The following program is a production of Chilling Entertainment and the creative team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcast Network.
Visit simplyscarypodcast.com to learn more about this and our other weekly storytelling programs.Thank you for listening and enjoy the show.
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The new Apple Watch Series 10 is here.It has the biggest display ever.It's also the thinnest Apple Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist.
And it's the fastest-charging Apple Watch, getting you eight hours of charge in just 15 minutes.Introducing the all-new Apple Watch Series 10, now available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum.
Compared to previous generation iPhone XS or later required, charge time and actual results will vary.
Good evening.I'm storyteller Otis Gyrie.And I ain't your grandfather.From where I'm from, we don't do bedtime stories.And if that's what you were expecting, You're in the wrong place.
If it's terrifying tales you're after, well then, I've got just the thing.Get comfortable.Settle in.Turn off the lights, if you dare.Your night is about to get a whole lot darker.Who needs sleep anyway? Ha ha ha ha!
Good evening!You're listening to Scary Stories Told in the Dark.Welcome, dear listeners, to Season 16, Episode 1.
We have a whole slew of surprises in store for you this season as we kick off more tantalizing tales of the mysterious, the deathly, and the delightfully devilish. I'm your host, Otis Diary.And I'm the next door neighbor, Malcolm Blackwood.
And in this episode... We'll be performing five tales to terrify you, courtesy of authors Craig Groshek, Mike Mann, Seth Paul, Kyle Harrison, and Dale Thompson.
Tonight we'll hear stories of wistful wells, fantastic flies, pernicious peddlers, sinister summoners, and carnivorous cryptids. You're listening to the standard edition of tonight's program, which contains the first three spine-tingling stories.
If you'd like to show your support and enjoy an extended version of this and other episodes with twice the terror, visit SimplyScaryPodcast.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today.Thank you for your support!Shall we proceed?Now!
It's time to take a walk together down the moonlit trail, so lock your doors, turn your lights down low and settle in.The show is about to begin!Well, thank you again for your kindness, Mr. Gyrie.
It's not often I get such a warm welcome to the neighborhood.This tea and these sandwiches are absolutely wonderful.
Well, I certainly believe in being hospitable.It's something I picked up in the country.You used to live out in the country?Oh, for a while, yes.And I have to tell you, there's nothing quite like the wide open spaces, fresh air, birds singing.
I'll bet you could raise quite a ruckus and no one would be able to hear you for miles around.
Yes, indeed.Of course, one of the things that's nice when you're out and about is a nice healthy walk.I mean, you can walk so far and so long and you never know what you'll run into.
That's the gist of our first story for this evening, brought to us by Craig Groshek.It's a nice little tale of a nightly stroll, a strange well, and of wishes that do come true.
Sounds quite pleasant.Would be a real shame if it turned into a nightmare.
Yes, wouldn't it?Without further ado, I present to you, The Wishing Well. The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the trees on Harold's rural property.
It was an evening like any other the kind Harold had grown accustomed to since his wife Henrietta passed away twelve years ago.These walks had become a routine, a way to fill the silence that now defined his life.The air was cool, the woods quiet.
Too quiet, Harold thought. The birds had stopped singing and even the wind seemed to have died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake.
He shook off the unease creeping into his thoughts and pressed on, following the familiar path that wound deeper into the forest.That's when the frog rolled in.
It came in fast, thick and white, swallowing the trees and the path in a matter of moments. Harold stopped, squinting into the haze.He'd never seen fog like this before.Not here, not anywhere.
It was so dense that he couldn't see more than a few feet ahead.A cold nod of unease settled in his gut, but he brushed it aside.Fog was just fog, after all.He kept walking, slower now, his steps more cautious.
But as quickly as it had appeared, the fog began to lift.Harold Blank disoriented.The path was still there, the trees still looming overhead, but something was different.
A clearing had appeared where there hadn't been one before, and in the center of that clearing stood a well. Harold stopped in his tracks.
The well was old, made of crumbling bricks, with a rusty pulley system and a frayed rope hanging down into the darkness below.He knew this forest like the back of his hand, and he was certain he'd never seen a well here, not before.
Didn't make any sense.He approached it cautiously, his instincts screaming at him to turn back. Curiosity got the better of him.Peering over the edge, he saw nothing but blackness.There was no water, no bottom, just an empty void.
The air around the well was cool, almost cold, and Harold felt a shiver run down his spine.Something about the well felt wrong. But instead of leaving, he found himself reaching for the rope.
The fibers were rough against his skin and the pulley squealed loudly as he began to lower the bucket.The sound grated on his nerves, but he kept going until he heard the bucket hit the bottom with a dull thud.
It was dry, no splash of water, no echo from the depths.Harold frowned. He began pulling the bucket back up, expecting to find it empty.Instead, there was a scrap of paper inside, along with a small, worn-down pencil.
He unfolded the paper, his hand shaking slightly, and read the single line scrawled across it in jagged, uneven handwriting.What do you want most in the world? Harold stared at the words, his mind racing.Was this some kind of joke?
It had to be, but who would play a joke like this, out here in the middle of nowhere?He glanced around, but there was no one, just the trees, the fading light, and the well.His heart ached as he thought of Henrietta.
It had been twelve years, but the pain of losing her hadn't dulled.If anything, it had only grown sharper with time.He missed her more than words could express.
Without really thinking about it, Harold flipped the paper over and wrote his answer on the back.I want to see my wife again.The pencil felt heavy in his hand, the words even more so. What was he doing?This was ridiculous.
And yet there was a small part of him, a small desperate part, that clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, something would happen.He put the note back in the bucket and lowered it into the well.
The rope slipped through his fingers and halfway down, the bucket dropped suddenly, the rope going slack.Harold's heart skipped a beat. Had he broken it?But the tension returned and he pulled the bucket back up.
When it emerged from the darkness, Harold's breath caught in his throat.Next to his own words, a single response had been added, hastily scrawled in the same jagged script.Tonight.He stared at the note, his mind struggling to process what it meant.
Tonight. Was this some kind of sick joke?But who would have done this?And how?A cold fear began to creep over him.The woods, once so familiar, now felt foreign, even hostile.The air seemed colder, the shadows darker.
Harold's hand shook as he folded the note and shoved it into his pocket. He didn't know what he had done, but he knew it was something he shouldn't have.The walk back to his house felt longer than usual.The trees pressing in on him from all sides.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him, following him through the woods.When he finally reached his front door, he was nearly out of breath, though he hadn't been walking any faster than usual.
Inside, the house was as quiet as ever.He lit a fire in the fireplace, trying to chase away the chill that had settled into his bones.But he couldn't get warm no matter how close he sat to the flames.
He kept thinking about the note, the word tonight echoing in his mind.Harold sat in his favorite chair, a photo of Henrietta on the table beside him. He stared at it, his heart heavy with longing and fear.What had he done?
What was going to happen tonight?As the hours ticked by, the fire burned down to embers and Harold's eyelids grew heavy. He fought to stay awake, but exhaustion finally claimed him and he drifted off to sleep, the note still clutched in his hand.
It was the knocking that woke him, sharp and insistent.Errol jerked awake, disoriented, the fire nearly out.The room was cold, the only light coming from the dying embers and the faint glow of the moon through the window.
He frowned, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep.Who would be knocking at this hour?He checked the clock.Three a.m.The knocking came again, louder this time, and Harold's heart began to race.
He stood up, slowly, his joints protesting, and moved toward the door.As he approached, He saw a shadow through the frosted glass, a figure standing just outside.A figure that matched Henrietta's height.
Harold froze, his breath catching in his throat.He looked down and saw, through the gap under the door, a pair of shoes.Henrietta's shoes.The ones she had been buried in.Panic surged through him.This wasn't right.This wasn't natural.
