September 16, 2025 • 39 mins
Abby and Alex are so thrilled to present three haunting and spooky tales.
The Summoning was written by Joseph Hare, and narrated by Denali Bartell. Check out Joseph on Instagram @josephhareifyoucare and on Substack josephhare.substack.
The Bark was written by Glenn Dugan and Narrated by Mike Macera. Check out Glenn's website here, whereisglennnow.com and follow him on Instagram @whereisglennnow.
Poltergeists on Presidents Street was written by LindaAnn Lo Schiavo and narrated by Alex Goleman. Follow LindaAnn on bluesky @ghostlyverse.bsky.social and on Twitter: @Mae_Westside.
Get Lunatics Merch here. Join the discussion on Discord. Check out Abby's book Horror Stories. Available in eBook and paperback. Music by Michaela Papa, Alan Kudan & Jordan Moser. Poster Art by Pilar Keprta @pilar.kep.
Consider joining our Patreon for bonus episodes, spooky literature and deep dives into horror and history. Click here to learn more.
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Join the conversation on Discord. Support us on Patreon.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:18):
Hello everyone and welcome back to another episode
of the lunatics radio, ourpodcast.
I am Abby Branker sitting herewith alex goldman hello, hello,
hello it's actually so hard forme not to say alan kudet,
because I'm so used to finishingthe phrase that way.
We have had a really good yearfor campfire tales episodes on
this podcast, and I am veryexcited for a fall.
(00:41):
You know when the veil is thin.
Speaker 2 (00:43):
Oh, spooky season for sure.
Speaker 1 (00:45):
Edition of Campfire Tales.
Exactly A spooky season editionof Campfire Tales.
So this season right, the firethat we are metaphorically
gathering around is probably insome kind of deep wooded place.
There's a brisk chill in theair, there's crunchy leaves,
there's noises of crackingbranches and animals lurking
about in the darkness around us.
Speaker 2 (01:06):
Oh yeah, darkness, Very dark.
Still s'mores Of course, thatis the consistent throughout all
of these.
Speaker 1 (01:13):
Otherwise, what are we doing here?
Speaker 2 (01:14):
Yeah.
Speaker 1 (01:16):
I'm so honored to feature some really amazing,
incredible stories on thisepisode by very talented writers
and also some really reallytalented narrators who helped us
pull this one together.
So thank you in advance toeverybody.
Again, this is just like themost fun I have on this podcast,
because it's such acommunity-driven type of episode
and that's the part that's themost fun for all of us All right
(01:39):
.
So, alex, I think the vibe isset.
I think the s'mores are beingpassed around.
Shall we play the first story.
Speaker 2 (01:46):
Yeah, let's get into it.
Speaker 1 (01:48):
Okay, here we go.
Speaker 3 (01:52):
The Seven Eighth Read by Joseph Hare.
Read by Denali Bortel.
Speaker 4 (02:01):
It's like a ghost town around here.
I sighed Irritably.
I rubbed the fogged-up taxiwindow with the sleeve of my
parka jacket, but nothing I didseemed to clear the misted glass
.
No one on the streets at all.
They're not very social in thispart of Scotland, are they?
My driver did not offer aresponse.
There was a distant look in hishazel eyes as he carried us
(02:24):
through the country roads intothe village outskirts Beautiful
countryside though I offered,beginning to worry that I'd
offended him.
I'm here to visit my mother.
She lives in that old house onthe coast, mrs Barrow's Perhaps
you've met her, fifty years old,sometimes wears glasses.
She's always in lots of jewelry.
(02:44):
Again, I was met with the soundof silence.
It was beginning to make meuncomfortable Giving up.
I slumped over in my seat andwatched the green ocean rising
in the windshield as weapproached the cliffside.
I hope she's okay.
I spoke aloud more to myselfthan anyone else.
She stopped contacting me theselast few weeks, stopped
(03:06):
answering her phone.
I'm worried stiff.
She's been so angry with mesince I decided to marry Michael
Instinctively.
My hand went to the bruisebeneath my ribcage.
Michael had been furious when Itold him about this trip.
He hated my mother almost asmuch as she hated him.
I took a deep breath.
(03:28):
It could be that she doesn'twant to speak to me any longer.
Could be that she doesn't evenanswer the door.
That would be fine, I suppose.
As long as I know she's allright.
Climbing steadily up thecliffside road, we soon pulled
up to the old house on the edgeof the coast.
I couldn't see any lights onthrough the windows, but it was
a bright evening and the grayglimmer of dusk carried steadily
(03:50):
over the ocean waves.
Thank you.
I emptied the driver's fareinto a cup holder between the
front seats before stepping outinto the winter's chill.
The sound of the encroachingsea seemed to surround me from
all directions, crashingviolently against the rocks
below like the beat of someancient drum.
The taxi man lit a cigarette,staring through me to the house
(04:13):
on the coast, that old place.
He spoke distastefully, a snarlgrowing on the corner of his
lips.
He shook his head.
Someone ought to burn it down.
Nothing but a bunch of ghostsin that house.
I'm sorry.
I asked him, not quitebelieving my ears.
Something about the farawaytone in his voice made me shiver
(04:34):
.
I huddled into my jacket,pretending it was the cold.
I don't know what you mean.
I Do you know my mother, or theharsh screech of the vehicle's
accelerator cut me off as thetaxi sped down the road.
