S22 Ep10: NoSleep Podcast S22E10

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They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable

audio messages from the shadows,

but one message is clear,

and it says

brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast.

Hello, lovers, Cummings here, and welcome to the dark side of love.

Yes, Valentine's Day has come and gone, no pun intended, but the spirit of love remains deep in our hearts.

And when it comes to horror and love, it's easy to only consider how love can turn bad, how that thin line between love and hate becomes blurred, and people turn their love into something malevolent.

But love in the world of horror doesn't always have to be of the love gone bad variety.

Love is passion.

Love stirs strong desires.

And love can entwine people in relationships crossing all different planes of existence.

And when the love is strong enough, even death can't be the end of it.

On this episode, we meet people who are in love.

And all they want is for a way to make their love last and grow.

But they will learn what a delicate process it is to foster love.

And as my long-lost cousin, E.E.

Cummings once wrote, be of love a little more careful than of anything.

So tread carefully into our episode of love, dearest listeners.

Your heart isn't the only thing love can break.

Now, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet Martin, a man in love with Jessica, and they've just moved in together.

Sounds like the perfect time to keep a journal of their romance.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Sean J.K.

Heisman, Martin notices strange, subtle things changing in their relationship, so much so that reality itself starts being questioned.

Performing this tale is Jeff Clement.

So keep good notes when you're not sure about things, even if, as Martin says, it's my first diary.

February 16th, 1998.

Dear Diary.

Is that an okay way to start an entry?

It's how people always do it on TV.

Come to think of it, those are always little girls.

Maybe adult men don't start entries that way.

I guess we don't have diaries either.

We have journals.

Sorry, this is a terrible start.

Today is a big day for me, so I marked the occasion by getting you.

I thought it'd be fun to document the best years of my life.

for posterity.

Today, I move in with the most beautiful woman on the planet, the person I love more than anything, Jessica Keaton.

It's been such an exciting and wonderful day, and it's hard to contain my glee as I write this all down with her sleeping next to me.

We started the day by moving everything we own into her dream home.

Well, mostly her stuff.

I've always been a bit of a minimalist.

She, on the other hand, is a collector.

She does have wonderful taste.

The place is an old Victorian in the center of town.

Two stories, white painted walls, and a brown shingled roof.

The yard, as well, is massive, but a mess.

The previous owner, Jessica's aunt Mildred, was a recluse from what I've heard.

After we had gotten the boxes inside, the first thing we did was set up the bed and celebrate.

After that, we spent the rest of the day touring the house.

Her aunt loved making dolls, so the place was littered with them.

Little men made from all kinds of materials.

Felt, wool, leather, twine, twigs, and clay.

They each wear different outfits.

Suits, leather jackets, police uniforms, doctor scrubs, and one with an apron and white chef's hat.

Yet they all have the same frozen smile.

Don't mean to be rude, but they creep me out.

We were also planning how we'd arrange certain rooms, what new paint jobs we'd do, and budgeting how long it'll take to replace the ancient appliances in most of the house.

For God's sake, we found a washboard in the laundry room.

I guess that's everything for today.

I'm not exactly sure how to stop this, so I guess I just will.

Martin Smith,

February 17th, 1998.

Dear Journal.

Wow, that sounds way worse.

Okay, I guess I'll stick to diary, even if it's not the most masculine.

Today was also wonderful.

I had to work, attending to my bookstore and everything.

I felt terrible leaving, but Jessica insisted she was fine on her own.

I need to do something for her because she works so hard.

When I got home, she had some of her friends over.

It was amazing getting to meet the people she grew up with.

I never really had many close friends myself.

They were great.

Jack and I hit it off well.

He's an avid reader himself and was interested in some of the rarer editions in my shop's collection.

As we got lost in our discussion, Sally, Jessica's best friend, made a joke saying,

Same books, same hair, same boy.

You've got a type, Jess.

I was a little confused about what she was talking about, but everyone laughed it off.

For starters, we don't even have the same hair.

He's a light brown and I'm clearly a deep caramel color.

Entirely different.

I think Jack saw my puzzlement because he patted my back and said something along the lines of things had ended between them long ago.

The party wrapped up soon after, and Jess apologized once everyone had left.

She said Jack was just a short fling.

I saw she was very flustered, and it twisted me up inside.

In the clearest possible terms, I told her that it was fine and not to worry.

I bent down to kiss her on her forehead, saying I loved her and I couldn't wait to see her friends again.

Martin Smith.

February 20th, 1998.

Dear Diary

The house is starting to feel like a home.

We spent the day working on the living room.

We painted it a beautiful sky blue, our favorite color.

Before it was this dreary dark gray, it looked like a funeral parlor.

I also had to do some plastering.

Jessica's aunt, Mildred, had shelves lining the walls with her dolls.

We took them down one at a time, and I felt a pang of guilt as I plastered over the holes where they had been drilled in.

One of them I held up for Jess to see.

I thought it looked like me.

She scoffed and pointed out our hair was entirely different.

I felt silly because she was right.

Its hair was way too dark, but still,

for a moment, it felt uncanny.

Our next big project, I thought, was going to be the basement.

Then Jessica told me she was going to do it on her own.

Most of Mildred's stuff was moved to storage there after her passing.

It has sentimental value.

I feel like an ass thinking of her hauling all those boxes by herself, but if that's what she wants.

Sales are starting to pick up at my bookstore.

It's frustrating how often people come in and they say they're happy to see a new business in town, and I have to smile and tell them, nope, been here for years.

Though they usually laugh and apologize after.

One lady actually started arguing with me though, said it was her favorite bakery three months ago.

Some people are just crazy.

With the house nearly done, I'll finally be able to tackle work that's been slipping at the store.

I'm behind on tax filings.

I'm usually much more on top of this sort of thing, and the dusting.

Oh god, the dusting.

Who knew so much could build up in a few days?

You'd think the place had been abandoned.

Either way, I have a busy day tomorrow.

Martin Smith.

February 25th, 1998.

Dear Diary, Jessica and I fought.

I came home from work and immediately stepping into the door, I knew something was wrong.

My throat felt scratchy and my eyes began to water.

My allergies were acting up.

I stumbled around half blind until I found Jessica in the kitchen.

It was perched on her shoulder, nuzzling her neck, the kitten.

It was like a lump of coal with eyes on the top and razor blades on the bottom.

Jessica came up and gave me a hug.