The knocking grew more insistent, then he heard a voice.A voice that was unmistakably Henrietta's, but wrong somehow.The words were short, stilted, forced through what sounded like cracked dry lips.Harold, open the door.Harold's blood ran cold.
He backed away from the door, his mind racing. He wanted to see her again, but not like this.Not like this.He had to get out, now.
Moving as quickly as his old legs would allow, Harold made his way to the back of the house, through the kitchen, and down into the cellar.
His hands trembled as he fumbled with the latch on the cellar door, finally forcing it open and stepping out into the cold night air. From the shadows, he could see the front of the house, the figure still standing at the door.
His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to get a better look, but what he saw filled him with horror.It was Henrietta, or what was left of her.Her skin was pale and stiff with the unmistakable sheen of embalming fluid.
Her movements were jerky, unnatural, as if she were a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.Her eyes, those beautiful eyes he had loved so much, were gone, replaced by dark, hollow sockets.Harold's stomach turned.This wasn't his wife.
It was something else, something that had taken her place, using her body like a grotesque mask.
He needed to get away, but as he turned to flee, his foot caught on a coil of rope left lying on the ground, and he fell hard, pain shooting up his leg as his ankle twisted beneath him.He bit back a cry of pain, but it was too late.
The figure had heard him. It turned, its head jerking unnaturally in his direction, and began to move toward him, its stiff limbs creaking with every step.Harold, why are you running?
The voice was closer now, and the panic that had been simmering in Harold's chest finally boiled over.He scrambled to his feet, pain be damned, and hobbled as fast as he could toward his truck.
But when he reached it, he realized with a sinking feeling that his keys were still inside the house, right where the thing that used to be his wife was now standing.
His breath came in short panic gasps as he backed away from the truck, knowing he had no choice but to run.The figure, Henrietta's corpse, was moving faster now. A low, guttural cry escaping its throat.
Harold turned and fled into the woods, his twisted ankle throbbing with every step.He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get away.And as he limped through the deaden, darkened forest, Llewell's presence loomed in his mind.
It had caused this.Maybe you could stop it, too.
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Harold pushed through the underbrush, his breath coming in ragged gasps.Every step sent a sharp pain shooting up from his twisted ankle, but he didn't dare slow down.
The woods, once familiar and comforting, now felt alien, the shadows deeper and more menacing.Behind him he could hear the relentless pursuit.Henrietta, or what was left of her,
rustling through the trees, her stiff, jerky movements growing louder as she closed the distance between them.He needed to reach the well.It was the only thing that might offer a way out of this nightmare.
The idea of returning to that cursed well filled him with dread, but desperation fueled his steps.If the well had brought Henrietta back, maybe it could undo the horror he had unleashed.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harold stumbled into the clearing.The well stood there, ancient and foreboding, its dark mouth gaping open like an entrance to the underworld.
Harold's breath came in panicked gasps as he approached, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion. The bucket was already on its way up, the rope moving as if pulled by unseen hands.
Harold's heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed the rope, helping it along, though his hands were slick with sweat.When the bucket emerged from the darkness, Harold's stomach churned with dread.
Inside was another note, rolled tightly like a scroll, with a small match tied to it. His hand shook as he took the node and unrolled it.The words inside were simple, but they sent a chill down his spine.Are you satisfied?Harold's mind raced.
Satisfied?With what?The abomination that had once been his beloved wife?The grotesque parody of life that now stalked him through the woods?
His heart clenched with his regret as he thought of how much he missed Henrietta and how much he wished he had never answered that first note.This was not what he wanted.This was a nightmare.
He flipped the note over and, with the worn-down pencil stub still in the bucket, scribbled a frantic reply.No.Stop it. He placed the note back in the bucket and lowered it into the well, the pulley squealing as it descended.
The sound of Henrietta's movements in the woods grew louder and closer.Harold's heart raced.The bucket hit the bottom of the well and for a moment there was only silence.
Then, slowly, the rope began to move again, the bucket climbing back up toward him. When it reached the top, Harold pulled it up with trembling hands.He grabbed the note, his pulse pounding in his ears, and unrolled it.
His breath caught in his throat as he read the single word written there.No.Panic surged through him.No.The well was refusing to do what he asked.
He looked around, the darkness pressing in on him, the rustling in the trees growing louder as Henrietta drew nearer.He was out of time.In desperation, Harold scribbled one final plea on the back of the note.Please stop it.
But as he moved to place the note back in the bucket, the pulley suddenly snapped with a loud crack. The bucket tumbled into the well, disappearing into the darkness below with a final echoing crash.
Harold stared in horror at the frayed rope, his last hope unraveling before his eyes.The well was broken, the bucket gone.He couldn't send the note back, couldn't plead for mercy.He was trapped with the thing that had once been his wife closing in.
Harold leaned over the edge of the well and, unsure of what else to do, dropped the note into the abyss.He watched as it fluttered down, disappearing into the darkness.
Harold's heart pounded in his chest as he strained to listen, hoping, praying that something would happen.But instead of silence, Harold heard something else, a sound that chilled him to the bone.
Something was climbing up the walls of the well, its claws scraping against the bricks.The noise was wet and sickening, like nails on a chalkboard mixed with the sound of tearing flesh.
Harold stumbled back from the edge, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.His mind screamed at him to run.But his body was frozen in place, paralyzed by the sheer terror of what he knew was coming.
Then, slowly, a gnarled, clawed hand reached over the edge of the well.It was covered in blood, the skin ragged and torn.A second hand followed, gripping the stones with sickening strength.
Harold's mouth went dry as he watched, too horrified to move. The hands held a piece of paper caked in flecks of dried blood, the edges torn and frayed.
Shaking, Harold reached out and took the note, his fingers trembling so badly he could barely unroll it.When he finally did, his eyes widened in terror.The message was written in blood, not lead.It was clear, direct, and final.Join me.
Harold's knees buckled and he nearly collapsed under the weight of the words.His eyes flicked back to the well, but the hands were gone, leaving nothing but the cold, dark void.A sound behind him made his blood run cold.
The rustling had stopped, replaced by the slow, deliberate footsteps of his wife's corpse as it drew closer. Harold's heart pounded in his chest, the word join echoing in his mind like a death sentence.
He looked at the well, at the note still clutched in his hand.The only way to escape the horror that was approaching, to stop the nightmare, was to follow the well's command.But how could he?
How could he willingly throw himself into that abyss, knowing it would be the end? But then again, what choice did he have?Henrietta was nearly upon him, reeking of decay, her empty eye sockets fixed on him as if she could still see.
Harold could feel the cold, dead breath of his wife on his neck, hear the creak of her joints as she reached out for him.Out of options, Harold climbed up onto the edge of the well, his body trembling with fear and pain.
The cold stone bit into his hands as he balanced precariously, legs dangling over the edge, looking down into the darkness below.He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to face whatever was coming for him either.
His mind raced, reaching for any other solution, any way out.But there was nothing, nothing but the well, the darkness, Nahan said he'd written those final damning words.
As Henrietta's corpse reached for him, her stiff, cold fingers brushing against his skin, Harold made his decision.He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let go.
For a brief moment, he felt weightless, the wind rushing past him as he fell into the abyss. But then the impact came hard and fast, his body slamming into the sides of the well as he tumbled down.
He felt bones break, skin tear, and then the cold hard bottom met him with a final sickening crunch.Pain exploded through his body, his limbs twisting at awkward angles as he landed on the shattered remains of the bucket.
Pieces of wood embedded themselves in his flesh, and for a moment, he was sure he was dead.But it wasn't over.Not yet.Harold found himself still conscious, breathing with great difficulty, lying in the cramped, cold space at the bottom of the well.
He tried to move, but every part of his body screamed in protest. He was alive, but barely.Before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, he heard it, a soft rustling, like paper brushing against the brick walls as it descended into the well.