Swallowing my nerves, I steppedthrough the open gate into the
neglected front yard, treadingcarefully through the tall, wet
(04:55):
grass until I reached thedoorstep.
My heart pounded in my chest asI knocked on the wood.
Mom, I called out, my voicebeing swallowed up by the wind.
Mom, it's me, let me in, please.
There was no response, but thesound of a gentle thunderclap in
the distance and raindropsbegan to trickle from the
(05:15):
cracked tiles of the archwayabove.
Mom, mom, it's raining.
I knocked again more forcefully.
This time it's raining, pleaselet me there's a loud click as
the door, pulled away from myfist, creaking open to reveal a
dark, shadowy entrance hall.
I squinted through the darknessas I stepped inside.
(05:36):
The light switch by theentrance was working, but the
bare bull which hung beside thestairs was dim and flickering,
despite the rain behind me.
I kept the door open for thesake of the light.
Mom, I called out, angercreeping into my voice.
I'm here, come downstairs.
Another thunderclap echoed inthe distance.
(05:57):
She could be having a shower, Ithought, and the idea was
soothing to me.
You can't hear you've gotvisitors when you're in the
shower, yet for all the noise ofthe storm outside, I couldn't
hear any running water frominside the house.
I could smell something, thoughSomething foul and odorous.
(06:18):
A fat cockroach skitteredacross the toe of my shoe,
leading me into the kitchen,which carried the stench.
The light switch in this roomdidn't work at all, but by the
dull gloom of the bay window Icould make out piles of dirty
pots stacked on top of oneanother, fuzzy clouds of black
flies hovering above anoverloaded kitchen sink.
In the center of the room wasthe rotting, headless carcass of
(06:41):
an animal I could not recognize.
A gaping wound in the poorcreature's neck was festering,
with pulsating maggots whichdripped from the table and onto
the floor below.
I held my nose to keep fromretching.
Mom, I called out, gettingdesperate.
Mom, where are you?
Something heavy thumped in theceiling above I froze, feeling a
(07:04):
terrible chill rush up my spine.
I couldn't help but think ofwhat the driver had said about
this house when he pulled up tothe gate.
Nothing but ghosts, I said tomyself, watching my breath turn
to mist before my eyes, hearingmyself actually say the word
ghosts drew an exasperated laughfrom my shivering lips.
(07:25):
Nothing but ghosts, indeed.
Listen to yourself, maria.
I shook my head, stomping myway towards the battered
staircase.
In the hall, mom, I yelledloudly, as if to prove that I
wasn't afraid.
I couldn't think why therewould be an animal corpse in my
mother's kitchen, but there hadto be a reasonable explanation
(07:45):
for what I had seen.
Come down this instant.
It's your daughter.
You can't ignore me like this.
Come down or I'll.
I'll come up and get you.
The storm was quieting outsideand everything around me fell
into hushed silence.
I stared up at the hazydarkness atop the stairs,
listening to the sound of my ownheart pounding in my temples.
(08:06):
There was no response.
Right, I took a deep breath andheld onto the wooden banister,
slowly beginning to climb thestairs.
There was a loud, terrifyingcrack as the rotten wood of the
banister fell apart under mygrip.
But, swallowing my scream, Icontinued the ascent on two
(08:26):
shaking legs.
The landing was almost pitchblack, but a slither of warm
candlelight was glowing througha gap in the left-hand doorway.
I tried to call for her again,but my voice died in my throat
as I reached for the handle.
She couldn't be dead.
I tried to assure myselfSomething had made that noise in
(08:48):
the kitchen and it could onlyhave been her.
Gathering every bit of courage,I flung open the door with all
my might.
There, kneeling in the centerof the room and surrounded by a
glimmering circle of drippingwax candles, was a dark robed
figure eagerly prostratingitself before a decapitated
(09:10):
goat's head strung up on thewall.
The figure rocked back andforth, yululating some
otherworldly chant as it claspedits vascular hands in prayer.
Suddenly the figure a woman wholooked older than death itself
spun her neck to meet myterrified gaze with her own
toothless, hungry smile.
(09:31):
I screamed, turning to run.
I found that all the strengthhad abandoned my legs as I fell,
crashing into the floorboardsbelow.
Hopelessly, I tried to pullmyself out of the doorway by my
arm, screaming all the while.
I felt the monster's long,brittle nails scrape sickeningly
against the backs of my legs asshe pulled me into the room.
No, I pleaded, finally findingmy voice once more.
(09:54):
No, tears ran hot down my faceas I struggled.
I thought I was about to bekilled, to be eaten my head torn
off like the head of that pooranimal in the kitchen eaten.
My head torn off like the headof that poor animal in the
kitchen.
But instead of attacking me,the ghastly old woman held me
tightly in a sickening embrace,even as I convulsed on the floor
in terror.
(10:14):
My daughter, she said, mybeautiful daughter.
I could feel her cold bodypressed against mine and when I
found the courage to lift mygaze, I saw that I was now
laying in the middle of thecircle of candles.
Among these candles, staring atme with lifeless faces, were a
strange assortment of stuffedanimals, my stuffed animals, I
(10:38):
realized from when I was a girl,mom.
I looked into her face, herwretched, ancient face, with
deep dark fissures and throbbingwhite pustules under her eyes.
