980 season at a run-down old summer camp, and the hottest night in Indiana history. So hot that somebody might lose their mind, and not every counselor will survive the night!
Camp Dead and Buried by John Oak Dalton
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
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Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
30 min
Ep
90
Ep.90 – The Beast of Roca de Vaca - Chupacabra is Hungry!
Episode
|
27 min
|
Jun 30, 2021
Episode Notes
Roca de Voca has something loose on it's grounds, it's hungry and it's smart enough to find where you sleep...
The Beast of Roca de Vaca by Morgan Moore
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
Roca de Voca has something loose on it's grounds, it's hungry and it's smart enough to find where you sleep...
The Beast of Roca de Vaca by Morgan Moore
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
27 min
Ep
89
Ep.89 – Bed and Breakfast and Zombies - A Nightmare Vacation!
Episode
|
30 min
|
Jun 23, 2021
Episode Notes
Summer vacations can really bite, but this trip takes it to an entirely new level!
Bed and Breakfast and Zombies by Keith Tomlin
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Jake sighed loudly as he stared out the second-story window of the bed and breakfast that he and his father had been staying at for the last few days.
‘This sucks,’ he thought, ‘I should have gone to grandpa’s with mom.’
His family was on a rare vacation, taking a trip from Chicago to New York City to visit his mom’s parents. It was the four of them, Jake, his little sister, Sarah, his father, Edward, and his mother, Karen, all jammed into a 12-year-old Volvo wagon.
Jake remembered when his father, during breakfast a few days ago, could barely contain his excitement. “Kids, I was looking over my papers last night,” he said, pointing to a huge stack of papers that he poured over every moment that he wasn’t driving, “and I found something exciting!” He looked wide-eyed at both of his children. Sara was using all of her concentration to draw on a coloring page that doubled as the kid’s menu so Edward focused on his 11-year-old son. “Jake, how would you like to look for some witches!”
Jake was swept away with his dad’s excitement. They dropped the others off at his grandfather’s house and jumped back on the road to a small town in New York called Stones Creek. Jake wondered what they needed to hunt witches. Do we need garlic or maybe silver bullets? What Jake didn’t know, and soon found out, was the only things they needed was the local library and long walks in an old graveyard across the street from the Grinning Cat Inn, the bed and breakfast at which they would be staying.
Jake was bored. He sighed, louder this time.
“I heard you the first time.”, his dad said, without looking up from the papers he copied from the library. When he finished the page, he finally looked at Jake, removing his unlit pipe from his mouth and pointed at Jake with it.
“Why don’t you go outside and play?” he said, gesturing to the door with his pipe.
“But, dad, I’m bored… ” Jake said, his shoulders slumping forward.
“Look, once I get through these pages, we can take a walk. You can either go outside and play until then or sit there quietly and read a book.” His dad gave him one last stern look before turning his attention back to his stack of papers.
‘Read a book?’ Jake thought. ‘Why is it always books with him?’
Jake didn’t want books, he wanted fun and adventure. Suppressing another sigh, he turned his attention back to the window. He was surprised to see a car on the road. He had only seen one other car all day. He was even more surprised, and excited, to see that car start to slow down.
“Dad, dad, dad,” Jake said quickly, as he had always done when he grew excited. “There is a car turning into the parking lot.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” his dad mumbled.
Jake watched intently as the car glided to a stop in front of the inn. The driver, a huge, bulky man, got out and opened the rear door. A well-dressed man stepped out of the backseat of the car, quickly followed by a young boy who looked around Jake’s age.
“Dad, dad, dad, dad…” Jake said getting louder with each word. “They have a kid. Can I go down and meet him? Come on, dad… Can I?” Jack started jumping back and forth from one foot to the other.
“Okay, hang on,” his dad said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I guess I’m done here for now. I don’t want you scaring the poor child with your… enthusiasm.” Edward set the stack of papers aside, “Let’s go downstairs and greet the new arrivals.”
The door to the Grinning Cat Inn flew open and the large man entered. He scanned the room before stepping aside, allowing the well-dressed man to enter. The reception room was lined with cedar panels and had a counter that ran along one wall. A large staircase, leading up, was right across from the front door. Two other doorways lead to a dining room and a large den with a roaring fire in the fireplace. Upon hearing the door, the owner of the inn, Mr. Jarvison, a tall, thin elderly man, moved to the counter.
Good evening, how may I help you?” asked Mr. Jarvison.
The well-dressed man walked over to the counter and, with a thick Slavic accent, said “I am Count Dmitry Romanova, I have reservation for two rooms.”
“Yes, of course, your rooms are ready, mister… How should I address you?” Mr. Jarvison’s asked.
“Please, you may call me Count Romanova,” said the Count. “The title is largely symbolic at this point but,” he shrugged, “we do have our protocols.”
“Yes, sir, I will show you to your rooms,” Mr. Jarvison said, half bowing.
Count Romanova waved him off. “Ivan, my…. manservant, will look to the rooms and luggage. I wish to relax by the fire,” he said, pointing towards the den. He then looked at Ivan, who nodded and gestured at Mr. Jarvison to lead the way up the stairs.
The Count turned towards the door and called out, “Come, Nikolai, let’s rest before dinner.” A small-framed child, around ten years old, entered the inn. He silently followed his father into the den.
Edward and Jake had to press themselves against the wall to allow Ivan to pass them on the stairway. Jake stared at the large man, shocked at the sheer size of him. Ivan stopped and turned, glaring at Jake, who quickly turned and ran to catch up with his father.
Twenty minutes later, Jake was standing outside with Nikolai, trying to find a way to end the awkward silence that hung over them. It took his dad a few minutes to convince the Count to allow his son outside to play and now Jake was wishing that his father had failed.
“So, uh…” Jake said. “Do you like to play ball?”
“Sorry, I do not know this game, ball,” Nikolai replied, in broken English.
“No, ball is not a game… Well, it’s part of a game,” Jake thought that over for a few seconds. “Never mind, do you want to play… hide and seek?” Jake said, hopefully.
“Hide and seek? What do we hide?” Nikolai asked.
“No,” Jake said, frustrated, “You go hide and I try to find you.”
Nikolai asked, “We are to be friends, correct?”
Jake nodded.