The sound grew louder, closer, until a rolled-up note struck him gently on the shoulder and fell beside him.Tied to it was a single match. Harold's hand shook as he reached for the match, striking it against the rough stone.
The tiny flame flared to life, casting flickering shadows on the cold, damp walls.With trembling fingers, he unrolled the note and squinted at the words written there.
On one side, in the same jagged script as before, was the question that had started this nightmare.What do you want most in the world? For a brief moment hope flickered in Harold's chest.Was this another chance?
One last opportunity, a change his wish, to alter his fate?He looked around frantically, searching for something to write with, but well offered nothing.No pencil, no lead, nothing at all.
He scrambled at the bottom of the well, his hand searching desperately for the nub of the pencil he'd used before, but came up empty.Panic welled up inside him as he realized he couldn't change his wish.He was trapped.
As the match burned lower, threatening to scorch his fingertips, Harold's eyes caught sight of something written on the opposite side of the note in a handwriting he knew all too well.
It was Henrietta's, the loops and swirls unmistakable, though the letters were jagged, almost illegible, as if penned by stiff, numb fingers.She'd written a single word in response to the question of what she wanted most in the world.Harold.
What little remained of his match burned out, plunging him back into darkness and a wave of primal terror washed over him as he heard the sound he had dreaded most, the slow, deliberate scraping of another body clambering down the walls of the well, stiff and dull-like in his movements.
Henrietta was coming for him. The sound grew louder, closer, as if the very walls of the well were closing in on him.Harold's heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming at him to escape, but there was nowhere to go.
The darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating him as he heard his wife's stiff, cold limbs scraping closer. Harold could do nothing but listen to the relentless approach of Henrietta's corpse, her movement slow but deliberate.Harold!
she rasped one final time, her voice a twisted mockery of the woman he had loved.Then, with one final sickening thud, everything went still.For a moment, in spite of his pain, Harold sat in silence, paralyzed with fear.
After what felt like an eternity had passed, and just as he mustered the courage to so much as draw another breath, a bony hand shot out of the darkness, wrapping itself around his neck.Harold screamed and screamed.
Above, the fog began to rise once more, thick and impenetrable. When it later faded as quickly and as naturally as it had arrived, the well had vanished with it.
The only indication that the chasm or herald had ever been there was a single scrap of paper lying discarded, carried lazily about by a passing breeze.
As it tossed and turned in the gentle wind, a single line of jagged, uneven handwriting at times became visible, posing what appeared to be a harmless question.What do you want most in the world?
I hope you enjoyed The Wishing Well by Craig Groshek as performed by yours truly.
If you enjoyed that tale and would love to read more from tonight's very talented featured author, you can help support him by visiting simplyscarypodcast.com slash Craig dash Groshek. That's simplyscarypodcast.com slash C-R-A-I-G dash G-R-O-S-H-E-K.
Thanks again for your support of this program and tonight's featured author.
Ah, that was lovely.A fine romantic tale of star-crossed lovers embracing with open, rotting arms.Reminds me of Christmas at the in-laws.
Well, if you enjoyed that, perhaps you'll have your hackles raised a bit by our next story.Mike Mann wants us to meet a man and his fly.
I've heard of people keeping flies as pets.They tend to be a bit unusual.That's not a bad thing, mind you.
No, no, no, no.This is no pet.This little fellow is more than your average friend. You might even say he's inseparable.Without further ado, I present to you Billy and the Lanternfly.
A loud buzzing alarm disturbed the sleep of a large man slumbering in his sweat-drenched bed. The sound rang in his ears, already sending a jolt of agitation to his psyche.Damn, damn, damn, damn it!
The man spat with frustration as he threw his face down on the snooze button of the alarm clock.I hate that damn thing!He sat up, bare feet hitting countless empty beer cans on the dirty floor.This specific individual went by the name of Billy Bolts.
full-time mason for a local bricklaying and stone restoration company in the backwoods town of Buckbarren Hills.A heavy-set individual with a large belly and gray hair that always stood up in random batches.
He walked with a limp, part-time, due to the occasional case of gout that infected his right foot. He chain-smoked menthol cigarettes that left him with a disgusting cough that sometimes turned into an even more grotesque gagging fit.
He spoke with a gravelly tone that was plagued by a ridiculous stutter.This particular morning marked the thirty-fifth year in the trade.His thirty-fifth year.
His belly stretched with his hands toward the ceiling, and an aroma of sulfur crept into his nostrils. He looked to his left, noticing a faint glow of fire on his dresser.A small ring appeared with tendrils of smoke rising from it.
Small black legs rose from the ring, followed by beady red eyes attached to an oblong body made of brownish-gray matter.Black spots speckled the dingy-colored section of its bodies.The insect in question was a rather large lanternfly.
It spun around and focused its eyes on the man, and spoke in a voice that resembled what you would expect an elderly Cajun fellow to sound like.Good morning, Billy Boy.
It skittered its tiny legs back and forth in a rocking motion, periodically flapping its wings to reveal an underbelly of white and red. Billy rolled his eyes and replied, and a good morning to you too, Wilhelm.
Billy sat back down to nurse the throbbing on his big toe.He examined it, noticing a gleam of pus beginning to ooze from the skin near the nail.The creature flapped its wings again and shouted gleefully, breakfast.
The lanternfly flew in haste towards Billy, landing on the infected toe.A long, green proboscis ejected from the insect's mouth and began slurping up the disgusting fluid.
This lanternfly hailed from an insectoid dimension from the northern atmosphere of the 11th circle of Hell.Its name was Wilhelm Odorous Abernathy V. a distant cousin to the infamous Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies.
Billy had accidentally summoned this creature when he was a young boy.He and a friend picked on a quiet little girl, who later claimed to put a ruet on him.
A ruet is a crudely manufactured type of hex, created from the combination of New Orleans voodoo and backcountry superstition.
was common thing in the wooded atmosphere of buck-barren hills, southern paranoia blended with Creole curses, and a dash of hillbilly mysticism.
The specific region in which Billy grew up was chock-full of things associated with the dark arts and flawed pseudosciences.The further north he went, the less common such practices and beliefs would be.
However, through the years, these types of beliefs and rituals eventually faded away.When the little girl muttered a cryptic phrase and left a stray doll in the form of Billy and his friends, he panicked and sought a way to expel the Ruit.
His grandmother was part Haitian and was known for her dabbling in the old ways, so he raided her room and found an old book. He skimmed the pages until he found a section involving protection.
He followed the instructions to the letter, cutting hair from his and his friend's scalp, swallowing a leech hole, and burning sage with the accompanying cat's eyes.The last item came from a stray that had been hanging around the farm.
Had these to the removal of exactly seven drops of blood in a tooth, and the ritual had begun.Soon a small ring of fire foamed, smoke billowing to reveal the demonic insect.
To make a long story short, the root was lifted, but at the cost of the little girl's life.Her body was never found. Only Billy and Wilhelm know the exact location of the poor girl's body.
Her death was administered by Billy alone with the influence of the demonic lanternfly.From that day on, Wilhelm would drop by to check on Billy.Offerings of spoiled maiden body fluids were demanded to keep the beast at bay.
This went on for decades, and Billy did his best to keep the creature pleased.Unfortunately, he didn't read the fine print on the page.It stated that the protection lasted for life, leaving the caster in perpetual debt.
There was also a miscommunication between what Billy read and what was on the aged paper.However, Wilhelm destroyed the page and caused old Granny Bolt's heart to give out, so he would never truly know exactly what he had done that day.
All he knew was that he had a hellspawn that would never leave him.The question of whether or not the process of ridding himself of the ruin was worth it also remained with him.