Yet her eyes were filled with amother's love, and the
resemblance could not bemistaken.
(10:59):
But how?
My mother was a woman of fifty,a vibrant, soulful woman with
kind eyes and a beautiful smile.
"'but how?
"'my mother was a woman offifty, "'a vibrant, soulful
woman with kind eyes and abeautiful smile.
"'you've come back to me', thewoman croaked.
"'after all these years' "'Ireached out to touch her hair
"'thin and greasy and stuck toher oily scalp "'My fingers
(11:23):
seemed to fade?
into a heavy mist, where mymother's head ought to be.
Mom, I cried.
What's happening?
Are you a ghost or-.
I looked at my surroundings onelast time.
The blood from the goat's headdripped onto the floor beneath
me, where it had been smearedinto the shape of a pentagram.
At every point of the demon'ssymbol, one of my childhood
(11:47):
objects had been placed.
This was a ritual to summon aghost, A ritual to summon me.
How long had I been gone?
My wedding to Michael seemedlike just a few months ago, and
the day he first hit me was soonafter that, but by the sight of
(12:07):
my mother's aged face, it hadall happened many decades ago.
I felt myself sobbing, weepingfor the life I had lost to the
hands of that man.
Why did you bring me back, Iasked bitterly.
I was overcome with grief,overcome with anger that I had
been forced back into this world, only to learn that I had no
(12:29):
place in it any longer.
The walls around me seemed tofall away and I could see the
endless ocean rage tempestuouslyin every direction.
The water was rising, closingin on me, ready to take me away
once more.
Don't go, my daughter.
Mother begged trying to hold onto me, even as my spirit began
(12:52):
to fade.
Stay a little longer, please,oh please.
Frustrating herself once more,she chanted as loud as she could
, bargaining with the devil tokeep my shade alive.
But her voice was drowned outby the sound of the encroaching
sea.
The crashing of the wavesboomed louder and louder in my
(13:21):
head until I could hear nothingelse.
And soon the ocean Forget me.
I whispered, praying that shecould still hear my voice.
My only response was therelentless pull of the ocean,
waves dragging me once more intotheir cold watery depths.
(13:44):
Me once more into their coldwatery depths.
Speaker 2 (13:50):
Wow, first of all, a PSA really listen to how your
partner treats your mother.
Oh, I think that is verytelling, just to begin with.
Speaker 1 (14:00):
A good point, a very good point.
Speaker 2 (14:01):
Besides that, I thought the tone of this story
was really, really strong.
Right from the get-go.
You felt a sort of uneasinessabout it and you know it just
sort of grew and grew as theepisode went along.
Speaker 1 (14:15):
Yeah, I think that's absolutely correct and it also
starts as something again we'vetalked about on this series this
year.
I feel like a lot, but itstarts with something so normal
and human and relatable and then, just like, explodes into
something monstrous andotherworldly and I love that.
Speaker 2 (14:32):
I love like grounding us and then like fucking us up
you know, oh, totally, I mean,you really felt.
You really felt for the motherat the end there you just
totally uh could see what washappening.
When at first, when she wasfirst introduced, you were just
like who is this?
You know crazy old woman, yeah.
But then all of a sudden you'relike, oh man, what, what she
(14:53):
could have gone throughdevastation.
Yeah, absolutely.
Speaker 1 (14:57):
Okay, so this story was written by Joseph Hare.
Joseph lives in the picturesqueEnglish town of Barnard Castle
with his gorgeous rescue dog,jackie Jackie, and while he's
not writing amateur fiction, youcan find him working at the
Auckland Project Foundation toimprove the welfare of people
experiencing homelessness.
Speaker 2 (15:18):
Bravo, 10 out of 10.
Speaker 1 (15:19):
Yeah, he's mostly steered clear of social media,
but he does have a Blue Skyaccount, which we will link to
below, of course, so that youcan stay tuned to any new
projects.
As well as horror, he alsowrites fantasy and satire
fiction, and this is a reallycool fun fact that I think is
fascinating.
He actually worked on a studentfilm with Stephen Fry when he
(15:41):
was 19.
Speaker 2 (15:42):
Whoa.
Speaker 1 (15:43):
And as such, he wrote words that Stephen Fry has said
, I mean pretty cool, prettycool.
Speaker 2 (15:48):
That's awesome.
What a resume.
Speaker 1 (15:50):
He says, not that he's bragging, but listen, brag
all you want.
That's the coolest thing I'veever heard.
And he's also working on a darkfantasy book called the Pillars
of Damnation, so we willanxiously await the publication
of that.
And, as always, our friendDenali Bartel did a haunting, a
hauntingly good job with thisone.
Speaker 2 (16:09):
Another slam dunk.
Speaker 1 (16:10):
Yes, I love their narration style and I feel again
like there's just so muchemotion that bleeds through,
despite their very even and calmapproach to narration.
Like you could still sort offeel the undertones of it, if
that makes sense.
Speaker 2 (16:25):
Oh yeah, they could do any type of story, really,
yeah yeah, absolutely okay.
Speaker 1 (16:30):
So we still have two stories that await our eager
ears.
Shall we roll the tape, let'sdo it and just a quick content
warning before we play this nextstory.
It's a bit graphic.
I don't even quite know how tocontent warn this one, but it's
a little bit graphic and justkeep that in mind.