As she closed in, my violent sneezes came at a rapid fire.

Desperate, I stepped out of the kitchen and covered my mouth and nose with my shirt far too late.

I reminded Jessica I was allergic to cats, and she did not look happy to hear that.

When she suggested that I just take reactin, I couldn't help but laugh.

She looked furious to hear that, and we argued.

She pitied the little thing, saying she found it shivering in the basement.

It must have come through a basement window for shelter.

I understood where she was coming from and felt for the little guy, but I was struggling to breathe.

I told her I was going to get air and some allergy meds and tomorrow we'd start searching for a home for him.

I kissed her, but she was stiff and unreceptive.

Nothing wrong with that.

Everyone processes difficult emotions differently.

I just hope she's not mad at me forever.

Now it's been a few hours.

I took time to walk around town waiting for the meds to kick in.

By the time I got home, Jessica was asleep, the cat curled up on her chest.

They both were snoring.

So I'm writing in you now on the couch downstairs.

Tomorrow we'll find somewhere good for the cat and she'll see it's for the best.

Martin Smith.

February 26th, 1998.

Dear Diary, today I awoke to the mouth-watering smell of bacon and eggs.

Jessica was making breakfast.

As I sat up on the couch, a weight shifted on my chest.

It was the kitten, gently sleeping in a little ball.

I had to admit, he looked mighty cute there.

I was scratching the top of his head when Jessica came in holding a plate.

She handed it to me.

The meal was a bacon and egg sandwich.

Though the bacon was a little crisp and the toast a touch dark, I happily ate it because I knew she made it with love.

I'll do breakfast next time, though.

After I ate, Jessica apologized.

I told her I understood and accepted.

We then discussed the elephant sleeping on my stomach, and I said we can hold off finding a home till the weekend when we're less busy.

She kissed me and asked if I liked the name Salem for him.

I have a sinking feeling we are keeping the cat.

On the way home from work, I ran into Jack.

He's a nice guy, but strange.

He asked me how long ago I moved into the town.

I told him I had always lived here.

He nodded, but I got the impression he didn't believe me.

Martin Smith.

March 1st, 1998.

Dear Diary

When I went into the kitchen this morning, Jess was doing the cutest thing.

She was repeating my name like she was testing it.

I didn't want to embarrass her, so I snuck back upstairs and came down deliberately loud the second time so she knew I was on the way.

She hugged me when I came in and said my hair looked like fire in the morning light.

As we embraced, Salem swiveled between our legs.

It was hard to imagine the little guy living anywhere else.

Jess decided we'd have a movie night for our day off, so I went out to rent some things.

When I got back, I couldn't find them anywhere.

I shouted a few times and was starting to panic when Jess finally came out of the basement hauling a massive cardboard box.

There was some dark soot on her face and she had a large gash on her hands.

I told her that she needs to be more careful.

If work needs doing in the basement, I'm always available.

She said it was her project and that I had nothing to do with it.

Didn't want to burden my already packed schedule.

At the very least, I insisted she let me bring the box to the curb.

Jess relented and I took it.

My back nearly shattered from the strain.

The small thing was insanely heavy.

To my embarrassment, I had to take a break halfway.

How Jess is doing this all on her own, I have no idea.

When I finally did get it out, I took a peek inside and to my surprise, it was full of books.

None of them had any titles.

so I picked one up and read it.

Dear Diary, today I move in with the most beautiful person in town.

They were diaries.

I put them back after I realized it wasn't my place to pry, but damn, Mildred must have been prolific because it was a ton of books.

I love Jessica, but I wish she wasn't so fiercely independent or at least let me help her more.

That's all I want to do.

Martin Smith.

March 5th, 1998.

Dear Diary.

Work was slow today, which is good.

It gave me time to work on paperwork and plan for Jess's birthday.

I'm thinking we will go somewhere nice, like...

Yellowstone.

Get in touch with nature, just the two of us.

When I got home, her girlfriends were over again.

I could hear them giggling in the living room and clinking glasses together.

I was shocked to see the three of them sitting around naked with several bottles between them.

Dark soot was on their arms and faces, too, so I guess they were helping with the basement.

Then I saw it, opened on the floor between them, my diary with a doll laying across it.

I felt emotions I can't even begin to describe and snatched it up.

I turned to Jess to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

So I just went to leave.

One of them called out after me, That's not fair.

You've seen ours.

We should see yours.

I told them no and tried to continue my exit.

That's a shame, Sally said.

We heard it was quite nice.

I told Jess I didn't appreciate her telling her friends things like that.

She rolled her eyes.

I went to bed.

Scott Smith

March 13th, 1998.

Dear Diary, Beautiful day today.

The sun is high in the sky and shining bright.

I feel good and refreshed.

Shop's closed and Jess is out with friends, so I decided to go for a walk.

Maybe I could catch up on some reading I've been been putting off.

Ran into Jack again.

He said he liked my new hair, which seemed odd, but I didn't want to make things awkward like last time, so I just thanked him.

He said he wanted to give me his number so he could show me around and introduce me to locals.

It felt a bit rude, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd hung out with someone that wasn't Jess, so I took him up on the offer.

He asked if I had a pen, and fishing for one in my pocket, I found some reactin.

He asked what I was allergic to, and I told him nothing.

Couldn't remember where I even got it from.

Strange day.

Scott Smith.

March 26th, 1998.

Dear Diary.

Today has been terrible.

I told Jess what my plan for her birthday was.

She started yelling at me.

Said I was boring, a complete mistake.

She said some other things that I don't feel like repeating.

I didn't know what to say, so I just went to work.

Home now.

I'm trying to put my thoughts into words.

I just feel shaken.

I'm trying to express my feelings about Jess right now, but I just can't say a bad word about her.

I literally can't say a bad word.

I'm trying, but as soon as I try to say something or write something negative, it twists and vanishes.

She's free-spirited.

No, she speaks her mind.

No,

she can't be controlled.

I feel like I'm losing my mind.

Scott Smith.

March 28th, 1998.

It was a mistake.

I shouldn't have done it.

I read back through my journal.

It doesn't make sense.

None of it is how I remember.

My hair is red.

It's always been red.

I was bullied in high school for being a ginger for God's sake.

I've never had any allergies, let alone being allergic to Salem.

I know it's true.

He's sitting in my lap as I write this.

My head feels like it's spinning.

I'm gonna be sick.

Please, someone make this make sense.