“Then why would I hide from you?” Nikolai asked. “Friends should trust each other and not need to hide.”
“Huh, I never thought of it that way,” Jake said. “Okay, well... uh… we could…” Jake was stumped. He racked his brain for something to do and his face lit up when he finally thought of something that no kid could resist.
“Do you want to see something scary?” Jake teased, with a big grin.
The young foreign boy nodded slowly.
Edward leaned forward on the overstuffed chair, tapping his pipe on the stone of the fireplace and sweeping the ashes into the fire.
“What brings you to this little corner of nowhere, Count?” Edward asked, leaning back and refilling his pipe. He looked apologetically at Mr. Jarvison, “Sorry, no offense.”
“None taken, this is a small town, very small,” Mr. Jarvison agreed.
The Count took another puff on his cigar and slowly let the smoke escape his mouth, “I came to America on a diplomatic trip but I wanted to take some time to visit relatives.”
Mr. Jarvison sat up, beaming, “You have relations living here?”
Count Romanova slowly shook his head, “Living? No, sorry, I used the wrong word. I have… ” he waved his hand in the air causing ash to fall onto the arm of his chair, “ancestors here, in cemetery.” He pointed toward the graveyard.
Jake led Nikolai across the street and into the old graveyard. They walked through the old gravestones, many of which were so weathered that you couldn’t read the words engraved upon them. Jake spent many hours here the last few days walking the overgrown paths between the graves with his father. This place held little interest for Jake except for an ancient crypt that they were now approaching. It was a small stone building with vines growing up the walls towards the tiled roof. The most striking feature of this building was that along each wall there were a pair of statues that looked like they were emerging out of the stone surface. Each statue was of a creature with a bald head, pointy ears, and a mouth with razor-sharp teeth. His dad said they were ghouls, undead creatures that feast on the flesh of the living.
“What do you think?” Jake asked as they approached the crypt. He snuck a sideways glance, hoping to have scared the other boy but, instead, he looked amazed. The smaller boy slowly walked around the building, admiring each statue in turn. He then walked along each wall, running his hand along the stone surface as he went.
Nikolai turned to Jake and asked, “Where is the door?”
“Yeah, my dad wondered the same thing, weird, huh?” Jake replied.
Nikolai continued to walk around the building, examining each wall as he went. He finally stopped and waved at Jake, pointing at a brick in the wall. Jake walked over and bent close to discover that there were drawings etched into this brick, drawings his dad would have called runes. The more he looked, the more they seemed to shimmer. He began tracing them with his finger and he swore he felt them start to grow hot.
Jake took a step back to ask Nikolai if he had spotted any other bricks lik
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
Summer vacations can really bite, but this trip takes it to an entirely new level!
Bed and Breakfast and Zombies by Keith Tomlin
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Jake sighed loudly as he stared out the second-story window of the bed and breakfast that he and his father had been staying at for the last few days.
‘This sucks,’ he thought, ‘I should have gone to grandpa’s with mom.’
His family was on a rare vacation, taking a trip from Chicago to New York City to visit his mom’s parents. It was the four of them, Jake, his little sister, Sarah, his father, Edward, and his mother, Karen, all jammed into a 12-year-old Volvo wagon.
Jake remembered when his father, during breakfast a few days ago, could barely contain his excitement. “Kids, I was looking over my papers last night,” he said, pointing to a huge stack of papers that he poured over every moment that he wasn’t driving, “and I found something exciting!” He looked wide-eyed at both of his children. Sara was using all of her concentration to draw on a coloring page that doubled as the kid’s menu so Edward focused on his 11-year-old son. “Jake, how would you like to look for some witches!”
Jake was swept away with his dad’s excitement. They dropped the others off at his grandfather’s house and jumped back on the road to a small town in New York called Stones Creek. Jake wondered what they needed to hunt witches. Do we need garlic or maybe silver bullets? What Jake didn’t know, and soon found out, was the only things they needed was the local library and long walks in an old graveyard across the street from the Grinning Cat Inn, the bed and breakfast at which they would be staying.
Jake was bored. He sighed, louder this time.
“I heard you the first time.”, his dad said, without looking up from the papers he copied from the library. When he finished the page, he finally looked at Jake, removing his unlit pipe from his mouth and pointed at Jake with it.
“Why don’t you go outside and play?” he said, gesturing to the door with his pipe.
“But, dad, I’m bored… ” Jake said, his shoulders slumping forward.
“Look, once I get through these pages, we can take a walk. You can either go outside and play until then or sit there quietly and read a book.” His dad gave him one last stern look before turning his attention back to his stack of papers.
‘Read a book?’ Jake thought. ‘Why is it always books with him?’
Jake didn’t want books, he wanted fun and adventure. Suppressing another sigh, he turned his attention back to the window. He was surprised to see a car on the road. He had only seen one other car all day. He was even more surprised, and excited, to see that car start to slow down.
“Dad, dad, dad,” Jake said quickly, as he had always done when he grew excited. “There is a car turning into the parking lot.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” his dad mumbled.
Jake watched intently as the car glided to a stop in front of the inn. The driver, a huge, bulky man, got out and opened the rear door. A well-dressed man stepped out of the backseat of the car, quickly followed by a young boy who looked around Jake’s age.
“Dad, dad, dad, dad…” Jake said getting louder with each word. “They have a kid. Can I go down and meet him? Come on, dad… Can I?” Jack started jumping back and forth from one foot to the other.
“Okay, hang on,” his dad said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I guess I’m done here for now. I don’t want you scaring the poor child with your… enthusiasm.” Edward set the stack of papers aside, “Let’s go downstairs and greet the new arrivals.”
The door to the Grinning Cat Inn flew open and the large man entered. He scanned the room before stepping aside, allowing the well-dressed man to enter. The reception room was lined with cedar panels and had a counter that ran along one wall. A large staircase, leading up, was right across from the front door. Two other doorways lead to a dining room and a large den with a roaring fire in the fireplace. Upon hearing the door, the owner of the inn, Mr. Jarvison, a tall, thin elderly man, moved to the counter.
Good evening, how may I help you?” asked Mr. Jarvison.
The well-dressed man walked over to the counter and, with a thick Slavic accent, said “I am Count Dmitry Romanova, I have reservation for two rooms.”