If it's not something you'reyou're interested in hearing the
(16:56):
bork ridden by glenn duncan,bred by moik you do not
recognize the bodies in theforest.
Speaker 5 (17:08):
I implore you to listen to me, just listen.
No one knows when the bodiesstarted appearing, hanging from
the gnarled branches of CogHollow.
Little Janine says she sees thebody of her grandmother hanging
like a broken chicken wing atthe edge of the school.
Postman Milton swears he seesthe checkered house dress of his
sister flapping in the windlike laundry out to dry.
(17:29):
They say there is a rule ofthrees for examples, but I think
you get it.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the woods.
Sometimes they appear out ofthe corner of your eye like a
little light flash.
Other times they appear in themiddle of errands, trips around
town, staring directly at youwith vacant, lifeless eyes.
The time does not matter.
(17:49):
People have seen them overtheir morning eggs and coffee
outside the window of Pat'sdiner.
Dusk makes only the oneswearing darker clothing more
difficult to see.
But no one usually dies wearingflashy clothing.
Most of the bodies wearinglighter clothing are children or
little siblings.
I've always seen them too.
Without pattern or prompt.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
(18:12):
The bodies always hang, alwayssway.
No one knows why the bodiesappear.
No one knows why two people cansee the same body and robert,
from the corner of bleaker, andrye, sees his estranged sister.
And why?
Hannah?
The bartender at jacob's tavernsees her father who died of
cancer 10 years ago.
The bartender at Jacob's Tavernsees her father who died of
cancer ten years ago.
Even more the bodies will be ofloved ones, strangled by a rope
(18:33):
and hanging like a limpscarecrow.
Always regardless of how theydied and you will want to save
them.
The bodies only sway in thebranches, leticed by gnarled,
dying leaves.
They do not come into town andeveryone from Adam knows not to
go into the forest.
They won't hurt you, we tellthe children, and they don't.
(18:55):
Last autumn, same time aroundnow actually, paul McCoy was
taking a walk down the fields,keeping very clear of the forest
.
Paul had seen the bodies.
He has gotten used to seeingMama McCoy dangling from the
rafters, coarse ropes cinchingher liver-spotted neck.
He is used to seeing hisbrothers and sisters bent at odd
(19:16):
geometries, sunspots of bloodsplattered on the clothes they
died in, not the ones they wereburied in.
Paul understands this of theforest, knows this is just a
trick, knows its ruses.
His constitution is strong, asis everyone's in Cog Hollow.
But once he hears the voices ofhis estranged son who ran away
from home at 16 and missed everyChristmas since, Paul came
(19:39):
a-running into that dark forest,past the dangling bodies, past
the tattered remains of those herecognized but knows isn't real
.
Can you imagine that, duckingunderneath boots of your brother
scuffed with grime and fishflecks from the docks, running
in between the heels of thesemolina-dusted shoes of his
cake-loving mother, fat butweightless, held up by a thin
(20:01):
reed of a branch, paul goes intothe forest, into its stomach,
finds his boy stuck in time,still at 16.
The next morning we all seePaul in the middle of Main
Street, his body snapped at alljoints, spleen ballooned out of
him, entrails underneath thecrisp air, no teeth, no tongue.
(20:22):
It is little Janine and herschool friends who find him on
their way to morning classes.
This is not a coincidence.
I'm trying to help this makesense for you.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
The FBI came and visited ourlittle town for Mr McCoy's
murder, because even our locallaw enforcement could not lie
about the bodies in the forest.
(20:44):
The first wave was simple,protocol, invasive because they
existed Black vans parked alongthe side of the main road, suits
and sunglasses, takingresidents in the Clarence Inn
right on McGowan.
They interviewed everyone,myself included.
It was the forest, we said.
The forest took Paul McCoy.
The forest, they said, as if wewere crazy.
(21:05):
The forest, not the bodies.
The FBI directed theirattention to the forest.
Their back turned to us.
We watched them from our forest, not the bodies.
The FBI directed theirattention to the forest.
Their back turned to us.
We watched them from ourwindows, watched the sun set as
they waded through the longbrowning grass, step over the
plants, getting ready for thegreat resurrection of next year.
We saw them nudge one anotherpoint at bodies that we all
recognized.
(21:26):
I saw an agent point a shakingfinger to my grandfather who
died in 82, and claim that shewas his little sister, samantha.
We saw minds begin to break andit was both fascinating and sad
.
Pistols drawn, as if this coulddispel the illusion Into the
brush.
They went, pulled by the needto save their siblings, their
(21:47):
parents, their lovers.
Those that remained wereshattered afterwards and, yes,
it was heartbreaking.
The second wave consisted ofchemists, botanists, all the
eggheads.
They shut down poor Rosie's Puband Pat's Diner for a place to
hold their beakers and testtubes.
They set up a perimeter aroundtown, long barriers with 24-hour
(22:08):
surveillance Riflemen posted atthe corners of all junctions
aimed at the forest.
They worked in shifts of twohours, consistently moving up
and down the rickety ladders.
I get it Enough.
Exposure to seeing your mama orlittle sister all twisted and
hanging limp is enough to breakyou emotionally, even though you
know it's fake.
When they went into the forestthey wore quarantine outfits.