I just want to sleep.

I don't want to write to you anymore.

I've never kept a journal before, and I don't know why I started.

Jess and I haven't spoken in days.

Her friends are always here, in the basement, singing songs and drinking at all hours.

Sometimes the house smells like rotten eggs, and I can see strange lights peeking out from the basement door.

I'm too scared to look.

No one seems to remember me, and I don't remember them.

I think I grew up here.

I know I did.

My parents did too, Jonathan and Elizabeth Smith.

He's a doctor and she's a kindergarten teacher.

I know these things are true, but I can't remember where they live or their number.

Oh, God.

I can't remember their faces.

Is this enough?

Is this what you want?

I don't want to write anymore.

I'm sick of it.

I sit for hours and hours, but no time is passing.

The moon isn't moving.

Will it truly be night forever until I finish this entry?

Scott Smith,

March 31st, 1998.

I don't think I'm real.

Scott Smith.

April 1st, 1998.

Dear Diary.

Man, that feels weird to write, but I want to make sure I don't forget anything.

Never really thought things would go this way for me, but my life has really turned around lately.

I quit the rat race in the city and decided to move to a quaint little town.

It's not like the exciting party life I'm used to, but I was hoping a change in scenery would break the routine I felt suffocated by, and boy did it ever.

Almost immediately, I met the most amazing, wild woman and fell head over heels.

Some days it feels like a struggle to even keep up with her.

Today we're cutting the bullshit and moving in together.

I can hardly contain my excitement.

This is the beginning of the rest of my life.

Scotty.

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These days, a lot of people find connections on dating apps.

From there, you might find some passion or lust, and sometimes that can develop into something deeper.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Ben Larned, We meet a man who hopes his love connection is as perfect as it seems.

But, like all of us, there can be some strings attached.

Performing this tale are Alante Braquette, Kyle Akers, and Jesse Cornet.

So be patient as you get to know each other.

Most of us carry around some kind of baggage.

I look at myself in the mirror for too long.

It's been a while since my last date, for a number of reasons, and I'm no longer sure how I appear to others.

People always compliment my eyebrows and jawline, but maybe they've gone out of fashion.

The dating app experience has confirmed as much.

The only attention I've gotten is from spooky men more in need of therapy than sex.

This is the first one that I've wanted to meet in a while.

But I spent an hour at the mirror and therefore

am late.

The boy, who I recognize by his coffed hair and flannel shirt, sits on a corner stool at the bar.

His leg and index finger tap at different speeds like he's impatient.

When I skirt the bar and see him filon,

just as handsome and wide-eyed as I hoped,

I realize he's not impatient but nervous.

Redness circles his eyes like he's been awake for days.

They're gorgeous eyes, anyway.

And the rest is gorgeous too.

He's a Midwestern Adonis.

Corn-fed body in well-fitting denim.

Face rough and perfect.

So sorry for being late.

Totally fine.

No worries.

He hugs me instead of shaking my hand.

I appreciate that.

What are you drinking?

The night he insists is on him.

It's over generous and should serve as a red flag, but it's not every night I have a cute guy's attention.

I order as much as I want, and before long, I'm both giggling and leaning close.

His gorgeousness becomes more apparent as his manner eases.

He has a confessional attitude, but doesn't overshare, which earns my trust.

I talk frankly about career woes, past boyfriends, the toughness of gay life in farmland towns,

the feeling that I'll never meet someone worth the risk.

I share that I've always lived in this place and dreamt of getting out, but the rent is cheap and my job is good.

And the big city might not have worked out so well.

I left home before my grandpa died.

My family is weird and religious.

It was a big deal.

They

haven't really forgiven me.

The guilt follows me around, you know.

If that makes sense.

That's all he mentions in the way of past traumas.

After dinner and a few more rounds, we take to the streets.

It's Friday.

Neither of us have work tomorrow.

Town is quiet.

It's too late for the plains folk.

But I lead him to the river walk anyway, in search of privacy.

He keeps checking over his shoulder, but I don't mind.

Together we wind beside the river, between the trees, until the only sound is the wind.

His hands feel comfortable, his shoulders muscular when I bump them.

He gives me the cutest, shyest smile.

I make a

suggestion and lead him to the overpass.

Under the concrete it's dark and cool.

The boy is timid.

I coax him into a kiss.

His lips are firm.

He tastes like cocktails and that warm spit flavor unique to men.

I get hard, and so does he.

We both laugh in embarrassment.

I'm having a

really good time.

He says this into my neck.

I mean to tell him the same, but I hear a noise at the end of the overpass.

The click of wood on wood, sliding feet on concrete.

I look and do not believe myself.

A bald man, at least seven feet tall, quivers on the asphalt.

His head won't fit under the overpass, so he stares beneath.

I wonder, Between sharp pings of alarm, why he doesn't come further.

Then I notice the strings, like ropes of flesh and gristle that extend into the sky.

The bald man is a marionette.

I make a sound, somewhere between a wheeze and a choke.

Closer up, I see the jagged lines of the puppet's face, a cliffside brow and thin bass-relief nose.

Inset eyes and hollow cheeks.

Its features are worn but discernible.

Giant white scleras and a gash of a mouth.

It wears a molding overcoat, putrid underwear, and nothing else.

Its head rolls on loose joints, and though its pupils are blotchy and uneven, it stares

right at me.

The puppet lifts its hand as if in greeting.

The palm is more realistic.

Knuckles and fingernails and all.

It carries a rotten leather bag like an old doctor's kit.

I shake the boy and try to tell him to run, but I can only sputter.

The boy

sees it too.

Oh shit.

I thought it was done with.

I want to demand an explanation of it, but I'm afraid that thing itself will answer.

I watch it lurch side to side, dragging its shoes on the asphalt, like the puppeteer can't get a steady grip.

It doesn't seem wise to think about the puppeteer, how huge and distant it must be.

I turn away and keep my eyes on the boy, pretending not to hear the creaking wood and tendons.

What's it doing here?

The boy flaps his mouth.

He can't look away from the thing, which tempts me to look again, too.

He

shows up sometimes.

I thought I was crazy, but other people see him too.

Other people?

All the time?

No, just boys.

When I go on dates, that's when he shows up.

I gape at the boy, but he doesn't notice.

He's looking at the thing.

It sounds like it's pacing.

The strings vibrate wetly at each step.

I've never felt afraid before, not like this.