After the pus was completely sucked from the infected toe, Willhelm flew off and Billy got ready to be dressed.Clothes on and boots tied, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette.He coughed, gagged, and threw up a little in his mouth.
By this time, Willhelm had disappeared out of sight, back to the realms of hell, no doubt.
Billy wondered what the bug did when it was not on Earth as he tended to the chickens and cows before getting into his rusty old pickup and heading to his current job site.
There were very few large buildings in buck-barren hills, and most houses are composed of wood, but further down the region, in Thistle Valley, one can see brick homes and a few grand structures.
That was where business took place for the company that employed Billy. The majority of the jobs involved cutting and repointing the joints of brick buildings or chimneys of homes, cleaning decades worth of grime via chemicals and caulking windows.
Every so often, a larger job would need demolition in order to remove and replace damaged sections of structures. That was exactly the process for the contracting operation Billy was currently headed for.
He was the foreman on the site with four journeymen and one laborer.The building was an elementary school composed of tan brick that was cracking in certain areas.Some sections had even crumbled from wear and tear.
The contract was to replace the fallen and cracked brick and repoint specific joints.Spot pointing, to be exact.Scaffolding structures surrounded the affected areas.There was also an extra process of cleaning old carbon stains from one wall.
This required the use of a chemical called 7-6-6, a masonry rewash solution. A thick, mucus-like material made to eat away at anything not native to stone.
The cleaner itself was very toxic and could eat away flesh, which required heavy-duty rubber gloves, safety glasses, and rain gear to avoid any injury.It was to be applied, washed, then washed away with the use of a pressure washing machine.
Two men worked on the brick while the other two focused on the cleaning.
The laborer was there to mix mortar, stock brick, and man the two pulley systems on the scaffolding, using those apparatuses to send buckets of debris and such up and down to the men above.
All the while, Billy sat in his truck, chain-smoking and barking orders.Everyone there hated this, but preferred that over him showing up to examine them. Billy had a major anger problem that led to screaming and tools flying through the air.
To say people despised working for him was an understatement.The day went as usual with Billy showing up at 6.30.Eventually, everyone else began to arrive.The first two members of the crew showed up at the same time, 6.45.
Then another with the laborer showing up not far behind. Then finally, five minutes past seven, the last member made his obnoxious appearance, an ugly lifted truck blaring David Allen Coe through the speakers.This journeyman was the most problematic.
It was always late and it drove Billy nuts.He would yell at the man constantly for his tardiness, but to no avail.
He even tried getting the man fired, but that didn't work either, because this particular individual was the nephew of the owner of the company.
The men stood around Billy's truck, removing their tool bags from their vehicles, before receiving the daily greeting from their boss.Good Friday, gentlemen, and how are we this morning?Each gave their response, and then asked how he was.
This was followed by one of Billy's many odd phrases.Fair to Midland, lads.Fair to Midland.After the cordial niceties finished, it was time for work.Angle grinders were sending clouds of dust through the air.
The smell of chemicals applied to the stained brick on the south wall of the building.And on the ground, near a mixing trough, was the laborer.
combining dry components with water, scraping and mixing the concoction with a hoe, back and forth until the mixture settled.This is when Billy would yell at the young man, two, two, two to one, kid.
He was referring to the formula of two parts sand and one part mortar powder in order to create the ideal texture to be used in laying the new brick. Billy also had issues with the laborer.
It seemed like the laborer was always making mistakes that muddled with the production of work.Incorrect measurements of mortar implying too much or too little water.Looking at his phone when he needed work to be done.
And then there was the time when the young man was cleaning the second frame of scaffolding and accidentally knocked over a bucket of debris. It fell and sent chunks of broken brick tumbling toward Billy's truck.
A few deaths and a crack in the windshield ended up sending him into a wild frenzy.Screaming and cussing, he almost climbed up and fought the laborer.And so, needless to say, this person was on Billy's constant radar.
There were issues with pretty much everyone on the job, but then again, Billy had problems with everyone he encountered.That also applied to those who worked under his iron fist of slavery.
The whole crew despised him, but dealt with the bastard strictly for the money.The day ended with little incident and Billy only had to yell four times, which was a low amount for him.
He sped off and drove back to his dilapidated home to load his truck up for the weekend.
He had a cabin up toward Cedar Mountain that was used for fishing, and it also housed the remains of the few individuals he'd sacrificed for Wilhelm in his early years.The creature's appetite fluctuated with time.
Most offerings came in the form of Billy's bodily fluids and entrails from any animal that had met their end through the man's hunting trips, but there had been some occasions where human remains were demanded.
Billy fought the request, but Wilhelm's grip on him was too strong.To the human eye, the creature appeared to be only the size of a thumb,
But beyond the veil of camouflage, a behemoth of enormous proportions made up the existence of the demonic insect.Its intangible talons were capable of digging deep into Billy's mind if he disobeyed.
The pain was excruciating and left him with little to no choice but to listen and do as he was instructed. It was rare for this to happen, but when it did, it was shown who held the reins to Billy's existence.
This is why at the furthest end of the cabin sat a small graveyard, unnoticeable to most, but Billy was constantly reminded of the bodies that lay in their eternal beds beneath the land he owned.
It sickened him, and he prayed to God for help, but Wilhelm would laugh. Ain't no God here to help you, boy, Billy boy."Billy spent that weekend fishing for largemouth bass and a few bluegills.
The guts and egg sacks were set up aside in a ceramic jar.After the weekend ended, he headed back home.After unloading his things, he walked to a dark corner of his bedroom with the ceramic jar in hand.He lit three candles on a small table.
It was decorated with various bone fragments, small glass bottles of dark liquids and dried herbs, and etched into the wood was a symbol, one associated with Wilhelm and three circles connected by various acute angles.
Billy set the jar down and removed the lid. The candle's flames grew and turned green.A whining noise caused the floor to vibrate under his feet, and smoke rose from the table.A small circle of fire erupted and out popped the lantern fly.
It shifted its beady eyes between Billy and the jar full of entrails.My, my, my, what a feast!Wilhelm twitched a thin leg that landed on the jar. Billy nervously scratched at the stubble on his chin.There's your offering for this the season.
Fear and hope nestled inside those words of the man.Fear of the demon and hope that the offering would suffice for a long while.Wilhelm fluttered its wings performing a hopping motion to land on the ceramic lid.
The long proboscis emerged, growing to the size of an earthworm.The end opened up to reveal jagged yellow fangs that stabbed at the putrid-smelling fish organs.The creature slurped and moaned with delight.
The black dots shifted in circular motions through the powdered material of brown and gray wings.In a matter of minutes, the entire jar was empty. Afterwards, Wilhelm brought its attention back to Billy.
"'Tis fine, Neo, but only time will tell if I crave more sustenance for this season, lad."A high-pitched buzz filled the room, and in a flash of ominous light, Wilhelm disappeared through a cloud of smoke.
The next week started off with no incidents or complications. Brick was beginning to be replaced, and the cleaning on the other section of the building was nearly finished.Billy only had to yell three times over the course of Monday and Tuesday.
Things took a different turn on Wednesday morning, though.He woke with a hangover, but that wasn't unusual.The unusual part was the lack of noises coming from the chicken coop.
Normally, the rooster would be crowing and the hens would be clucking behind the latch door. Billy walked up to the small enclosure to silence.He unhooked the lock and opened up to a horrid scene of blood and feathers.
All the poultry had been ripped apart.Crimson stains had been splashed on the walls.The hay was drenched in fluid, organs, and excrement.Every chicken had been slaughtered, their carcasses torn open and their heads ripped from their necks.
Billy choked on his own vomit from the scene, and all of a sudden, a buzzing rang in his ears.A low humming tune echoed within the coop.Standing on top of the mutilated body of the rooster was Wilhelm.