“Yes, of course, your rooms are ready, mister… How should I address you?” Mr. Jarvison’s asked.
“Please, you may call me Count Romanova,” said the Count. “The title is largely symbolic at this point but,” he shrugged, “we do have our protocols.”
“Yes, sir, I will show you to your rooms,” Mr. Jarvison said, half bowing.
Count Romanova waved him off. “Ivan, my…. manservant, will look to the rooms and luggage. I wish to relax by the fire,” he said, pointing towards the den. He then looked at Ivan, who nodded and gestured at Mr. Jarvison to lead the way up the stairs.
The Count turned towards the door and called out, “Come, Nikolai, let’s rest before dinner.” A small-framed child, around ten years old, entered the inn. He silently followed his father into the den.
Edward and Jake had to press themselves against the wall to allow Ivan to pass them on the stairway. Jake stared at the large man, shocked at the sheer size of him. Ivan stopped and turned, glaring at Jake, who quickly turned and ran to catch up with his father.
Twenty minutes later, Jake was standing outside with Nikolai, trying to find a way to end the awkward silence that hung over them. It took his dad a few minutes to convince the Count to allow his son outside to play and now Jake was wishing that his father had failed.
“So, uh…” Jake said. “Do you like to play ball?”
“Sorry, I do not know this game, ball,” Nikolai replied, in broken English.
“No, ball is not a game… Well, it’s part of a game,” Jake thought that over for a few seconds. “Never mind, do you want to play… hide and seek?” Jake said, hopefully.
“Hide and seek? What do we hide?” Nikolai asked.
“No,” Jake said, frustrated, “You go hide and I try to find you.”
Nikolai asked, “We are to be friends, correct?”
Jake nodded.
“Then why would I hide from you?” Nikolai asked. “Friends should trust each other and not need to hide.”
“Huh, I never thought of it that way,” Jake said. “Okay, well... uh… we could…” Jake was stumped. He racked his brain for something to do and his face lit up when he finally thought of something that no kid could resist.
“Do you want to see something scary?” Jake teased, with a big grin.
The young foreign boy nodded slowly.
Edward leaned forward on the overstuffed chair, tapping his pipe on the stone of the fireplace and sweeping the ashes into the fire.
“What brings you to this little corner of nowhere, Count?” Edward asked, leaning back and refilling his pipe. He looked apologetically at Mr. Jarvison, “Sorry, no offense.”
“None taken, this is a small town, very small,” Mr. Jarvison agreed.
The Count took another puff on his cigar and slowly let the smoke escape his mouth, “I came to America on a diplomatic trip but I wanted to take some time to visit relatives.”
Mr. Jarvison sat up, beaming, “You have relations living here?”
Count Romanova slowly shook his head, “Living? No, sorry, I used the wrong word. I have… ” he waved his hand in the air causing ash to fall onto the arm of his chair, “ancestors here, in cemetery.” He pointed toward the graveyard.
Jake led Nikolai across the street and into the old graveyard. They walked through the old gravestones, many of which were so weathered that you couldn’t read the words engraved upon them. Jake spent many hours here the last few days walking the overgrown paths between the graves with his father. This place held little interest for Jake except for an ancient crypt that they were now approaching. It was a small stone building with vines growing up the walls towards the tiled roof. The most striking feature of this building was that along each wall there were a pair of statues that looked like they were emerging out of the stone surface. Each statue was of a creature with a bald head, pointy ears, and a mouth with razor-sharp teeth. His dad said they were ghouls, undead creatures that feast on the flesh of the living.
“What do you think?” Jake asked as they approached the crypt. He snuck a sideways glance, hoping to have scared the other boy but, instead, he looked amazed. The smaller boy slowly walked around the building, admiring each statue in turn. He then walked along each wall, running his hand along the stone surface as he went.
Nikolai turned to Jake and asked, “Where is the door?”
“Yeah, my dad wondered the same thing, weird, huh?” Jake replied.
Nikolai continued to walk around the building, examining each wall as he went. He finally stopped and waved at Jake, pointing at a brick in the wall. Jake walked over and bent close to discover that there were drawings etched into this brick, drawings his dad would have called runes. The more he looked, the more they seemed to shimmer. He began tracing them with his finger and he swore he felt them start to grow hot.
Jake took a step back to ask Nikolai if he had spotted any other bricks lik
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
30 min
Ep
88
Ep.88 – Dead Ahead - All Roads Lead to DEATH and REVENGE
Episode
|
25 min
|
Jun 16, 2021
Horror story podcast fans—this one is roadside terror with a mean streak. After a late-night drive turns into a catastrophic hit-and-run accident, Becca and her boyfriend Tom drag their secret off the highway and into the dark pines—shovel, flashlight, and panic doing the talking. But guilt doesn’t stay buried… and neither does the dead.
When Tom’s cruelty pushes Becca past the breaking point, she turns to occult magic—a dangerous revenant ritualmeant to right a wrong and quiet her conscience. Instead, it drags something back with a mission… and it doesn’t care who’s “really” to blame.
Supernatural revenge, undead horror, and a brutal reckoning collide in a story about toxic love, control, and what happens when you try to fix a nightmare with a spell.
Dead Ahead — by Joe Solmo
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
When Tom’s cruelty pushes Becca past the breaking point, she turns to occult magic—a dangerous revenant ritualmeant to right a wrong and quiet her conscience. Instead, it drags something back with a mission… and it doesn’t care who’s “really” to blame.
Supernatural revenge, undead horror, and a brutal reckoning collide in a story about toxic love, control, and what happens when you try to fix a nightmare with a spell.
Dead Ahead — by Joe Solmo
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
25 min
Ep
87
Ep.87 – Summer Slaycation! - What's on the Other Side of the Lake?!
Episode
|
30 min
|
Jun 9, 2021
Episode Notes
Something is going on on the other side of the lake from camp, and whatever it is it seems to be hungry for children...
Summer Slaycation by David O'Hanlon
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
Something is going on on the other side of the lake from camp, and whatever it is it seems to be hungry for children...
Summer Slaycation by David O'Hanlon
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Support Weekly Spooky - Scary Stories to Chill You! by contributing to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Find out more at http://weeklyspooky.com
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
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- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
30 min
Ep
86
Ep.86 – Catalyst - A KILLER is Born!