The unease itches deep, prickles through my every atom.

Oh,

is that all?

Tell me his name, how you met?

Tell me why the fuck he looks like that!

Please.

He's sensitive.

I shut up.

The puppet has stopped moving.

It's harmless.

I promise.

My grandpa carved him for me when I was a kid.

Said he was my guardian angel and would protect me from sin.

Crazy old man shit.

He died eight months ago, but I've seen the puppet ever since.

Every date I go on, like it's um

watching over me.

I think grandpa put a curse on me or something.

I'm sorry, I should have warned you.

Looking at the boy is troublesome.

I remember how it felt to kiss him after

so long without kissing anyone, and I wonder,

would I have chosen differently if he'd warned me?

If the puppet's harmless, so what?

I've endured worse for the sake of attention,

and no boy has ever been quite quite this open,

adorable, or damaged.

I want to kiss him again so much.

I feel delirious.

But not while it's watching.

Maybe it's jealous too.

At that thought, I have to look.

I see the puppet's hands clenched into fists.

Knuckles gone white and drained of blood.

Just like the real thing.

Look, you seem nice, but I'm not sure I feel it.

Thanks for the drinks.

I've used this line before, and it's never sounded so fake.

He grumbles and looks more beautiful than ever.

Please don't go.

I can hear the puppet's fists tighten.

Eyes bore right into me.

Without another glance, I run.

I'm sure I hear it follow me through the park.

Strings twang on the leaves.

Limbs clack.

The head rolls as it swings forward.

I imagine its hands cold and fleshy at my throat.

I can't remember the way out.

There are too many paths and entrances.

I dodge bush and lamppost and late-night runners until I get to the street.

Remembering how drunk I am, I sit on a bench and call a car.

It takes five minutes.

An eternity of watching.

There are too many possible angles of attack.

I ignore the driver's chatter and monitor the rear view.

The puppet doesn't come leering to the headlights.

It doesn't give chase.

The car drops me at home and I trip running up the stairs.

Once my doors are locked and my lights are turned off, I curl up in bed, oscillating between two extreme scenarios.

In one, the puppet sticks its eyes to the windows, drags its two real knuckles in the panes, bursts through, and yanks me out and up into the sky where the puppeteer can have its fun.

In the other,

the boy meets me here and spends all night in my bed.

It feels so nice that I forget the puppet is watching.

Each possibility blends into the other until I wake up, sweaty and hungover, more annoyed than frightened.

The whole thing is like a distant fever dream the result of too much alcohol and excitement.

What I really remember is the boy.

How

perfect he was.

in spite of the horrible trailing curse.

As I lie in bed,

all I can think about is the kiss.

I look at the boy's picture on the app and confirmed that he was hotter in person.

I flush in remembrance of how I left him dejected, with my cheapest escape line, no less.

This feeling goes deeper than simple lust.

Sex isn't the goal.

I don't need constant fucking to validate myself.

A great song or conversation is better than sex with an average guy, but this

is no average guy.

Understanding just how much I fucked up, I rush to call him.

He picks up on the first ring and is all apologies, all politeness.

I gush to say how stupid I was and ask if I can make it up.

He says he'll pick me up at seven.

There's a carnival nearby, we can go together.

My excitement and relief are so great that I disregard the sound behind his voice.

The gentle clicking wood.

The rest of the day, I am a glow.

There's too much backing out excuse making in the gay dating scene.

I make myself the exception, in a way, by following through.

It's hard enough to find other men in this area, and one this handsome, this fascinating, this eager to forgive?

I can't let him go just because of a weird half-dream.

When the boy arrives to pick me up, it's golden hour.

I look at the light in the window before meeting him outside.

Two floors below, I see the puppet.

Its strings fade out where the sun hits them and its batty pupils look right at me.

This time its ridiculous, unhinged face is full of violence.

As I stare, it occurs to me, the image is translucent.

A reflection.

It's not standing outside, it's right behind me.

Wood clicks and strings vibrate in the room.

I turn, ready to scream and find nothing there.

My phone buzzes through the quiet.

The boy is calling.

It's been five minutes since he arrived.

I hurry outside before he changes his mind.

On our second date, the boy is sweet and attentive, like he's courting me the old-fashioned way.

Just what I've always wanted but been too afraid to admit.

A share of cotton candy and popcorn.

A funnel cake that loses oil?

He's fearless and goes on all the rides.

The unstable roller coaster and the haunted hayride.

And even the tunnel of love.

We all but

hump each other in that little boat.

His thrusts are sometimes uncertain.

But then forceful and sure.

Just how I want them to to be

he's a real country boy in his leather jacket and boots I feel proud to hold his hand the carnival lights all manner of garish colors blur together as the night chill sets in the families clear out and leering teenagers take their place I find myself looking over my shoulder, even if the boy does not.

He's calmer tonight, doesn't tap his fingers or scan the crowd.

He tells me about his small hometown in North Dakota, where his family practiced six different kinds of witchcraft, all of them vindictive, and elders told of strange creatures in the hills, automatons of vicious intent.

I don't really wonder if he's telling the truth.

I don't care to find out.

Whether he's got a weird sense of humor or some darker secret, the boy is...

mysterious,

and that is terribly sexy.

When the air chills and I start shivering, the boy gives me his coat and asks if I'd like to go to his apartment.

He lives nearby in a small but well-kept ground floor unit.

We start making out before the doors even shut and don't don't speak another word until we've both

finished.

His body is strong and sweetly haired.

His dick graceful.

He licks every part of me and I do the same to him.

It's the most explorative sex I've ever had.

We both make wild, pitiful noises into each other's shoulders and necks and mouths lovely and vibrating.

After we're done, we lie there until we fall asleep, kissing,

laughing,

whispering.

I awake later needing to pee

and prepare to disentangle from the boy.

He's not in bed.

The room is empty and full of awful quiverings.

The pee is no longer urgent.

Layers of fear descend on me and I don't want to move.

The boy whispers outside.

Please,

please, please don't.

I told him you were harmless.

I hear the click of wood and know who is on the other end of this dialogue.

I left that for a reason.

I want to live my life.

I don't want to believe in you.

Grandpa's dead.

He.

He has no say anymore.

You're not real and you can't hurt this one.

None of this was ever real.

The wood shifts in a way that reminds me of mountain air.

A cold gushing sound through empty bones come from afar to chill the the apartment.