His crane-monstrous appendage was chomping down on the remnants of a neck bone.BILLYBOY!Apologies for the mess, but I just had an outstanding craving this morning. I hope you don't mind.Don't worry.
Give me a few hours and these feeble bodies will be gone."The insect fluttered its wings as it spoke.Billy stammered over his words, which made the stutter he was cursed with even more apparent.But what did you do, Mike?
Well, Helm, cut him off mid-sentence.Hush now, old chap. I had a hunger that needed to be satisfied.You were sleeping so peacefully and I thought it best not to wake you.Now, run along, you'll be late for work."
Billy backed away and jumped with fright when one of his slain hen's legs jerked.He turned and ran.A sharp shooting pain radiated in his foot, a sure sign the gout was about to kick in.
He didn't have time to nurse the foot, so he hopped in his truck and rushed to work. The events of the morning had him shaken, but there was nothing to be done, so he prayed that work would keep him distracted.
Billy arrived at the job site a little later than usual, but still made it before everyone else.He sat in his truck, smoking a cigarette.He rolled it back and forth between his fingers as the images of his desecrated livestock flooded his mind's eye.
The throbbing in his foot intensified. He jumped when one of the journeymen approached his truck to greet him.They could see something was wrong but didn't bother inquiring about the man's odd behavior.
Work began and everyone was surprised that Billy wasn't barking orders or yelling at the laborer.He couldn't be bothered with those things.His mind was still back at the chicken coop.
The smell of sulfur filled the cab of the truck and a small flame erupted on the dashboard. Billy choked on cigarette smoke when he watched Wilhelm leap out of the fire.My dear Billy, how are thou?I want you to know the mess back home's all clean.
I even lapped up the blood off the walls for you.The insect rubbed a thin black arm across those hellish eyes.It walked toward the steering wheel in a jerky, robotic motion.Billy ripped his hands from the wheel in order to avoid contact.
What are you doing here?"Billy was confused.Wilhelm had never appeared when he was at work, and the damn thing had eaten a whole flock of chickens.There was absolutely no reason for the demonic bug to be there.
Wilhelm rested on the center of the steering wheel and stared for a while. Well, my boy, you see, that hunger of mine is still ravenous.Unfortunately, the poultry was but a mere snack.I believe it's time for something more substantial.
After all, it's been over a decade.Billy knew all too well what this meant.Last time this happened, he was tasked with burying two bodies on the lot of his cabin.I can't do that here. Billy's heart thumped hard in his chest.
The insect cleaned itself, stretched out one wing, then folded it.You'll give me what I want, Billy boy.You always do.This was true.The last time Billy even tried to deny Wilhelm, it did not end so well.
The hold this creature had on the man was immeasurable.What do you want? The worry of acting out another case of gruesome murder began to weigh heavy on Billy.He wanted to disappear and be free of Wilhelm's grasp, but he knew that was impossible.
The chipper lanternfly hopped up and glided on spotted wings to land on the man's shoulder.For starters, I would rather enjoy a fresh and plump set of ocular organs.Perhaps a tall one would suffice.
The tall one, as Wilhelm described, was the journeyman who always gave Billy a hard time.He had always wanted to tussle with the man, but the thought of murder never crossed his mind.
Billy didn't argue, and like an obedient pet, he exited the truck and walked toward the scaffolding.After a treacherous climb of 40 feet, he made it to the deck where two men were laying brick.
One was using a chipping hammer to pop out some of the leftover mortar joints while the other was scooping and placing new wet mortar with a trowel.As Billy approached, the tall one was placing a half-broken brick in the wall.
"'How's it going, lads?'he asked, the man hiding his solemn knowledge of what was about to happen. The one using the power tool didn't react on account of him wearing headphones to block out the noise while the other one asked why Billy was up there.
The conversation was made short when Wilhelm, still sitting on Billy's shoulder, hissed into his ear, do it now.Billy's hand shook as he grabbed a brick hammer that was lying next to a stack of bricks.
He gripped the handle and raised it over his head. The tall man was kneeling down, smoothing out the overflowing mortar between the new course of bricks.He looked over his shoulder.His eyes grew wide when he saw the tool fly toward him.
It landed on the side of his head, sending a loud and wet crack that spurted blood.It spread and landed on the wall and on Billy's cheek. He ripped a hammer from the cracked skull and repeated three more times until the man's body went limp.
His partner did not react and continued working.Wilhelm hopped and glided toward the corpse with a jagged hole in the battered skull.The creature moved in that unnatural motion to a pair of still open eyes.
It hummed a tune, released that gigantic green organ, and began to devour the lifeless orbs Billy just stood there with the hammer still in his hand.Blood and viscera slowly dripped from one end.
The man with the power tool paused what he was doing and removed one of his earplugs.He turned to see the insect eating his partner and let out a scream.Wilhelm shouted at Billy, Silence that one!
And with no will to hesitate, Billy landed a blow of the hammer to the screaming man's head. A thud followed, a long, loud bang of the power tool that fell onto the aluminum deck.The journeyman began convulsing, blood oozing from the wound.
Wilhelm hopped onto Billy's shoulder and then forced its way to his ear canal. Small arms dug into the flesh and worked belly like a puppet.He placed a boot on the man's chest, leaned over to grab the chipping gun.
He placed the bit on the employee's forehead and pulled the trigger.Loud pounding resonated from the power tool, sending the long bit to hammer through flesh and into the skull.
Cracking bone and liquids flew from the crude opening until the bit rammed all the way through to the other side. This was indicated by the clattering of metal against metal as the deck rattled under Billy's feet.
His finger released the trigger and his legs were forced to walk up to the safety bars of the scaffolding frame.He removed them from the pins and jumped.
Billy dropped like a stone to the ground, but sustained no injury thanks to the Hellspawn bug controlling his body. An electrifying sensation shook his eardrum, and Wilhelm's voice echoed, off to the next two oblivious drones.
One foot in front of the other, Billy ran toward the other side of the building.He scaled the scaffolding like some kind of crazed primate, gripping bars and hurtling himself upward with little effort.In the blink of an eye, he was at the top.
Two men in yellow rain gear were cleaning the carbon-encrusted wall.A bucket of that gluey, acidic sludge was being applied with a large brush.At the far end was a pressure washing machine.Billy's presence startled the men and they jumped back.
He grabbed one by the shoulders and threw him off the deck.The poor soul fell with a hard thud to the ground.A bellowing wail of pain followed him. I want to see his skin melt!"
Wilhelm demanded inside Billy's head, digging those sharp legs deeper into the flesh.The frightened journeyman started to back away, hands raised in defense.Billy's leg raised and kicked him in the stomach.
He fell on his back, air forcefully leaving his lungs.A jolt of fire charged Billy's arms to grip the bucket of chemicals and dump it on the man. His face became covered in goo.The sound of agonizing cries sent bile to rise in Billy's stomach.
He wanted to stop but was trapped, witnessing the horror his body was creating.No way of preventing the chaos.Small sores slowly began to rip open on the flesh of the man's face and neck.
The chemical was eating away at the soft tissue, leaving countless lesions that expelled viscera. Let's give the man a little rinse, shall we, Billy boy?I'm gonna taste some cartilage."
A sinister laugh filled the valley of haughty organs inside Billy's head.His body was forced toward the pressure washer, and memories of the little girl from his past flooded his mind.
Gruesome still images of her disfigured body sent a trail of tears to leak from his eyes. The past was repeating itself, but with a horrendous multiplication of gore.A hand set to choke while the other pulled at a drawstring.
The machine roared to life, rattling in the atmosphere.Billy gripped the handle of the pressure gun and walked back to the still screaming man.He pulled the trigger, releasing a wide stream of high-velocity water.
It tore through the skin, rubbing it off in chunks.Blood spewed and mixed with the water, creating a pink mist.He pushed the tip closer, which started to remove other pieces of tissue.All the while, the victim wailed in utter agony.