Episode
|
39 min
|
Jun 2, 2021
Episode Notes
The so called "Angel of Death" has been killing lots of criminals in Strickfield, but how did she start and who can possibly catch her?!
Catalyst by Rob Fields
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Drake Kazmierczak had been on the road for a few hours. He had packed up and left his job as a detective at the Erie City Police Department. He was on his way to Strickfield to take an opening for a detective within their police department. Although Drake’s uncle, Jeffrey, was the chief of police, he didn’t actually take the job to be closer to his uncle – and Drake was very close to Uncle Jeffrey. No, he had a pretty good idea that a certain Angel of Death was currently residing in Strickfield; his months of research had told him that it was a good eighty-seven percent certainty.
Drake tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he wondered how many guilty people the Angel of Death had taken. He knew it was many hundreds! It angered Drake every time the Angel of Death made the news. However, it never really got to him until the day he picked up a copy of the North Ridgeway Press and read about how the Angel of Death had claimed Annie Judge.
Drake had known that Annie Judge was not a perfect woman by any stretch, but Annie was the love of his life. The two of them had shared so much in the many years that they were together. He came to know that Annie was carefree and uninhibited, qualities that he loved about her. However, when Drake had accepted his badge, he had accepted the law. It was this, along with what he had discovered about Annie’s darker tastes that would permanently drive a wedge between the two of them.
And then he recalled the events that he had read about in the newspaper . . .
Four Years Ago
Raigen Devereux walked into North Ridgeway High School. She walked into first period and took her usual seat.
“Hey, Raige, you gonna show us your tits after we win the game tonight?” Jagger Nelson called out to her.
Raigen turned to see the sneers of Jagger and the other football players. She responded by raising her middle finger. “You can’t even catch a football, Jagger. What makes you think you can handle my tits?” The other girls in the class cheered for this witty cheerleader.
Just then, Raigen turned and gave her full attention to Annie Judge as she entered the classroom. She had been teaching many of the A.P. math subjects for the last several years. She almost always wore the same outfits: a blouse, a long skirt or pants, and loafers. Her face was a perfect oval with long blond hair and blue eyes. She always wore blush and matching lipstick. It was easy to see why guys appreciated her, even at thirty-six years old.
Raigen came to know that she made damn good money, not referring to just her teacher’s salary. Raigen knew that Annie had a second life as a self-employed prostitute and drug pusher. But she didn’t go to other cities to sell her body. No, she sold her body to students at North Ridgeway High School, ones who could afford to pay her prices for fucking them, or students she desired to prey upon – legal age or not.
Raigen came to know this information for two reasons. One, Miss Judge lived two blocks down the street from Raigen. Two, a month ago, Raigen saw a police car parked in Annie’s driveway, flashers on. Raigen couldn’t listen to the conversation, but her mother was a detective on the police force and was there that night. Raigen’s mother usually told her about what was going on in the privacy of their home, because she knew her daughter always kept her mouth shut. Raigen learned about the anonymous tip about the drug activity that was taking place at Annie Judge’s house. Nothing was found, however, in spite of the search warrant. It seemed that Annie Judge was always steps ahead of the police.
Two weeks later, Raigen was out walking and had seen a police car at Annie Judge’s house again. Again, Raigen’s mother was on the scene. Raigen would later learn that Michelle Bailey, at fellow student at her high school, had recently gone missing. After Raigen’s mother had questioned several students, a few of them said Miss Judge__ was the last one to talk to her. In fact, the two of them seemed to be really close by the end of the last school year. It was then Raigen’s mother had told her that Michelle’s parents had filed a missing person’s report that Annie Judge would become Raigen’s top priority.
Raigen’s mother had told her about the last night that Michelle Bailey was seen. It was at Skate World where Raigen’s mother had been told Michelle was picked up by a woman matching Annie Judge’s description, in a green Ford Fusion. Raigen knew that Miss Judge had such a car.
Since Raigen had access to her mother’s computer, she was able to look into Annie Judge’s record, but she found no priors. Raigen knew that the police couldn’t keep detail on Miss Judge, because who was to say that she might not file a harassment lawsuit against them. No, Raigen would have to take matters into her own hands.
This was a job for the Angel of Death!
The next afternoon, Annie Judge opened her front door to a nice surprise. “Raigen Devereux? What brings you to my home?”
Raigen faked a smile and held up a printout. “This is my school schedule. You’re going to be my math teacher again – Calculus. I wanted to ask you some questions about the class, but I obviously came at a bad time.”
Annie wore a white bikini that left very little to the imagination. She didn’t have a pool out back but looked a little wet from both sweat and suntan lotion. Raigen wore a blue tank-top with thin shoulder straps, white short shorts with a leather belt, and sandals.
Raigen expected Annie to just politely dismiss her, but she stepped aside and motioned for her to come in. After closing the door, she turned to Raigen. “What can I help you with?”
Raigen reached into her purse and came up with a second printout and a calculator. “It says here that you’re requiring a mathematical calculator. Are you sure this calculator won’t be okay for Calculus?”
As Annie took her calculator, Raigen noticed that she was checking her out – especially her endowed upper body. Then she pointed to the sheet. “These are graphing calculators. Yours is a scientific calculator. In Calculus, you’re required to present graphs to show your work.”
“Okay, I’ll go to Office Depot and buy one.”
As Annie handed Raigen back her calculator, she took hold of her left hand and held it. She finished by folding Raigen’s fingers over the calculator, caressing them as she did.
“You’re a very bright student, Raigen.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure,” Raigen replied. “Ice water, please.”
Annie led Raigen to the kitchen, which had many top-of-the-line appliances.
“I was about have some iced tea,” she said.
“Well, I’d hate to impose . . .”
“It’s not imposing if I’m offering.”
“Okay.”
Annie pulled two glasses out of her cupboard. She opened the refrigerator and bent down to retrieve the iced tea, making sure Raigen saw her almost-naked rear. She stood up straight and closed the refrigerator. Annie poured the tea and handed Raigen a glass. Raigen waited until Annie drank first, which she did. Raigen tasted the sweetened black tea with a hint of lemon. Annie motioned for Raigen to come into the living room. They sat down on the couch.