(22:32):
I saw some of the agentsreturning to town with tears in
their eyes, some with splotchesof blood from suicides of their
colleagues.
Occasionally one of the hazmatat FBI agents will appear like a
crumpled candy wrapper in themiddle of Main Street, tossed
aside like trash.
No teeth, no tongue.
The third wave overlapped withthe second.
(22:53):
They brought psychologists totalk to us before they pricked
at us with needles and littlerods.
They thought we were causingthe bodies in the forest that we
were playing a giant trick onthe FBI, why we are plagued with
it as much as they.
We've just learned to live withit.
Me, bill Montgomery and AnnieBeth all think this is what
makes them so suspicious of ourlittle town, that we have just
(23:16):
learned to live with it.
We have no other choice.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
The fourth wave was seances.
Shamans, people with Ouijaboards and funny incense made
our little town look like agypsy carnival.
Who knew the FBI had thisdivision, this paranormal sector
?
It was all so silly.
(23:38):
Here's a list of theories thatthe FBI revealed to us during
one of the mandatory town hallmeetings, when they locked the
doors from the outside.
Number one spores in the forestinhibited a neurochemical
response that evokes theemotional effect of seeing a
loved one hanging from the trees.
2.
The townsfolk have all beeninfected with some invasive
bacteria in the water or cropswhich make us perceptive to
(24:00):
illusions.
3.
Communism, just that Communism.
It goes without saying thatafter all these months the FBI
has determined nothing.
Perhaps it is the separation ofchurch and state.
They did not bring in anypriests, any holy men of any
kind.
In all their knowledge, no onenoticed that our little town of
Cog Hollow has no church, nopews of worship, no sacred
(24:24):
spaces.
We have our little diners, ourwatering holes, our corner
stores, but no church.
We had churches, but theycaught flames and you do not
recognize the bodies in theforest.
And not once did they ask us ifwe are religious we are.
We believe in the bark becausewe must.
We believe in the bark becausewe have no option not to.
(24:45):
We do not know where the barkcomes from or how long it has
resided in the forest.
All we know is that the barkneeds to feed.
I've seen the bark once.
I was at the edge of the foreston a crisp autumn morning, much
like this one, much like theone which took Paul McCoy, much
like today.
I was a boy then, fascinatedwith the impending doom that I
(25:06):
could allow myself if I juststepped forward.
I was fascinated with theimpending doom that I could
(25:27):
allow myself, died by the bludgeinto the head, the busted
cervix.
I stood at the edge of theforest, the toes of my sneakers
pressing upon the cold andshadowed earth, the leaves
moving like little tendrils,wind whistled through, the trees
moving in the empty spaces ofthe darkness.
The lifeless eyes of my lovedones looked down on me from
their bondages, their facesblistered and purple from
(25:50):
asphyxiation, eyes bulged.
I wanted to save them.
I did.
It is human nature and the barkpreys on this.
I told myself that I did notrecognize the bodies in the
forest.
I just wanted to stare at theabyss, like a sort of game, a
controlled dance with death, atug-of-war of wills.
The bark appeared in the threshof the woodland, a figure
(26:13):
looming behind the trees, ajuggernaut of cosmic insult.
I swear the trees parted likecurtains for it, or else reality
warped and twisted and broke asI gazed upon it, waiting,
salivating, to mangle my bodyand take my teeth and tongue.
Smells of rotted vegetables andmoss bombarded the forest and I
(26:34):
swear all the trees were in onit.
The bark is tall and loomingand bends at odd angles.
A dry and dusty cloak, like amoth's wing, wraps around a
hollowed skeletal torso.
Gnarled fingers look like roots.
It wears a crown that hassprouted naturally from its head
and its skin is a white bark,both petrified and flaky.
(26:58):
No eyes.
It stands with its arms foldedbehind its back, guarded by the
bodies.
It wants you to see, the bodiesyou want to see, and it waits.
The bark waits, clicking andclacking, the distant sound of
twigs breaking, the knottycreaking of wood bending Without
moving.
I could tell it was beckoningme into the forest, a
(27:20):
gravitational pull thatblackened out my peripheries.
I ran faster than I could thatday and still I woke up with
splinters.
I've seen the bark, yes, and Ihope I never see it again.
Now all I see are the bodies,some new, some old, lately well,
lately they look a little bitlike you.
Speaker 1 (27:48):
I mean, what an intense, horrifying, moving,
visceral story.
Speaker 2 (27:54):
Whoa, this, the premise of this one, really,
really spoke to me, I guess.
Speaker 1 (28:00):
Yeah.
Speaker 2 (28:01):
It felt like a Stephen King novel in some ways,
but totally.
I mean just the idea of whatthe story was about is
terrifying.
Speaker 1 (28:12):
I don't know if you're on Appalachian horror
TikTok the way that I am.
Speaker 2 (28:17):
Unfortunately I'm not .
Speaker 1 (28:19):
But there is this like repeating.
There's I think it was onecreator and I wish I knew their
name, but there was one creator,I think, who kind of started
this trend of talking aboutwhat's in the woods in
Appalachia, but in a way wherehe just kept repeating multiple
times in the videos you don'tlook into the trees or something
like that.
Like you don't make eye contactwith the trees, you don't look
(28:41):
into the forest, you don'tacknowledge what's happening in
the forest.