The tip of the gun was then placed inside the man's mouth, filling it with water while also shredding the internal tissue of his throat. Eventually, the man drowned from a mixture of water, blood, and his own flesh.Wilhelm applauded his disciple.
Well done, old chap.Now rip me off a piece of his face.Do chew it for me, please.Billy gripped a section of rigid white material that sat around the nasal cavity of the skinned face.It took some effort, but eventually he was able to remove a piece.
He popped it in his mouth and began to chew.It felt like stiff rubber and tasted putrid, like melted plastic and copper.His stomach turned, but he continued and then swallowed.Hmm, an odd taste, but it is much more elegant than aged fish eggs.
Now let's go check on your fallen comrade.In another feat of amazing descent, Billy landed a few stories below.He could feel the sensation of pus exploding from his infected toe.Pain pulsated in his foot, but his body continued to move.
The other journeyman was still alive, attempting to crawl to safety.Billy walked toward him with Wilhelm, whispering diabolical things into his ears.Billy ripped a rain jacket off of him and began to stomp on the man's back.
Spit flew from his screaming mouth as he tried to plead for his life.Wilhelm gazed through the slave's eyes and spotted a large metal box.The will of the insect caused Billy to pause his assault and step toward the object.
He opened the lid with a view of various tools, wires, brushes, cords, and a roll of plastic. Walhelm spotted an angle grinder and moved Billy's blood-drenched hand to grab it.
The distraught drone walked back, coincidentally spotting a long yellow extension cord near the next victim.The grinder was plugged in, and the button slid to the on position.
The tool whirred with velocity, and Billy stepped in front of the journeyman. The spinning diamond blade ate through flesh and bone like butter.Crimson fluid flew through the air, splashing all over Billy.Countless cuts were made across the body.
An arm was completely severed.The blade jammed when it came in contact with the spine.Billy tried to pull it free, but was forced to stop.Unbeknownst to him and Wilhelm, The laborer had witnessed the entire onslaught.
The young man was standing in awe at the mixing trough, hose still clutched in his hands.A flood of wings tickled inside Billy's ears, followed by another command.Cut that little shit down.
Billy grabbed the grinder from the mutilated corpse and began to work again, sending a large chunk of bone flying with a high-pitched whistle. Heavy and fast, footfells stomped their way to the frightened man.Faster, faster, you pathetic fool!
Wilhelm shouted.The speed increased, but was abruptly ruined by a bucket full of debris.This sent Billy falling toward the ground.Ankle grinder firmly clasped in both hands. As he fell, his arms folded toward his chest.
With a crash, he fell, and the spinning blade dug into his neck.The momentum and speed ate through all of the muscle and bone, and after landing, the blade continued its work until Billy's head, held on by a thread.Damn it, you fumbling buffoon!
The frustration of Wilhelm's voice floated toward the laborer. The insect released its grip and exited from Billy's bleeding ear canal.It released its insanely large green proboscis and wrapped it around the head.
As Wilhelm scurried, the head dragged across the dirt, leaving behind a trail of blood and mucus.By the grace of the five houses of Abernathy, you are worthless, Billy boy, the insect muttered to itself, then started to chant in a low guttural tone.
A small ring of fire and smoke appeared, and Wilhelm walked while continuing its almost inaudible murmurs.The laborer fell backwards and landed in a sitting position.
He stared at the sight of a talking lanternfly dragging his boss's decapitated head toward a ring of fire.Wilhelm moved in that robotic motion and stopped to look at the young man. Best not stay long, lad.Someone may think you did all of this.
I'll be back later to check on you."As the words registered in the young man's mind, he watched the bug fall through the hole, dragging Billy Boltz, severed head with him, into oblivion.
I hope you enjoyed Billy and the Lantern Fly by Mike Mann as performed by yours truly.
If you enjoyed that tale and would love to read more from tonight's very talented featured author, you can help support him by visiting simplyscarypodcast.com slash Mike dash Mann.That's simplyscarypodcast.com slash M-I-K-E dash M-A-N-N.
Thanks again for your support of this program and tonight's featured author.
Now there's a tale that leaves a nice taste in your mouth and gives whole new meaning to mouthwash.
I had a dentist once who liked to use his water pick in exactly the same way.Same acid bath?Worse.
He flavored it with essential oils.Monstrous.Though I'm sure it was relaxing.Actually, speaking of tales, I have one to share myself this evening.Ah, you do? Then pray tell, let us know all about it.It's a bit of a fairy tale in its own way.
It's about a strange fellow who always seems to know what everyone wants and how to get it for them.Thing is, can they pay the price?Settle down and settle in as I tell you the tale of the Peddler Man.
The peddler man, the peddler man, could bring you delights or an old tin can.There will be nothing to lack when the peddler man opens his sack.My grandfather was the first to encounter the peddler man.
He would often tell us stories of sitting on his porch, staring out at the endless expanse of Kansas farmland and countryside, when the fellow with the pack on his back came up the road.
He seemed pleasant enough, agreeable, willing to make any kind of deal.Thing was, even though it was turn of the century, he was dressed as if he were from another time altogether. No suspenders, no linen shirt or button-up slacks for this one.
He seemed as if he had stepped out of the pages of the Brothers Grimm, with a burlap shirt and green drawstring pants.
He was also barefoot, a terrible idea for walking who knows how many dirt roads before he arrived here, and how many more he would walk after. But did he really walk that distance?Did he really walk from anywhere?That, I don't rightly know.
He would tell us when we were children, relating the story of this mysterious traveler.All I know is that when he would come, it was to either signal a great good coming to the farm, or a great ill.
At my young age, I couldn't bear to be kept in suspense.Well, which was it?How could you know what it was? Well, Terrence, my young lad, there was no real way to tell.It all depended on what he brought with him.
My brother, a few years older than me, slightly more jaded, rolled his eyes.So, Gramps, what was he exactly?Some kind of angel or demon or something? I don't rightly know.He only showed up three times in my life and then I never saw him again.
Once was a great, wonderful, and grand event.The other two, well..." He trailed off after that.He never spoke of the second two.We only knew them as nebulous events, things he didn't want to dwell on.
I thought it was because they were so horrible they should never be spoken of. My brother thought it was because he could never come up with a story good enough to top what was already in our imaginations.What was the one great, wonderful event?
Grandpa beamed at this.He loved to tell this particular story. Ah, well, you see, I had recently lost my parents.I was a much younger man at the time, and I took over the family farm.
I had not yet found somebody with which to share my life, and to be fair, it was hard to do so.
With my own younger brother incapable of running the farm by himself, and money too low to cover hired hands to take care of it for me, I was unable to go and do things where I could meet a young lady.
I mean, it's not as if things have changed all that much since then, if you look around.It was true.When my brother and I were young, we had no real concept of the middle of nowhere, because we didn't have a concept of anywhere.
This was where we had grown up, and except for the occasional ramble into town with our father to buy whatever supplies we needed, we only had the faintest inkling of cities and places like them.
It was only when we were approaching high school age that we realized we lived in what was fashionably known as the Hinterlands, the Back Hundred and Fifty, Nowhere, and many other pejorative names.
I could only imagine what it was like for someone like my grandfather, eking out a lonely existence with only a much younger brother to take care of.
So, as it was too difficult to go out and do things, I did what I could around the farm, as best I could.And one evening, I was taking a moment of sight and admire the scenery, when I see a dart moving down the road.
The dart grew closer, and as it got closer I realized it was a man, walking, with a great big pack on his back. The thing raised up over his head like a great brick of stonehenge, blocking the light behind him, casting him in shadow.
He came to a stop in the road just in front of the house and then turned to face me.He then described the man once again, exactly as I have above, as someone who looked as out of place in the American Midwest as we would walking the roads of China.