Raigen drank her tea. “You have a really nice house, Miss Judge. You also have a very nice tan.”
Annie stood up. “I want show you something.”
Raigen put her glass down, got up, and followed Annie into the hallway. When they stopped, Annie gestured to an open doorway. Raigen looked inside to see a tanning bed.
“I can tan all I want, and it pays for itself.” Annie took Raigen’s hand. “Come on.”
Raigen was given a tour of the house. The more she saw, the more she knew that there was no way Annie could afford everything on her teacher’s salary alone. Raigen’s mother made better money as a detective, but even she didn’t have these luxuries.
Still holding Raigen’s hand, Annie led her to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Thanks to Raigen’s highly photographic memory, she now knew every room and the objects in them. As Raigen examined the bedroom, Annie gently turned her against the wall and kissed her. Raigen’s plan to investigate Annie hadn’t included this! She would have to indulge Annie as much as possible until she could determine her connection to Michelle Bailey’s disappearance.
As they kissed, Raigen let Annie undress her. Annie truly admired Raigen’s naked form, especially her upper body. “I imagine only a select few have seen these.”
Raigen acted giddy. “Wow, Miss Judge, I never knew you liked girls.” She bit on her lower lip a little. “What now?”
Annie eased Raigen onto the bed and then removed her own bikini. Raigen realized that Annie truly meant to have sex with her and knew she could not let that happen. Annie came onto the bed with her. Raigen let Annie kiss her again as she fondled her large breasts.
Suddenly, something was beeping. Annie immediately stopped kissing Raigen and got off her. “You stay right here.”
Annie went to her purse that was sitting on the dresser and removed h
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
The so called "Angel of Death" has been killing lots of criminals in Strickfield, but how did she start and who can possibly catch her?!
Catalyst by Rob Fields
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Drake Kazmierczak had been on the road for a few hours. He had packed up and left his job as a detective at the Erie City Police Department. He was on his way to Strickfield to take an opening for a detective within their police department. Although Drake’s uncle, Jeffrey, was the chief of police, he didn’t actually take the job to be closer to his uncle – and Drake was very close to Uncle Jeffrey. No, he had a pretty good idea that a certain Angel of Death was currently residing in Strickfield; his months of research had told him that it was a good eighty-seven percent certainty.
Drake tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he wondered how many guilty people the Angel of Death had taken. He knew it was many hundreds! It angered Drake every time the Angel of Death made the news. However, it never really got to him until the day he picked up a copy of the North Ridgeway Press and read about how the Angel of Death had claimed Annie Judge.
Drake had known that Annie Judge was not a perfect woman by any stretch, but Annie was the love of his life. The two of them had shared so much in the many years that they were together. He came to know that Annie was carefree and uninhibited, qualities that he loved about her. However, when Drake had accepted his badge, he had accepted the law. It was this, along with what he had discovered about Annie’s darker tastes that would permanently drive a wedge between the two of them.
And then he recalled the events that he had read about in the newspaper . . .
Four Years Ago
Raigen Devereux walked into North Ridgeway High School. She walked into first period and took her usual seat.
“Hey, Raige, you gonna show us your tits after we win the game tonight?” Jagger Nelson called out to her.
Raigen turned to see the sneers of Jagger and the other football players. She responded by raising her middle finger. “You can’t even catch a football, Jagger. What makes you think you can handle my tits?” The other girls in the class cheered for this witty cheerleader.
Just then, Raigen turned and gave her full attention to Annie Judge as she entered the classroom. She had been teaching many of the A.P. math subjects for the last several years. She almost always wore the same outfits: a blouse, a long skirt or pants, and loafers. Her face was a perfect oval with long blond hair and blue eyes. She always wore blush and matching lipstick. It was easy to see why guys appreciated her, even at thirty-six years old.
Raigen came to know that she made damn good money, not referring to just her teacher’s salary. Raigen knew that Annie had a second life as a self-employed prostitute and drug pusher. But she didn’t go to other cities to sell her body. No, she sold her body to students at North Ridgeway High School, ones who could afford to pay her prices for fucking them, or students she desired to prey upon – legal age or not.
Raigen came to know this information for two reasons. One, Miss Judge lived two blocks down the street from Raigen. Two, a month ago, Raigen saw a police car parked in Annie’s driveway, flashers on. Raigen couldn’t listen to the conversation, but her mother was a detective on the police force and was there that night. Raigen’s mother usually told her about what was going on in the privacy of their home, because she knew her daughter always kept her mouth shut. Raigen learned about the anonymous tip about the drug activity that was taking place at Annie Judge’s house. Nothing was found, however, in spite of the search warrant. It seemed that Annie Judge was always steps ahead of the police.
Two weeks later, Raigen was out walking and had seen a police car at Annie Judge’s house again. Again, Raigen’s mother was on the scene. Raigen would later learn that Michelle Bailey, at fellow student at her high school, had recently gone missing. After Raigen’s mother had questioned several students, a few of them said Miss Judge__ was the last one to talk to her. In fact, the two of them seemed to be really close by the end of the last school year. It was then Raigen’s mother had told her that Michelle’s parents had filed a missing person’s report that Annie Judge would become Raigen’s top priority.
Raigen’s mother had told her about the last night that Michelle Bailey was seen. It was at Skate World where Raigen’s mother had been told Michelle was picked up by a woman matching Annie Judge’s description, in a green Ford Fusion. Raigen knew that Miss Judge had such a car.
Since Raigen had access to her mother’s computer, she was able to look into Annie Judge’s record, but she found no priors. Raigen knew that the police couldn’t keep detail on Miss Judge, because who was to say that she might not file a harassment lawsuit against them. No, Raigen would have to take matters into her own hands.
This was a job for the Angel of Death!
The next afternoon, Annie Judge opened her front door to a nice surprise. “Raigen Devereux? What brings you to my home?”
Raigen faked a smile and held up a printout. “This is my school schedule. You’re going to be my math teacher again – Calculus. I wanted to ask you some questions about the class, but I obviously came at a bad time.”
Annie wore a white bikini that left very little to the imagination. She didn’t have a pool out back but looked a little wet from both sweat and suntan lotion. Raigen wore a blue tank-top with thin shoulder straps, white short shorts with a leather belt, and sandals.