I imagine the puppet strings trembling in the highest atmospheres, attached to the hands of a swollen ghost in a place too far north to comprehend.

Stop it.

You already took enough.

Those hands aren't.

The boy's voice muffles and becomes a scream, trapped by a palm.

I hear a wet stretching,

like flesh being pulled and knotted as the boy continues his wordless plea.

Then the joints crack.

The strings resonate towards the bedroom.

I know I have to get up, but I can't.

Maybe the blood has already drained from my body.

Maybe I'm already dead.

The puppet's stolen hands squelch on the door.

I try to to look away, but I can't shift my neck as the door swings open.

Its moldy overcoat and soiled underwear dangle like bad skin grass.

Its jaw has been hammered off, and the splintered wound looks like a gleeful smile.

In one hand, it brandishes the leather case.

The other reaches for me as it clunks over the floor.

The strings slice through the ceiling, leaving red stains in their wake.

It stops at the bedside and caresses my jaw.

It feels as cold and awful as I expect, but I think it intends to be gentle.

Through the door, I see the boy.

Tied on the couch with meat ropes, gagged by a heavy strip of skin, he looks...

very sorry.

I picture his last last date,

probably

handsomer than me, bleeding out at the wrists and staring across the room just like

this.

I wonder how many the boy has taken home, how many parts the puppet has collected.

The puppet's hands open the bag, reeking with putridity.

The hands reach in and come back with a rustic knife and an old-fashioned clamp.

I look at the boy, beautiful and sad.

He distracts me as the hands position the knife and shove it under my mandible.

I choke on it and kick and writhe, but it's too late.

The puppeteer is efficient as it jerks the arm back and forth, cracking my jawbone, slicing clean through my flesh.

The hands,

limber for dead things, manipulate the clamp into my mouth.

I taste old metal as it secures over my tongue.

With a few rough yanks, the puppet rips my jaw fully off.

It feels like a thousand dental drills, awful enough to numb me.

I weaken instantly from shock and know it won't take long.

It's a regrettable way to die without my best feature.

My vision holds long enough to see the puppet replace its jaw with mine.

The skin melts between the splinters.

The bone embeds into the wood like it was meant to be there.

The puppet works the jaw.

gets used to the movements, then turns and lumbers to the boy,

who

sobs into the couch.

Its voice sounds like Eon's empty gutter pipes, but its joy is

unmistakable.

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When it comes to expressing love, there are few things more powerful than that of music.

The combination of music and love can create an enchanting level of eternal passion.

And in this tale, shared with us by author K.A.

Manning, we meet a married couple who share a bond via a song.

I mean, the song.

And enchanting doesn't begin to describe it.

Performing this tale are Marie Westbrook and Dan Zapula.

So raise up your voices and sing.

Sing about love and death in Cantabulae.

In my dream, I walked through a forest.

Twilight peeked through the trees while songbirds twittered their tunes.

I cocked my head to the side, listening to their chatter and hummed along.

I smelled the wildflowers and the moss growing on trees.

It was a pleasant dream.

Then, my humming changed.

The melody was familiar.

The tempo picked up.

The words came to me, and without realizing, I was singing the song.

Wake up, wake up!

I woke to my husband leaning over, violently shaking me.

I hate it when he calls me by my full name.

Amy, Amy,

Amusia, wake up.

Maybe that's what finally got me up.

I'm up, I'm up, what's going on?

You were singing, Amy, singing it.

The intensity in his voice jolted me upright.

When?

Just now!

I ran my fingers through his hair in disbelief.

That can't be.

I was sleeping.

Herman sat up in bed.

Yeah, well, you were singing the song in your sleep.

I was sleeping.

I dreamt I was walking in a forest and hummed with the birds.

I sat in a daze.

Amy.

Something drew his eyes to the light peeking under our motel room door.

The birds were twittering and I hummed along with them.

I hummed something and...

Oh, God.

Herman,

I sing it.

Was that possible?

I sing it, Herman.

I sing the song in my dreams.

Amy, shush.

I stopped my rambling and followed his gaze towards the light under the motel door.

Two small shadows punctuated the line of light.

Somebody was standing outside.

We sat still in silence, waiting.

The shadow didn't move.

Maybe it's room service?

Motels don't have room service, you idiot.

I punched my husband playfully and we shared a chuckle to let the tension dissipate.

Herman got up and moved toward the door.

It's probably some drunk and they think it's their room.

And maybe you should put off the do not disturb sign.

I was interrupted by a humming coming from the other side of the door.

The stranger standing outside our motel room door hummed the song.

The sound was unnaturally loud.

seeming to penetrate the thick wooden door and fill our room.

Herman froze in place, halfway between the bed and the motel door.

Oh God, I found this.

Herman turned towards me as I sat upright in bed, wide-eyed with tension.

He mouthed the words, what do we do?

The humming transitions to the first verse of the song and I jumped out of bed.

Herman, we gotta get the hell out of here.

I tied up my hair and walked toward my duffel bag.

We had left it open on the floor from when we checked in late last night.

I stuffed the clothes I wore the day before back in.

I'd been too exhausted last night to unpack everything else.

Herman set his jaw and joined me, packing our meager supplies.

Bottled water, a half-eaten protein bar, and a couple of 20s.

We didn't know how much cash we had.

We didn't have time to count.

Right, right.

Let's get out of here.

We finished stuffing our duffel bag and headed toward the sliding door in the other side of the motel room.

It faced an outdoor courtyard equipped with a small, out-of-order pool.

As much as I wanted to take credit for the foresight, booking a room with multiple exits was a coincidence.

I thanked my ancestors for the luck.

We quietly slid the door open and with one foot still inside the motel room, I glanced back to make sure we didn't leave anything behind.

We didn't even last the night before it found us.

Didn't even get a chance to sleep a full night's sleep.

The stranger singing behind the door reached the second verse.

We have to move.

Through the courtyard, around the pool, and straight to the parking lot.

We followed his plan and crept toward the parking lot.

The singing coming from our motel room faded away when we reached our car.

Herman slid into the driver's seat.

Before he started it, I rested my hand on his.

Oh, that was a close one.

Herman took a deep breath.

He held my hand in his and looked at me.

My eyes told him I needed reassurance.

That it was going to be okay.

That we could beat this mysterious force chasing us.

I needed to know he was with me.

We'll get through the...

But before Herman could finish his sentence, a loud humming filled the air.