Well, that strange man, my lads, he stopped and stared at me, refusing to take another step.Not a drop of sweat on his brow, even though he clearly should have been crushed under that pack.
But he just watched me on the porch, until I finally stood up, stepped down off the porch, and addressed him directly.Now, dear sir, I can imagine you've walked quite some way.Would you care to come inside and refresh yourself?
He did not speak just then, but he bowed low, and I was afraid the pack would topple from his back and crush me beneath its weight.I need no refreshment, my good sir, but thank you kindly for asking.
I simply ask if you would take a look at my wares and make a selection. At this, he finally undid his straps and he placed the sack down on the road next to him.
I heard it make a frightful clunk and a clattering of dishes and cups, and was deathly afraid that something had broken inside.But no, nothing of the sort.
He laid the pack down flat and he undid a massive zipper all the way around, and oh, what a sight it was.
The pack unrolled into a blanket that seemed to stretch all the way across the road and wrapped in its contents, securely fastened by thick fabric straps with trinkets and amazing things the likes of which I could never imagine.
music boxes, solid gold cups, lamps that looked like they could contain a genie or two.It was as if the circus had come to town just for me, and I could take a piece of it home with me.
I looked and looked, and though many things caught my eye, none did so quite like a beautiful set of jeweled cufflinks.I don't know why they did, as I never attended anything so fancy as to need them in my entire life, but I couldn't help it.
They burned into my brain and I needed nothing so much as those cufflinks.I pointed them out and asked him, how much are those?He smiled and undid them from his sack and placed them in my hand.Everything I carry with me has an owner in need.
My job is to provide it.As for payment, I will return sometime in the future to collect whatever it is that you are able to give me.
But understand, every object has its price, and if you could not provide me with a suitable offer, we will negotiate."Now, I had no idea what he meant.I was little more than a boy, on the cusp of manhood.In a bargain like that, how could I resist?
And so, with the deal done, he closed up his pack, placed the impossible weight on his back, and went on down the road.And you know what came next, don't you boys? We did indeed.
Not more than a few days later, a motorized car came driving up the dirt road, zooming by at a high speed.Well, at that time, 13 miles per hour was quite the speed to go. It was a Pope Electric, and one of the earliest cars available in America.
The driver was taking it across the country to see just how powerful its electric engine could be.Again, my brother took this all with a grain of salt.It sounded nice as a story, but a Pope?
Built in Connecticut, finding its way to some backwards road in Kansas that just happened to drive by a farm owned by our grandfather, who got a chance to test drive it?
I remember him complaining years later that the vehicles had a range of 40 miles, and the most impressive jaunt they had at the time was in 1903, driving from Boston to New York in the span of a day.
If my grandfather's stories did nothing else, they got my brother fascinated about the ins and outs of the world, if only to constantly refute everything he ever said.
Well, that stranger took me into that cab, and though I hadn't told my brother where I was going, I drove out, bouncing down the road, watching the wheels bounce around on the dirt.He took me all the way to a small town up the road.
Gainersville it was.And what a place it was.I'd never been far enough to actually be in a town.It wasn't large when you got right down to it, but compared to how often I saw neighbors on the farm, And there I met Jenny.Sweet, lovely Jenny.
She was sitting and waiting outside a big meeting hall in the center of town looking lonesome and worried.
I asked her why she looked so glum, and she said it was because she had been waiting all day for a certain gentleman to take her to the dance later on in the evening, but he had failed to arrive.
Oh, my goodness, well, let me tell you something, young lady.I may not be the man who is intending to dance with you, but something tells me I'm here to do it anyway.
Upon hearing this, she smiled, and at the dance I realized I had those new cufflinks in my pocket. I placed them into my shirt, and I tell you, if they weren't magical, they certainly seemed to be that night.Oh, what a night we shared.
And as you boys know, it eventually lasted more than one night. Yes, it did.Grandma Jenny was the love of his life.
Sure, when he came home that first night, this time riding with Jenny on her horse she had taken to town, his brother was near dead with worry.But upon meeting Jenny, he too was struck with her beauty and demeanor.
Turned out she lived only a few miles away, at a farm further down the road even than grandpa's, so it was no trouble for them to meet up, court, and finally wed.
Her parents gave them full blessing and it became a boon to both families once their only son, my father, came into the world, as they were able to share their farmhands with my grandfather, and both became immensely successful and profitable.
Yes, that was the good story, and now you kids get to bed.
We did as we were told, and as me and my brother were tucked in for the night by our mother, who kissed us goodnight before we woke up early to do farm work all over again the next day, our father came in to tell us he would be gone in the morning, gone for a drive to town to make another pickup, and would have to do it before dawn.
My brother just nodded, turned over, and fell asleep almost instantly.But before my father walked out, I had something to ask him. Dad, are grandpa's stories true?They are as true as he believes them to be.
Hearing that, I knew he meant no, but was too polite to say otherwise.But dad, why does he never tell us about the other two times the peddler came back?My father sighed.
He doesn't like to tell those stories because he feels he is responsible for things beyond his control. You wouldn't believe how many times I've told him he doesn't have to beat on himself like that, but he remains thoroughly convinced.
What do you mean?My father sat down on the end of my bed rubbing his face.He didn't have grandpa's way with words, but he could explain a story just fine if he needed to.
He said the farm did well for a long time, but then the peddler came back along the road and he asked for his payment. Your grandpa was more than happy to oblige and tried to give him whatever cash he needed.But the man said no.
He needed something just as valuable as the thing he gave, and money by itself was not worth a thing.When nothing grandpa could give him sufficed, he said the peddler would return once more after he could find a suitable price.And he left.
About three days later, your great uncle was killed in a threshing machine owned by your grandma Jenny's folks.A total freak accident, no way it should have happened.But it was an awful way to go.
Even with the old mourning periods, the coffin in front of the parlor was kept closed, simply because there wasn't enough of him left to be visible.And what was, wasn't pretty.This was not a story I wanted to hear before going to bed.
And he thinks that, yes, he thinks the peddler took his brother as payment.He told me that one time, when I was your age, and he'd had a bit of alcohol in him.He drinks a lot less now, thankfully.
My father trailed off then, as if remembering things he wished he could forget.But he got a third visit.Why would the peddler have visited again? He didn't ever tell me that.He just said he met him once again and asked if a payment had been decided.
At that, he berated the peddler, telling him that he'd already extracted a hefty fee and that he had no more business here.At that, the peddler packed up, stated that he would no longer bother him again.And he never came back? No.
But your grandma Jenny died a day later.She grew ill and died just like that.Or that's what he says.I think she was very ill for a long time but just hid it very well.Mom was like that.
She was always very proud and never let on more than she ever wanted anyone to know.But he thinks the peddler took her too.I didn't ask this time.I figured that was what the answer was. Yep.
To this day he swears he made a deal with the devil and the devil took his due when he was slighted.I nodded.And you think it's not true? He sighed.I really don't know what to believe, Terrence.
Tall tales like that have been around a lot longer than the rest of us would ever hope for.I think it helps him cope with the loss.But a magic man walking the roads with a pack full of wonders?I doubt it.
I've never seen Hyde nor hear of him, and I think if he was real, he's probably long gone by now.He wouldn't have been all that young when your grandpa met him, so even if he's alive, he probably isn't walking up and down the roads anymore.
No, my father wasn't the storyteller my grandfather was, and he certainly showed it when he left then, leaving me well assured that I wouldn't sleep well that night, dreaming of a man coming down the road with wonderful things.
Only, as soon as I picked one, he would laugh, grow large fangs, and attack me right then and there.
However, outside the realm of dreams, we woke at the crack of dawn, had breakfast, and got to work doing what we did every day of the week, tending to duties around the farm.
Things went completely as normal until I took a break out on the front porch.