Raigen expected Annie to just politely dismiss her, but she stepped aside and motioned for her to come in. After closing the door, she turned to Raigen. “What can I help you with?”
Raigen reached into her purse and came up with a second printout and a calculator. “It says here that you’re requiring a mathematical calculator. Are you sure this calculator won’t be okay for Calculus?”
As Annie took her calculator, Raigen noticed that she was checking her out – especially her endowed upper body. Then she pointed to the sheet. “These are graphing calculators. Yours is a scientific calculator. In Calculus, you’re required to present graphs to show your work.”
“Okay, I’ll go to Office Depot and buy one.”
As Annie handed Raigen back her calculator, she took hold of her left hand and held it. She finished by folding Raigen’s fingers over the calculator, caressing them as she did.
“You’re a very bright student, Raigen.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure,” Raigen replied. “Ice water, please.”
Annie led Raigen to the kitchen, which had many top-of-the-line appliances.
“I was about have some iced tea,” she said.
“Well, I’d hate to impose . . .”
“It’s not imposing if I’m offering.”
“Okay.”
Annie pulled two glasses out of her cupboard. She opened the refrigerator and bent down to retrieve the iced tea, making sure Raigen saw her almost-naked rear. She stood up straight and closed the refrigerator. Annie poured the tea and handed Raigen a glass. Raigen waited until Annie drank first, which she did. Raigen tasted the sweetened black tea with a hint of lemon. Annie motioned for Raigen to come into the living room. They sat down on the couch.
Raigen drank her tea. “You have a really nice house, Miss Judge. You also have a very nice tan.”
Annie stood up. “I want show you something.”
Raigen put her glass down, got up, and followed Annie into the hallway. When they stopped, Annie gestured to an open doorway. Raigen looked inside to see a tanning bed.
“I can tan all I want, and it pays for itself.” Annie took Raigen’s hand. “Come on.”
Raigen was given a tour of the house. The more she saw, the more she knew that there was no way Annie could afford everything on her teacher’s salary alone. Raigen’s mother made better money as a detective, but even she didn’t have these luxuries.
Still holding Raigen’s hand, Annie led her to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Thanks to Raigen’s highly photographic memory, she now knew every room and the objects in them. As Raigen examined the bedroom, Annie gently turned her against the wall and kissed her. Raigen’s plan to investigate Annie hadn’t included this! She would have to indulge Annie as much as possible until she could determine her connection to Michelle Bailey’s disappearance.
As they kissed, Raigen let Annie undress her. Annie truly admired Raigen’s naked form, especially her upper body. “I imagine only a select few have seen these.”
Raigen acted giddy. “Wow, Miss Judge, I never knew you liked girls.” She bit on her lower lip a little. “What now?”
Annie eased Raigen onto the bed and then removed her own bikini. Raigen realized that Annie truly meant to have sex with her and knew she could not let that happen. Annie came onto the bed with her. Raigen let Annie kiss her again as she fondled her large breasts.
Suddenly, something was beeping. Annie immediately stopped kissing Raigen and got off her. “You stay right here.”
Annie went to her purse that was sitting on the dresser and removed h
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
- Twitter: @WeeklySpooky
- Facebook: facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
- Email: [email protected]
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
39 min
Ep
85
Ep.85 – Taco Tuesday - How HUNGRY Are You?!
Episode
|
30 min
|
May 26, 2021
Episode Notes
Who's hungry?! What could be less threatening than a taco? They're crunchy and delicious... and they certainly won't destroy your body and consume your soul or anything...
Taco Tuesday by Keith Tomlin
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
My god, what is happening to me? I’m trapped in my own body. I can feel myself moving, walking around but I am not in control. Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I can see out of my eyes but that is becoming harder and harder to do. I occasionally hear bits and pieces of muffled conversation but, as time goes by, that too is fading away.
All I know is that I am slowly losing my mind. I don’t think I’m going crazy but my memories are fading away, losing all of the details that make up my life. I mean, I know my name is John Davidson and that I was born in Ohio but I can’t quite remember what city. I know it started with an ’S’. Sandusky? Springfield? I just can’t remember. My childhood is gone along with most of my high school and college days. I know that I currently live in Columbus, Ohio but the rest of my life is like looking into a foggy darkness. The only memories that are clear are the events that happened the last few days. I’m afraid that if I don’t keep at least that much fresh in my mind, there will be nothing left of me.
I think it began a few days ago. It was morning and I was standing in line at the coffee shop in the building in which I work. I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes when I heard a cheerful voice behind me.
“Do you know the best thing about Tuesday mornings? It’s not Monday!”
I turned to see a man in this 30’s, dressed in a nice suit, grinning broadly. I didn’t recognize him but I figured he must be new here. It’s an unspoken rule that you never talk to others in line, especially this early in the morning. Regulars to the coffee shop know this and everyone follows this tradition.
“Yeah, huh. I know,” I said. Not my most eloquent statement but it was early and I was trying to walk that fine line between being polite and trying to discourage him from further conversation.
I turned and faced forward, hoping this would signal my unwillingness to converse but I wasn’t surprised when he continued talking.
“It should be a great day, super-duper! It’s supposed to hit 75 degrees with no chance of rain,” said the jovial voice behind me.
I rolled my eyes, not turning around to look at him but giving a noncommittal nod and a low grunt.
He continued, “I can’t believe that we’ll be stuck in an office on a day like this.”
I made sure not to move a muscle, I didn’t want to send any hint of encouragement.
“Say, pal,” he said, “you look like a man that enjoys a good taco.”
Ok, I admit, this piqued my interest. It was an odd thing to say to a stranger during the morning coffee rush. It wasn’t just the words he said, it was also how he said it. His voice had taken on an authoritative air and I had turned to face him without realizing that I had done so. His eyes locked with mine and I could not look away.
“Last night,” he stated, “I ate at this Mexican place that was out of this world.” He sighed, a blissful look momentarily passing over his face before he continued. “It’s a bit out of the way but, friend, it is worth the drive. Get the tacos. Trust me, it will change. Your. Life.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Here’s the address, check it out. You don’t want to live to regret it.”