And there's just something aboutthat repeated sort of mantra
that Glenn also uses in thisstory, which is obviously
different, but it's kind of justthat like the mechanic of
repeating that phrase over andover again is very chilling, I
think, and effective.
Speaker 2 (28:58):
I feel like humans being afraid of what lies within
the forest is sort of a tale asold as time too.
You know just you know Brothersknow brothers, grim, just truly
dark, dense woods that reallyrepresent the unknown.
Speaker 1 (29:14):
I feel like this is a very interesting take on that,
which not necessarily one thatwe hear all the time I also love
how it sort of shifts the tonea little bit part way through
when we start talking about likethe fbi and oh yeah, and I
think that and to me that feltlike it was like stephen king
meets an X-Files episode.
Speaker 2 (29:32):
Right, which was fun.
Speaker 1 (29:34):
So this story is by Glenn Duggan, who is currently
based in Brooklyn, new York City.
He exists within a Venn diagramof urban design, sociology and
good stories.
When not obsessing about one ofthose three, he can be found at
a park drinking black coffeeand listening to podcasts about
murder.
For more of his work, you canvisit his website,
whereisglennowcom, which, ofcourse, we will link in the
(29:56):
description of this podcast.
Yeah, and mike macera, ourfriend mike macera, read this
story.
So mike has been featured onthis podcast many times.
He is part of the band beachtherapy and definitely go listen
to beach therapy.
Anywhere you listen to musicSpotify is where I listen to
them.
But he's very, very talented,as I think everyone knows at
this point, and I thought he dida really good job with this
(30:17):
story.
And again, that like sort ofcadence of this repetitive frame
within you know, I think he dida really great job executing
that.
All right, alex, so we have afinal story.
Speaker 2 (30:30):
All right, let's get into it.
Speaker 1 (30:31):
Here we go.
Speaker 3 (30:35):
Poltergeists on President Street.
Written by Linda A Loschiavo.
Read by Alex Goldman.
Speaker 2 (30:46):
The memory knocks insistently, rattles its chain.
The story retold, summoned,shared, like leftovers from a
phantom feast.
My uncle's voice, anincantation that wiped the table
clean of holiday food, pouredthe chill down the backs of our
collars, goose-fleshed our armsas he explained how most ghosts
(31:10):
are a disappearing act, butpoltergeists engineer noisy
return engagements,vaudevillians of the void greedy
for a live audience.
A lifetime ago, his weeklypoker game was dinner theater
for restless spirits.
Stuck in a haunted house, hecarried his gut.
Hunger, boxed inside the GreatDepression, festering impatience
(31:34):
, unquiet cravings.
Nicotine nursed him daily,except when he donned altar boy
drag cassock.
In surplice, the priest wouldelevate the host to an invisible
god, his thurible filling theair with holy smoke.
Saints have no opportunity tostay dead, he thought, cupping a
(31:56):
fist to the flame, inhaling anunfiltered lucky strike behind
the rectory.
As his eyes scanned hissurroundings and a room for rent
drifted into view.
Complaints had carved an abyssbetween himself and his parents.
They were inhospitable to thestink of stogies and cigarettes
that fueled rounds of poker,angling their eyes like a
(32:19):
crucified Christ imploring thecard players to quit.
He needed a new venue andoffering rent money was his ace.
He ran enthusiastically up thestoop as a Wayne housewife
ghosted into view, her facewreathed by a French inhale.
A deal was struck for two gamesduring weeknights, eight in a
(32:41):
month, paid in advance.
From an inner sanctum, a room hecould not see, an unearthly
falsetto shrieked, dimming thesunshine, roaring into his ears.
We have ghosts, she explained.
No extra charge.
Now, those long ago, scaresrose like a steam.
In the same way, a flayedturkey breast releases its heat
(33:05):
to the carving knife.
Then came, not the rapping,tapping Poe heard on his chamber
door, but the crashing smashingof crockery shelved in china
cabinets, glassware thrown atthe stove, forcing the players
to their feet, hunting for thesource of the commotion, only to
find nothing.
(33:26):
To my uncle's eye, though,there were no cabinets, at least
not anymore.
There had been at one time, butthe furious being continued,
smashing them in their absencedecades later.
On other evenings, spooks wouldoverturn the table, sending
hearts and clubs airborne,alarming.
(33:47):
All Haunting memories must havegnawed at the apparition's
loneliness, continuing aferocious domestic drama echoing
long ago chaos.
Priests came and went, theirblessings, novenas, incense,
prayers brittle as glass.
Nothing lived in theseinvocations no exorcism, no
(34:10):
catharsis.
Collectively, our blood forgetsto surge and flow as we shiver
on the brink of climax, myuncle's closing act.
Ventriloquy fills the room withunhinged cackling, a poltergeist
, maniacally gleeful, proud ofits performance.
As our soup pot boils dry andour percolator shrieks years
(34:34):
after, I dream of what must havehappened to wind a spirit so
angrily to that house.
A slow cooked rage, the sowingwind taunting the drawn shades,
tattered scullery, wallpaperscuffed by body slams, a furious
spouse abuse accumulated,stoking a fire in the belly.
(34:57):
Well-oiled revenge readyingseething, sharpening a six-inch
boning knife, a marital ragoutsplattered across the wall.