Things had definitely improved in the adjoining years, between my grandfather jumping in the alleged Pope automobile and today, and I was able to enjoy a nice cold Coca-Cola as I plopped down into one of the rocking chairs.
I could hear cicadas in the distance, and my brother rambling around with a toy truck somewhere in the house.You look like someone in need of something special, young man.I nearly dropped my coke as I glanced out into the road. A man stood there.
He appeared shabbily dressed, but not in any distinguishable way.His clothing was mismatched, strange, long since out of style, but put together in an ensemble that was probably never in style to begin with.But the pack!
The impossibly large pack on his back!But how did he get there?The road was empty when I came out to the porch.He could not possibly have walked here without me noticing. He smiled at me in a most unusual way.
It was not malicious or threatening, but it still appeared plastered on, as if he wasn't fully in charge of it, but it was being manipulated by something behind it, almost like a puppet. Also, he did not appear old.
Despite my father's reassurances, they both looked to be about the same age as each other.If this was the man my grandfather met all those years ago, either time had been incredibly kind to him, or time has forgotten to inform him of its passage.
I have something here I'm sure you will enjoy.Come and see. With that he removed the pack from his back and placed it on the ground with a heavy thunk.He laid it flat and unzipped it.It was just as grandpa said.
The pack fell open and as it did so a cavalcade of items appeared. Clearly, despite his supposed interminable age, the man did appear to keep up with the times.
There were Captain America comic books, pop guns, western hats, detective novels, all things that I loved when I played in the yard or heard on the radio.
They were all beautiful and either brand new or aged in a way that only made them more exciting to look at.My eye, however, fell on something I never would have expected to see, a ray gun.
It looked just like one I envisioned from a recent story in astounding science fiction.I saw my hands reaching toward it, and then all my warnings from my grandfather filled my mind, and I pulled back.Something wrong, young man?I shook my head.
I don't think I can afford the price.He smiled once more. Young man, I think you may have gotten the wrong impression from me.I never take more than anyone can afford.I think some simply do not understand what it is I am looking for."
I blinked and looked at him.And what is it that you are looking for? He leaned in close.Not money.But you will know when the time comes to pay, just as you will know why you crave this item so much.
With that, he took the ray gun and placed it in my hand.As I looked at it, admiring the smooth plastic design and decals, I looked back to see the peddler before he left.But he was already gone.
His pack, which had still been unrolled while he'd been talking, had vanished along with him. It was closing in on lunchtime when my father's truck came rambling back up the road toward us.
My mother was genuinely concerned at this point and was very happy to see him, as his trip should have only taken a few hours, not all morning.
She ran out to greet him and ask where he had been, but when the driver door opened it wasn't my father that got out on the driver's side.It was a man in a pressed suit, holding a pistol, and he aimed it at her.
The other side opened and another man got out.He wore much simpler clothes, dirtier, more ragged, but he too was armed and he was dragging my father with him.
Me, I had come out onto the front porch to see what was going on and I had placed the red plastic ray gun on the sill.
I didn't hear the whole conversation, but from what I could gather some time later, my father had been speaking to a potential investor who might have been able to take some of the farm off of our hands.
It was too much for us to deal with as it was these days.
Unfortunately, it turned out that the investor wasn't an investor at all, but a mobster heading out west, trying to develop a potential stopgap where all kinds of illicit goods could be handled away from prying eyes before traveling back to the coast.
I'd heard about mobsters on the radio, certainly, but I never thought they could be out here.It almost seemed too outrageous to be true.
But here they were, and as I watched my poor, beaten, and disheveled father being dragged around by the shabbier of the two men, I had to admit to myself that as unreal as this was, it was still happening right in front of me.
My grandfather came to the door, listening to the commotion, wondering what was going on.At that moment, the well-dressed man pointed his gun at him, asking, You?You the owner of this place?
Lest I can near tell, unless someone has been lying to me for the past few decades, what about it?The gun popped, and I saw a puff of smoke, and behind me, my grandfather fell, clutching at his chest.
I watched the blood appear on his chest, and his gasp of air. The well-dressed man waved his gun around.Guess the property is mine by default then.Guess that means the rest of you have until the count of ten to get on your way.
Heard it's a ways walk to town, so get moving.And don't bother talking to the police.I have a feeling they'll be backing up our claim.Both he and the other man laughed.I held up the ray gun.
The shabby man noticed me, pointing to his compatriots, and they both laughed. Look at that!Kid's gonna send you to Saturn!"I knew it wouldn't help.It was just a toy.It would maybe flash, maybe make a little beeping sound.
But a part of me hoped that, as a gift from the peddler, that it would actually do something.The end of the ray gun lit up. A moment later, so did the shabbily dressed man.He dropped my father and his gun, looking at his hands as he began to glow.
Oh God!I'm burning up!I'm burning up!And so he did.His skin darkened to a crisp, his soft organs obliterated as he shriveled into a blackened skeleton.He crackled a few times before he collapsed in on himself, turning to dust.
The well-dressed man watched in horror as his partner disintegrated before he saw me turn the weapon on him.The ray worked slightly different on him.He didn't dry up the way his partner did, not right away.
His skin bubbled and pooled from his body and he raked clawed bony hands through the melting flesh of his face as he turned into soup.It was only as he folded in on himself that he finally charred and his remains blew away in the wind.
My parents stared on, wide-eyed in surprise and fear, as I turned to my grandfather.Unfortunately, he was already gone when I turned to check on him.Now, time has passed.We buried my grandfather, I've grown up, and I still run the farm.
I couldn't leave it no matter how hard I tried.I have never seen the peddler again, though I know for a fact he will come back.I don't know what he will ask from me.Despite his reassurance, I don't know if I will have the proper payment.
But, just in case, I have never gotten married, and I call my brother every day. And still I watch for a stranger to come down the road.And I pray when that day comes, I will be ready.
I hope you enjoyed The Peddler Man by Seth Paul, as performed by your friendly neighbor, Malcolm Blackwood.
If you enjoyed that tale and would love to read more from tonight's very talented feature author, you can help support them by visiting simplyscarypodcast.com slash Seth dash Paul. at simplyscarypodcast.com slash S-E-T-H dash P-A-U-L.
Thanks again for your support of this program and tonight's featured author.
Had a very similar device to that ray gun, you know.Used it quite a bit in the olden days.Did you have a lot of mobsters coming to your porch?No, just a lot of political pamphleteers.Nobody ever seemed to notice them missing?
Surprisingly, it never came up.Thanks again for your support of this program and tonight's featured author, as well as all of our authors who provided us with stories tonight.
And thank you to my new neighbor for providing his voice to one of tonight's tales.It was my pleasure.
If I may, I'd like to stop by again.You have such a way with words, and I'd love to share some time with your delightful listeners.
And perhaps we will. Now, before we go, we'd also like to take a moment to thank you personally for joining me and our friends on this episode of Scary Stories Told in the Dark as we enter our 16th season.
Yes, only a few more decades and we'll be catching up with the Simpsons.But until then, please join us as we continue our weekly descent into madness, mayhem, and maybe even a little fun.
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And as for my neighbor, well, stay tuned.
Good evening to you, and I hope to darken your doorstep again soon.
Until next week, stay spooky and get some sleep if you can.Thanks for listening.
You've been listening to Scary Stories Told in the Dark, a production of Chilling Entertainment and the creative team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcasts Network.
Visit simplyscarypodcast.com today to learn more about our network and our other amazing storytelling programs.Tonight's program was hosted and its featured stories performed by yours truly, Otis Chiry.
Selected stories have been adapted with the kind permission of their respective authors Original music provided by Luke Hodgkinson and Jesse Cornett.
Sound design and final mixing and mastering provided by executive producer and director Craig Groshek.Programs, artwork, and logo by David Romero.
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