I took the card like a man in a daze. I mumbled something and turned to face forward and realized that no one was between me and the counter. The barista was asking if I was ready to order and, from the tone of this voice, this wasn’t the first time he asked. I hurried to the counter and placed my usual order. While waiting on my coffee, I took a look behind me and found that the man was gone. I began to doubt that he was ever there until I felt the outline of a business card in my shirt pocket.
The rest of the morning blurred by as usual. I had the same worthless meetings, the same meaningless tasks. I nodded when I was expected to nod and shook my head when I was expected to shake my head. I had thought that working at an advertising agency would be glamorous, that I would come up with clever ad campaigns, pitch ideas to grateful clients, and sit in on photoshoots with beautiful models. Instead, I’m the guy that makes the visual aids to use in other people’s presentations. If the client likes it, it’s because the account executive had an amazing idea. If the client hates it, it’s because I screwed up the layout. Oh well, it’s not all bad, one time I got to pick out the font.
It wasn’t until lunchtime that I thought about that strange man again. I had only a few minutes to grab lunch and I ran down to a burger joint on the corner. As I bit into my sandwich, I realized that it tasted like cardboard. The fries tasted the same way. All I could think of was tacos and the thought of anything else sickened me. I ended up throwing the hamburger and fries in the garbage and walking back to work, stomach growing.
The rest of the day, I could think of nothing except tacos; seasoned ground beef, topped with lettuce and cheese in a toasted shell. My distraction showed and I was asked several times if I was ok, once by someone who actually seemed concerned. I assured everyone I was fine and I somehow stumbled my way through the rest of the workday. At 5:00 pm, I left work and immediately drove to my favorite Mexican restaurant. As I parked the car, I realized that the thought of the tacos from this place turned my stomach. I sat in my car confused, my stomach growled, demanding food, but the thought of eating here made me retch. I finally remembered the business card in my pocket. I grabbed it, ripping my shirt in the process, and looked at the address printed on the card. I threw the car in gear and sped out of the parking lot.
I drove out of town and, after a 35-minute drive, I pulled into a parking lot in front of the restaurant listed on the card. This strange building looked out of place, a one story structure made out of heavy gauge steel sheets, glowing with neon light. It looked a strange sight, this neon monstrosity sitting at the edge of an empty field in the middle of nowhere. My stomach ached, huger pains shooting up into my chest. I quickly shut the car off and scurried inside. I don’t remember much about the inside of the place. I recall there was a strange-looking man, small and lanky, who lead me to a seat at a rough wooden table. He slipped away without saying a word. I also seem to recall other people, some writhing on the floor, but I can’t be sure that was real, everything seemed like a dream. After a minute, or maybe an hour, the small man returned, bearing a plate full of tacos. He placed the plate in front of me, nodded, and disappeared again. Well, to be honest, he could have been standing next to me the whole time, I only had eyes for the tacos. I quickly grabbed a taco and brought it up to my nose, taking a deep breath. For a second, I thought I smelled rancid meat, mildew, and rot but that was quickly replaced by the tantalizing scent of taco meat so fast that I doubted I even smelled it in the first place. Hands shaking with anticipation, I took my first bite.
Pure ecstasy. My god, every nerve ending in my body seemed to explode with pleasure. I was shivering so badly that I could barely hang onto the taco. I could feel every inch of my body pulse with orgasmic delight. I took a second bite and the feeling increased tenfold. I could feel every hair follicle standing on end, each one so sensitive that any movement would send shivers of pleasure coursing throughout my entire body. I was so erect that I ached, my penis straining against my underwear so hard that I thought it would burst out of my pants. Every breath I took stoked the fires of my pleasure; each movement sent waves of shivers down my spine. I climaxed over and over and over again. I slid down the chair, ending up on the floor. I have no idea how long I laid there, twitching with the slightest breeze, sated and sore. I eventually struggled to my feet and stumbled out of the restaurant but I have no recollection of driving home.
Next thing I know, my alarm is going off. 5:45 am. I am still spent, every inch of my body aching. The thought of moving sickened me, but after trying three times, I finally make it out of bed. It never crossed my mind to call in sick, I was operating solely on autopilot. I brushed my teeth, showered, shaved, dressed, and drove off to the office, all done in a daze, each movement born of repeated gestures I did thousands of times before.
I didn’t snap out of it until I was standing in line at the ground floor coffee shop. A coworker tapped me on the shoulder.
“Damn, John, you look like shit. Late night?” the man said. It took me a moment to come up with a name for that face… Steve, no, Stevens, Chad Stevens, from Accounting.
“Yeah, not feeling the best, Maybe food poisoning…” I mumbled. As soon as I said poison, it was like flipping a switch. My stomach started to rebel and my bowels turned to water.
I ran out of the coffee sh
🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!
🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join
📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!
🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
Who's hungry?! What could be less threatening than a taco? They're crunchy and delicious... and they certainly won't destroy your body and consume your soul or anything...
Taco Tuesday by Keith Tomlin
Buy the new "Babysitter Massacre" book! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P4ZF9LG/
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Support Weekly Spooky by donating to their Tip Jar: https://tips.pinecast.com/jar/weekly-spooky
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
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Transcript:
My god, what is happening to me? I’m trapped in my own body. I can feel myself moving, walking around but I am not in control. Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I can see out of my eyes but that is becoming harder and harder to do. I occasionally hear bits and pieces of muffled conversation but, as time goes by, that too is fading away.
All I know is that I am slowly losing my mind. I don’t think I’m going crazy but my memories are fading away, losing all of the details that make up my life. I mean, I know my name is John Davidson and that I was born in Ohio but I can’t quite remember what city. I know it started with an ’S’. Sandusky? Springfield? I just can’t remember. My childhood is gone along with most of my high school and college days. I know that I currently live in Columbus, Ohio but the rest of my life is like looking into a foggy darkness. The only memories that are clear are the events that happened the last few days. I’m afraid that if I don’t keep at least that much fresh in my mind, there will be nothing left of me.
I think it began a few days ago. It was morning and I was standing in line at the coffee shop in the building in which I work. I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes when I heard a cheerful voice behind me.
“Do you know the best thing about Tuesday mornings? It’s not Monday!”