Now a dirge lullabies her earsas she swoons around the house
searching for a shovel,lozenging the word burial under
(35:19):
her tongue, she begins hermaniacal laughter.
Tomorrow's empty jar ofmourning fills with men in white
coats and a restraining garmentnearly split open by wild
whoops of merriment.
Freedom from her husband's rage.
At last there's a sense of thefuture humming.
Except it would not end there.
(35:41):
Emotions drowned in this bloodykitchen would resurface, be
regurgitated.
Have the last laugh surface.
Be regurgitated.
Have the last laugh well.
Speaker 1 (35:55):
First of all, alex, you did such a lovely job
reading that poem.
I thought you did really reallywell and it was so beautifully
narrated oh, thank you know.
Speaker 2 (36:04):
it really felt good to be able to narrate one of our
stories, especially especiallyhere on the last campfire
episode of the year.
And what a story that was.
I mean a beautiful poem and wewere just talking about it, but
what beautiful language it was.
Speaker 1 (36:22):
Oh, my gosh, very beautiful language.
I really love like thelozenging under her tongue, the
word you know, just like.
Oh, I really felt it.
Speaker 2 (36:30):
The choice of words was awesome.
Speaker 1 (36:32):
Was really awesome and surprising, and I love that
in poetry.
I also think it's so cool thatthis is a poem that's a
nonfiction poem, even thoughit's so ethereal and poetic
based on like a real paranormalexperience.
Speaker 2 (36:46):
Right, totally.
Speaker 1 (36:47):
Yeah, so cool.
So this poem was written byLindainda ann loschiavo, who is
a native new yorker and awardwinner.
Linda ann is a member of thebritish fantasy society hwa,
sfpa and the dramatist guild.
Just titles alone, just titlesthat were published in 2024
alone include always hauntedhalloween poems by Apprentice to
(37:11):
the Night with Universal Pressand I, of course.
I will leave all of thedifferent ways you can follow
Linda Ann on social media in thedescription below so that you
can stay attuned to new work shehas coming out.
Well, alex, as we are, I kindof think we're bringing home
this series for the year now,unless there's some kind of plot
twist.
But thank you so much forjoining us and it's been so very
(37:36):
fun, and I don't know again,one of my favorite parts of this
podcast is the community thatis being built around it, and so
thank you for being part ofthat.
Speaker 2 (37:45):
Oh, absolutely.
You know what a what a cool wayto celebrate um all types of
horror is by asking all of ourlisteners to contribute.
Speaker 1 (37:53):
Yeah.
Speaker 2 (37:54):
This has been a really cool series.
Speaker 1 (37:55):
Yes, amazing.
Okay, well, everybody, staywell, stay safe, stay spooky,
and we will talk to you verysoon.
Bye.
Speaker 2 (38:02):
Bye you.
Hello everyone and welcome back to another episode
of the lunatics radio, ourpodcast.
I am Abby Branker sitting herewith alex goldman hello, hello,
hello it's actually so hard forme not to say alan kudet,
because I'm so used to finishingthe phrase that way.
We have had a really good yearfor campfire tales episodes on
this podcast, and I am veryexcited for a fall.
(00:41):
You know when the veil is thin.
Speaker 2 (00:43):
Oh, spooky season for sure.
Speaker 1 (00:45):
Edition of Campfire Tales.
Exactly A spooky season editionof Campfire Tales.
So this season right, the firethat we are metaphorically
gathering around is probably insome kind of deep wooded place.
There's a brisk chill in theair, there's crunchy leaves,
there's noises of crackingbranches and animals lurking
about in the darkness around us.
Speaker 2 (01:06):
Oh yeah, darkness, Very dark.
Still s'mores Of course, thatis the consistent throughout all
of these.
Speaker 1 (01:13):
Otherwise, what are we doing here?
Speaker 2 (01:14):
Yeah.
Speaker 1 (01:16):
I'm so honored to feature some really amazing,
incredible stories on thisepisode by very talented writers
and also some really reallytalented narrators who helped us
pull this one together.
So thank you in advance toeverybody.
Again, this is just like themost fun I have on this podcast,
because it's such acommunity-driven type of episode
and that's the part that's themost fun for all of us All right
(01:39):
.
So, alex, I think the vibe isset.
I think the s'mores are beingpassed around.
Shall we play the first story.
Speaker 2 (01:46):
Yeah, let's get into it.
Speaker 1 (01:48):
Okay, here we go.
Speaker 3 (01:52):
The Seven Eighth Read by Joseph Hare.
Read by Denali Bortel.
Speaker 4 (02:01):
It's like a ghost town around here.
I sighed Irritably.
I rubbed the fogged-up taxiwindow with the sleeve of my
parka jacket, but nothing I didseemed to clear the misted glass
.
No one on the streets at all.
They're not very social in thispart of Scotland, are they?
My driver did not offer aresponse.
There was a distant look in hishazel eyes as he carried us
(02:24):
through the country roads intothe village outskirts Beautiful
countryside though I offered,beginning to worry that I'd
offended him.
I'm here to visit my mother.
She lives in that old house onthe coast, mrs Barrow's Perhaps
you've met her, fifty years old,sometimes wears glasses.
She's always in lots of jewelry.
(02:44):
Again, I was met with the soundof silence.
It was beginning to make meuncomfortable Giving up.
I slumped over in my seat andwatched the green ocean rising
in the windshield as weapproached the cliffside.