Herman looked up through the windshield and spotted three figures walking towards our car.

They were dressed in pajamas.

One was barefoot.

A fourth figure stepped through the sliding door of another motel room, looking like he just got out of bed.

The humming came from them.

Oh my God, Herman!

He started the car and shifted the gear to reverse.

He drove out of the parking spot, then peeled out of the lot entirely.

Herman looked through the rearview mirror and saw the four figures singing while staring at us as we drove away.

Too close, Amy, too close.

It's catching up to us faster and faster.

I know.

We're gonna have to do something about them.

That it?

I know.

Herman drove in silence for 15 minutes, knowing I needed time to collect myself.

I breathed deep to slow my shallow shuddering.

When I sang the song the first time, when I sang it and brought you back, I knew there would be consequences.

I turned to him and searched his face.

If you think this is too much, if you want to stop, Herman looked away from the road briefly.

He glanced at me and I continued.

If you want,

I can finish the song.

Send you back.

A crunching sounded from the steering wheel as Herman gripped it tighter.

I could almost see a sudden flash of memory intruding on his thoughts.

Dark.

Cold.

Alone.

Herman shook his head, forcing whatever he was saying away.

No, Amy.

I don't want to go back there.

He shook his head again in finality.

I nodded and let out a breath.

For a moment, I thought he'd tell me to let him go and sing the song in its entirety.

I didn't know what I would have done if he asked.

Now reassured, I let the tension in my neck and shoulders go and turn the radio on.

I let the top 40 tunes wash over me and allowed my mind to drift, trusting Herman to figure out where to go next.

I closed my eyes and sleep came for me.

The spellbook I inherited from my grandmother left plenty of warnings on how dangerous unfinished spells were.

But as an adept, the lowest rank in our order, I didn't believe I possessed enough skill to cast anything substantial anyway.

Sing the song.

See your loved one.

Say your goodbyes during the longa.

Send them back into the fog as you sing the final verse.

It can't possibly be that simple, I thought.

I tried it anyway.

When I sang the second verse, I saw Herman walk through the fog.

I believed then.

He held me as I sobbed, asking how it was possible.

But time was short.

Four silent beats to see the dead and say goodbye.

The longa.

It wasn't enough.

How cool of the song to allow a fleeting reunion.

I couldn't bear to let him go again.

So I decided I'd never finish the song.

I squeezed him tight and kissed him on the lips.

Then I broke the salt circle I made in my living room.

Something immediately felt wrong in the air, but I didn't care.

The song worked and it brought Herman back and four beats wasn't long enough and I was never letting him go back.

Never, never, never.

Spellbook warnings be damned.

He had touched my shoulder, breaking my manic rambling.

He cupped my chin and kissed me, and I melted.

I thought I had lost my husband, but he came back.

I brought him back.

Never letting you go again, I promised as we lay together that night.

And for the first time since Herman's death, I had slept easy.

It didn't last.

It happened when we made our way out of our tiny suburban home towards our car.

The kids in our neighborhood ran up and down the street, screeching in delight, while their parents watched on, screaming back, be careful and not too rough.

I squeezed Herman's hand, smiling and watching the children.

The longing in my heart rekindled.

Herman put his arm around me, thinking the same thing.

The kids froze.

They stood unmoving and silent.

Their parents froze too.

The sudden silence unnerved me.

Then, in unison, the children turned and hummed the song.

They walked towards us at an unnatural pace, humming.

No.

Their parents joined too, humming and walking.

Together, the terrible harmony in their throats, they sang the first verse.

What?

Where did you hear that song?

No response.

The choir stepped forward in time with their singing.

Step.

Step.

Herman locked eyes with Barry.

He used to run poker nights.

Barry, Barry, what are you doing?

But Barry's unfocused eyes told Herman he couldn't or wouldn't hear anything.

Step.

Step.

They finished the first verse, and their voices crescendoed into the second.

Step.

I made my own pleas.

Joy, please stop.

Why are you doing this?

How do you know this song?

They were closer now.

Step.

Herman jumped into the passenger seat.

Amy, get in the car.

I scrambled into the driver's seat.

I didn't know what was happening, but I knew it was bad.

Step.

If they finished the second verse and reached the longa, I somehow knew something terrible would happen.

Step.

They were feet from the car.

In unison, they had reached toward Herman, the passenger window blocking their hands.

I reversed off our driveway and sped down the road, expecting the song to fade behind us.

Except, the song didn't fade away as it did that day it was getting louder why was it getting louder i shot awake in the passenger seat of the car i looked around in a panic searching for the source of the song

the radio herman it's playing on the radio but herman stared ahead in a hypnotic gaze and didn't respond his glazed eyes were locked on the road in front of us Hands at 10 and 2.

I looked at him incredulously, then at the road ahead.

I took a sharp breath as I saw the Greyhound bus getting closer.

Herman!

Nothing.

I jammed the off button on the car radio.

The song continued.

No!

I lifted my leg and kicked at the radio.

Herman, please!

I kicked frantically until the screen cracked and the song fizzled.

Herman!

He snapped out of it.

and immediately swerved from the oncoming greyhound.

It was too late.

The bus collided with our car's luck vendor and sent us on an uncontrolled spin, tires screeching.

Burning rubber filled my nostrils.

Our car smashed into the guardrails.

The greyhound swerved left and right and tipped over, grinding metal on asphalt.

The massive bus's momentum carried it toward the guardrail, where it slid on its side and collided, roof-first, at over 60 miles an hour.

It finally stopped with a deafening crunch.

I groaned, lifting my head from the airbags.

Something warm flowed from my forehead down my cheek and dripped from my chin.

I felt my legs and found they were stuck under the crushed dashboard.

I barely slurred his name.

Herman!

I tried again, this time reaching an arm toward him.

Herman, oh God!

The sight of Herman sandwiched between the steering wheel and his seat, blood streaming down his face shocked me lucid.

The driver's side of the car crunched into the guardrail and crumpled itself in.

It pinned Herman inside.

Herman!

The panic in my voice woke Herman back into consciousness.

He gasped awake.

Ow.

Herman.

Oh, God, Herman!

I sobbed, my tears mixed with blood dripping down my face.

Sorry.

Sorry, Amy.

Oh, Herman.

Oh, babe.

I reached for him again and pulled back, fearing I'd somehow make his pain worse.

I don't know.

I don't know what happened.

I don't know.