I turned to see a man in this 30’s, dressed in a nice suit, grinning broadly. I didn’t recognize him but I figured he must be new here. It’s an unspoken rule that you never talk to others in line, especially this early in the morning. Regulars to the coffee shop know this and everyone follows this tradition.
“Yeah, huh. I know,” I said. Not my most eloquent statement but it was early and I was trying to walk that fine line between being polite and trying to discourage him from further conversation.
I turned and faced forward, hoping this would signal my unwillingness to converse but I wasn’t surprised when he continued talking.
“It should be a great day, super-duper! It’s supposed to hit 75 degrees with no chance of rain,” said the jovial voice behind me.
I rolled my eyes, not turning around to look at him but giving a noncommittal nod and a low grunt.
He continued, “I can’t believe that we’ll be stuck in an office on a day like this.”
I made sure not to move a muscle, I didn’t want to send any hint of encouragement.
“Say, pal,” he said, “you look like a man that enjoys a good taco.”
Ok, I admit, this piqued my interest. It was an odd thing to say to a stranger during the morning coffee rush. It wasn’t just the words he said, it was also how he said it. His voice had taken on an authoritative air and I had turned to face him without realizing that I had done so. His eyes locked with mine and I could not look away.
“Last night,” he stated, “I ate at this Mexican place that was out of this world.” He sighed, a blissful look momentarily passing over his face before he continued. “It’s a bit out of the way but, friend, it is worth the drive. Get the tacos. Trust me, it will change. Your. Life.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Here’s the address, check it out. You don’t want to live to regret it.”
I took the card like a man in a daze. I mumbled something and turned to face forward and realized that no one was between me and the counter. The barista was asking if I was ready to order and, from the tone of this voice, this wasn’t the first time he asked. I hurried to the counter and placed my usual order. While waiting on my coffee, I took a look behind me and found that the man was gone. I began to doubt that he was ever there until I felt the outline of a business card in my shirt pocket.
The rest of the morning blurred by as usual. I had the same worthless meetings, the same meaningless tasks. I nodded when I was expected to nod and shook my head when I was expected to shake my head. I had thought that working at an advertising agency would be glamorous, that I would come up with clever ad campaigns, pitch ideas to grateful clients, and sit in on photoshoots with beautiful models. Instead, I’m the guy that makes the visual aids to use in other people’s presentations. If the client likes it, it’s because the account executive had an amazing idea. If the client hates it, it’s because I screwed up the layout. Oh well, it’s not all bad, one time I got to pick out the font.
It wasn’t until lunchtime that I thought about that strange man again. I had only a few minutes to grab lunch and I ran down to a burger joint on the corner. As I bit into my sandwich, I realized that it tasted like cardboard. The fries tasted the same way. All I could think of was tacos and the thought of anything else sickened me. I ended up throwing the hamburger and fries in the garbage and walking back to work, stomach growing.
The rest of the day, I could think of nothing except tacos; seasoned ground beef, topped with lettuce and cheese in a toasted shell. My distraction showed and I was asked several times if I was ok, once by someone who actually seemed concerned. I assured everyone I was fine and I somehow stumbled my way through the rest of the workday. At 5:00 pm, I left work and immediately drove to my favorite Mexican restaurant. As I parked the car, I realized that the thought of the tacos from this place turned my stomach. I sat in my car confused, my stomach growled, demanding food, but the thought of eating here made me retch. I finally remembered the business card in my pocket. I grabbed it, ripping my shirt in the process, and looked at the address printed on the card. I threw the car in gear and sped out of the parking lot.
I drove out of town and, after a 35-minute drive, I pulled into a parking lot in front of the restaurant listed on the card. This strange building looked out of place, a one story structure made out of heavy gauge steel sheets, glowing with neon light. It looked a strange sight, this neon monstrosity sitting at the edge of an empty field in the middle of nowhere. My stomach ached, huger pains shooting up into my chest. I quickly shut the car off and scurried inside. I don’t remember much about the inside of the place. I recall there was a strange-looking man, small and lanky, who lead me to a seat at a rough wooden table. He slipped away without saying a word. I also seem to recall other people, some writhing on the floor, but I can’t be sure that was real, everything seemed like a dream. After a minute, or maybe an hour, the small man returned, bearing a plate full of tacos. He placed the plate in front of me, nodded, and disappeared again. Well, to be honest, he could have been standing next to me the whole time, I only had eyes for the tacos. I quickly grabbed a taco and brought it up to my nose, taking a deep breath. For a second, I thought I smelled rancid meat, mildew, and rot but that was quickly replaced by the tantalizing scent of taco meat so fast that I doubted I even smelled it in the first place. Hands shaking with anticipation, I took my first bite.
Pure ecstasy. My god, every nerve ending in my body seemed to explode with pleasure. I was shivering so badly that I could barely hang onto the taco. I could feel every inch of my body pulse with orgasmic delight. I took a second bite and the feeling increased tenfold. I could feel every hair follicle standing on end, each one so sensitive that any movement would send shivers of pleasure coursing throughout my entire body. I was so erect that I ached, my penis straining against my underwear so hard that I thought it would burst out of my pants. Every breath I took stoked the fires of my pleasure; each movement sent waves of shivers down my spine. I climaxed over and over and over again. I slid down the chair, ending up on the floor. I have no idea how long I laid there, twitching with the slightest breeze, sated and sore. I eventually struggled to my feet and stumbled out of the restaurant but I have no recollection of driving home.
Next thing I know, my alarm is going off. 5:45 am. I am still spent, every inch of my body aching. The thought of moving sickened me, but after trying three times, I finally make it out of bed. It never crossed my mind to call in sick, I was operating solely on autopilot. I brushed my teeth, showered, shaved, dressed, and drove off to the office, all done in a daze, each movement born of repeated gestures I did thousands of times before.
I didn’t snap out of it until I was standing in line at the ground floor coffee shop. A coworker tapped me on the shoulder.
“Damn, John, you look like shit. Late night?” the man said. It took me a moment to come up with a name for that face… Steve, no, Stevens, Chad Stevens, from Accounting.
“Yeah, not feeling the best, Maybe food poisoning…” I mumbled. As soon as I said poison, it was like flipping a switch. My stomach started to rebel and my bowels turned to water.
I ran out of the coffee sh
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