Shush now, Herman.

I think it was the song.

The song?

How?

I shook my head, exasperated.

It was playing on the radio, Herman.

I fell asleep and woke up to it playing on the radio.

You were...

Herman slowly closed his eyes and nodded in understanding.

I'm sorry.

Amy.

It's okay.

It's okay.

Hey, can you move?

How bad are you pinned there?

Herman grimaced and made an awkward shuffling movement between his seat and the steering wheel.

Not good, Amy.

I'm pretty stuck.

My knees are jammed up against the wheel and my legs are squished together.

We'll probably need the fire department.

I shook my head, though doing so made bursts of white light appear in my vision.

I couldn't risk bringing other people.

They couldn't start singing the song.

I tried to wiggle out of the passenger seat.

I'll get you out.

Hang on, Herman.

I'll figure a way out.

Maybe I can pry open the door with something.

My sentence was cut short as the familiar melody cut the air.

Someone was humming the song.

I turned my head toward the source and felt a chill.

It was a group of people shuffling away from the crumpled greyhound bus.

As I stared in disbelief, More passengers crawled out of windows and joined the procession, humming.

They were torn up from the crash and bled from open wounds.

A few had broken limbs, but somehow kept trudging along.

They had feet pointing at odd angles.

One crawled on the ground towards us, mobility lost in their legs.

I stared at someone with an obviously broken neck.

Their head dangled down with nothing but their skin keeping it attached.

And they kept singing.

They stepped.

Shuffled, and crawled toward the car in unison, keeping time with the beat.

I snapped my head backward toward Herman and screamed, Herman, we need to leave now.

I reached out through the broken passenger seat window and grasped the edge of the door, trying to pull myself out of my seat.

My body was at an awkward angle, however, and I didn't have enough leverage to pull myself out.

I pulled up again and felt my legs loosen by inches.

The singing grew louder.

The passengers were feet away.

Undeterred, I drew a deep breath and pulled myself up.

I willed myself to get free.

I felt my trapped legs loosen some more.

The passengers finished the first verse.

I pulled again.

I felt my back and shoulders and arms strain.

With a scream, I freed my legs from the crushed dashboard.

Herman, I'm gonna get you out of there.

I crawled out of the broken passenger window and scrambled to my feet, intent on getting to my husband.

I stopped short, however, when I found myself surrounded by a dozen of the Greyhound's passengers.

They stared at at me with furrowed eyebrows and sang the second verse of the song.

I looked back at Herman.

His sight of the wrecked car was surrounded as well.

I faced my crowd of singers as their voices crescendoed, signaling the end of the second verse.

The Greyhound's driver, identified by uniform and a name tag that had the words, Hello, my name is Larry, how's my driving, pinned to their left breast, stood singing in baritone.

He frowned at me, judging.

Never one to be cowed or bullied, I rolled my shoulders back, jut my chin out, and met his eyes in defiance.

I knew what came next in the song.

I would face it.

The second verse finished its crescendo.

They reached the longa and the silence was as deafening as the crescendo that came before.

The bloody choir stared at me as they waited out the rest notes.

I never broke eye contact with the driver.

The full bar ran its course, but they didn't sing the third verse.

Instead, they stared at me.

The driver's frown deepened, rage fuming behind his eyes.

What are they waiting for?

I responded without breaking eye contact.

They want me to finish it.

They want me to sing the third verse and finish the song.

I glared at the driver.

Right?

He didn't respond, but continued his hateful stare.

I won't do it.

You hear me?

I won't finish your fucking song.

Then they screamed at me with such sudden intensity that I stumbled back against the wrecked car.

They kept screeching, and I slapped my hands around my ears.

The noise froze me, as prey froze when cornered by a growling predator.

Impossibly, they continued their screaming when normal people would have taken a breath.

They pressed against me.

There was nowhere to run.

I turned my face away.

It was the only thing I could do.

The driver grabbed my head and forced me to face him.

I felt another pair of hands pry my eyes open.

They kept screaming.

I screamed back, though I couldn't hear anything.

Not even my own racing thoughts.

No, no, no, no!

I felt the grip around my face tighten and fingers dig deeper into my skin.

It reminded me of sharp talons.

How was this possible?

They hadn't taken a single breath, but they continued their shriek.

I watched in horror as blood streamed from some of the screaming passengers' nostrils and eyes.

They thrashed.

Some of them fell and started seizing on the road.

Some looked visibly pained.

They stared at me, pleading eyes replacing the rage from before.

A little girl pulled a handful of hair from her scalp.

I heard myself gasp.

Something ached in me to stop the child from hurting itself.

No.

Tears flowed as the pit in my stomach grew.

And all of a sudden, the screaming stopped.

In its place was the faint humming of the song.

It was coming from the driver's seat.

From Herman.

The grip on my face loosened, and I heard a collective sigh from the crowd.

They didn't let go of me, but they joined the humming.

No.

Herman looked right into my eyes, determined.

He continued to hum.

No, please.

He shook his head.

Then he started singing the first verse.

No,

no, Herman, no!

I tried to drown the sound, but it was futile.

The passengers matched their voices to Herman's and finished the verse.

Please.

Herman sang the second verse.

Tears streamed down his face, washing away dirt, grime, and blood, leaving clean streaks.

He smiled at me, but kept singing.

I just shook my head.

Why?

Herman and his choir of passengers reached the crescendo.

Then, the longa.

Herman gestured at the passengers.

We're hurting them, Amy.

But I love you.

I'm glad I can say that to you one more time.

One bar.

It wasn't enough time.

Herman, I...

Words caught in my throat.

I locked eyes with him, mouth halfway open.

When nothing more was said, he nodded.

And with a smile, He sang the third and final verse.

The choir joined him.

They sang the finale together.

Herman welcomed the dark and the cold as it claimed him, leaving me alone once again.

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So, what do this animal

and this animal

and this animal

have in common?

They all live on an organic valley farm.

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If you've ever met someone you consider to be the one, the person of your dreams, it can be difficult to keep it to yourself.

But imagine if there was someone you could tell how you feel without you revealing a thing.

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Kevin Heyman, and which was a winner at the Burnham Book Festival 2022, we meet Cameron.

He's speaking with the police because of his rather unique ability to see how love can foretell tragedy.

Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, James Cleveland, and Jake Benson.

So be careful of love's transformation, especially if she is the girl of your fancy.

The inspector entered the small interview room and slid a cup across the coffee-stained table.

Black no sugar, right?

Thanks.

Ford was studying the room.

This is where the interrogations happen.

The inspector took a seat opposite.

He was ruggedly handsome for his age, with short greying hair and a muscular build that might once have been desirable to the women who appraised it.

Not exactly.

We use this room for more informal chats.

Ford nodded to the double-deck tape machine.

So we won't need that.

Well, you call the meeting, you tell me.

It might save me from repeating myself.

The inspector punched buttons on the machine.

For the recording, this is Inspector Rothstein interviewing Cameron Ford at his request.

It's Monday, the 7th of March, 11:45 a.m.

He raised his eyebrows at Ford.

I start now?

Yes.

Okay.

Where to start?

Why not from the beginning?

That would mean going back a couple years.

I remember the day because I was watching football on TV with my friend Craig.

It was just after Christmas.

We were trying some specialty beers.

And we were talking about everything.

Football, women, usual stuff.

And that's when it happened.

I mean, literally, mid-conversation, I froze rigid in my seat.

What happened?

I couldn't see Craig lying on the couch.

Instead, there was a girl there, drinking his beer.

The inspector frowned.

I did say this might baffle you, but hear me out, okay?

Come on.

It was a girl.

Lying in the same spot.

I mean, in the same exact way Craig had been moments earlier.

She was young, early 20s.

Why'd you think he was a girl?

Soft brown, shoulder-length hair.

I could even see the curved outline of her breasts through the purple strap-top she was wearing.

It was a girl, all right, Inspector.

I saw her well-defined legs stretched over the couch, just like Craig's ripped jeans had been before.

But you'd been drinking.

Ford took his coffee in both hands, as if committed henceforth to being teetotal.

True, but not enough to hallucinate.

yeah there she was right in front of me sipping pale ale from the bottle she turned to me then with this confused look on her face what

she said just like that

only she didn't say it inspector the voice was low and deep it was craig's voice

so was this in your mind or exactly inspector i mean it was

he slammed the cup down

like you i figured it must be the beer.

Else, right?

Once the effects wore off, so would the hallucination.

And that's exactly what happened.

She was Craig again.

Yes, after a few minutes, I pretended like nothing had happened.

I suppose nothing had.

The inspector splayed his large hands.

And then?

And then, once the game finished, we went down to the local for a few more.

I told him I didn't want to.

That I'd had quite enough for one night, but I went anyway.

And walking up the street, all he did was talk about this girl who worked behind the bar.

This girl with incredible legs.

Sounded like the girl on your couch, right?

It was the girl on my couch, Inspector.

She was even wearing the same raunchy strap top and short skirt.

The inspector sipped his coffee.

Your friend Craig, couldn't he have mentioned her earlier in the evening?

I mean, without you even realizing it?

Maybe.

But if he did, he described her too well.

I mean, I even saw the tiny little hairs on her top lip.

And I'm pretty sure no one with a crush would mention that.

Could you have seen her at the pub before?

So when Craig described her, you just brought her up in your mind, on your couch?

Ford considered this for a moment.

Possible.

But a few weeks later, it happened again.

I was coming home from work, taking a shortcut through the park, when I saw a man and woman walking towards me, arm in arm.

As I looked more closely, the man changed.

I mean, it was almost comical because he morphed to match her exactly.

Like seeing twins walking together.

And it occurred to me then that this was the girl of his fancy, just as Craig's fancy was the girl who worked behind the bar.

That was the link.

But can you be sure it wasn't twins?

I mean, isn't that more likely?

If not twins, then just two similar-looking women out on a stroll.

At a glance, it would be hard to tell the difference.

If these were two single occurrences, I'd agree.

But they're not.

It keeps happening.

He put his hands to his face.

And it gets worse.

The inspector's chair squawked as he leaned back.

Go on.

I was at the supermarket a few weeks ago.

Chatting with the cashier when he suddenly changed.

Jesus Christ, I I nearly hit the roof.

Because this time it wasn't the girl of his fancy.

He shook his head purposely.

It was a young, fair-haired boy.

The soup fell out of my hands, exploded on the floor, and this

boy said,

whoops?

In this shaky, gravelly old man voice.

I could hardly give him the money before I got the hell out of there.

I haven't been back since.

The inspector stroked his chiseled jaw.

I knew I needed to speak to somebody.

It was becoming too much.

And the first person I tried was Craig.

He'd been there the night it started, after all, but as I pulled up to his drive, I saw two policemen putting him in the back of a car.

You, Inspector, you followed them out.

So I put my foot down and kept driving.

The inspector sat up.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a minute.

Are we talking about Craig Chamberlain?

Ford nodded.

Yes.

Six years for manslaughter.

That's right.

For killing the girl who worked behind the bar.

The inspector nodded.

Miriam Drake.

He became aggressive with her after she turned him down, ended up dying in hospital with a fractured skull.

Craig was lucky to get away with manslaughter.

Ford raised his eyebrows.

Remember the couple I saw in the park?

Yes.

Name David Coombs mean anything to you?

David Coombs?

The inspector thought for a moment.

Send down for killing his wife.

Found out she was cheating.

Every time I see someone change, I see the person about to die.

I can give you countless other examples, and I'm never wrong.

He leaned forward.

So if any young, fair-haired boys in the area go missing, you'll want to question the old man at the supermarket.

The inspector studied Ford's face.

Do you happen to know who the boy is?

Ford shook his head.

I never know the victims.

But I know the old man's name because I called the supermarket and said how helpful the old cashier was.

His name, Richard Hessler.

The inspector scribbled the name down.

I try to gather as much information about these people as I can.

Where they live, family members, local hangouts, anything.

Mostly it's too late.

And all I can do is take the clippings from the published newspaper articles.

Would you be able to hand this information over?

Maybe of some use to us.

Actually.

Actually, I already handed it over last night.

The inspector frowned.

You did?

Why call this meeting with me this morning?

It was the Chief Inspector's idea.

A good way to keep you from the house while they searched it.

I expect they've found what they're looking for by now, wouldn't you say?

The inspector seemed momentarily startled, glancing back at the door as if someone might rush in at any moment.

Then to the tape machine, reeling away with the record button firmly depressed.

Finally, he looked down at his large hands, to the band of white skin that once proudly donned a silver wedding ring.

Ford leaned forward again.

Tell me, Inspector,

how's your wife?

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

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