I hope she's okay.
I spoke aloud more to myselfthan anyone else.
She stopped contacting me theselast few weeks, stopped
(03:06):
answering her phone.
I'm worried stiff.
She's been so angry with mesince I decided to marry Michael
Instinctively.
My hand went to the bruisebeneath my ribcage.
Michael had been furious when Itold him about this trip.
He hated my mother almost asmuch as she hated him.
I took a deep breath.
(03:28):
It could be that she doesn'twant to speak to me any longer.
Could be that she doesn't evenanswer the door.
That would be fine, I suppose.
As long as I know she's allright.
Climbing steadily up thecliffside road, we soon pulled
up to the old house on the edgeof the coast.
I couldn't see any lights onthrough the windows, but it was
a bright evening and the grayglimmer of dusk carried steadily
(03:50):
over the ocean waves.
Thank you.
I emptied the driver's fareinto a cup holder between the
front seats before stepping outinto the winter's chill.
The sound of the encroachingsea seemed to surround me from
all directions, crashingviolently against the rocks
below like the beat of someancient drum.
The taxi man lit a cigarette,staring through me to the house
(04:13):
on the coast, that old place.
He spoke distastefully, a snarlgrowing on the corner of his
lips.
He shook his head.
Someone ought to burn it down.
Nothing but a bunch of ghostsin that house.
I'm sorry.
I asked him, not quitebelieving my ears.
Something about the farawaytone in his voice made me shiver
(04:34):
.
I huddled into my jacket,pretending it was the cold.
I don't know what you mean.
I Do you know my mother, or theharsh screech of the vehicle's
accelerator cut me off as thetaxi sped down the road.
Swallowing my nerves, I steppedthrough the open gate into the
neglected front yard, treadingcarefully through the tall, wet
(04:55):
grass until I reached thedoorstep.
My heart pounded in my chest asI knocked on the wood.
Mom, I called out, my voicebeing swallowed up by the wind.
Mom, it's me, let me in, please.
There was no response, but thesound of a gentle thunderclap in
the distance and raindropsbegan to trickle from the
(05:15):
cracked tiles of the archwayabove.
Mom, mom, it's raining.
I knocked again more forcefully.
This time it's raining, pleaselet me there's a loud click as
the door, pulled away from myfist, creaking open to reveal a
dark, shadowy entrance hall.
I squinted through the darknessas I stepped inside.
(05:36):
The light switch by theentrance was working, but the
bare bull which hung beside thestairs was dim and flickering,
despite the rain behind me.
I kept the door open for thesake of the light.
Mom, I called out, angercreeping into my voice.
I'm here, come downstairs.
Another thunderclap echoed inthe distance.
(05:57):
She could be having a shower, Ithought, and the idea was
soothing to me.
You can't hear you've gotvisitors when you're in the
shower, yet for all the noise ofthe storm outside, I couldn't
hear any running water frominside the house.
I could smell something, thoughSomething foul and odorous.
(06:18):
A fat cockroach skitteredacross the toe of my shoe,
leading me into the kitchen,which carried the stench.
The light switch in this roomdidn't work at all, but by the
dull gloom of the bay window Icould make out piles of dirty
pots stacked on top of oneanother, fuzzy clouds of black
flies hovering above anoverloaded kitchen sink.
In the center of the room wasthe rotting, headless carcass of
(06:41):
an animal I could not recognize.
A gaping wound in the poorcreature's neck was festering,
with pulsating maggots whichdripped from the table and onto
the floor below.
I held my nose to keep fromretching.
Mom, I called out, gettingdesperate.
Mom, where are you?
Something heavy thumped in theceiling above I froze, feeling a
(07:04):
terrible chill rush up my spine.
I couldn't help but think ofwhat the driver had said about
this house when he pulled up tothe gate.
Nothing but ghosts, I said tomyself, watching my breath turn
to mist before my eyes, hearingmyself actually say the word
ghosts drew an exasperated laughfrom my shivering lips.
(07:25):
Nothing but ghosts, indeed.
Listen to yourself, maria.
I shook my head, stomping myway towards the battered
staircase.
In the hall, mom, I yelledloudly, as if to prove that I
wasn't afraid.
I couldn't think why therewould be an animal corpse in my
mother's kitchen, but there hadto be a reasonable explanation
(07:45):
for what I had seen.
Come down this instant.
It's your daughter.
You can't ignore me like this.
Come down or I'll.
I'll come up and get you.
The storm was quieting outsideand everything around me fell
into hushed silence.
I stared up at the hazydarkness atop the stairs,
listening to the sound of my ownheart pounding in my temples.
(08:06):
There was no response.
Right, I took a deep breath andheld onto the wooden banister,
slowly beginning to climb thestairs.
There was a loud, terrifyingcrack as the rotten wood of the
banister fell apart under mygrip.
But, swallowing my scream, Icontinued the ascent on two
(08:26):
shaking legs.
The landing was almost pitchblack, but a slither of warm
candlelight was glowing througha gap in the left-hand doorway.
I tried to call for her again,but my voice died in my throat
as I reached for the handle.
She couldn't be dead.
I tried to assure myselfSomething had made that noise in
(08:48):
the kitchen and it could onlyhave been her.
Gathering every bit of courage,I flung open the door with all
my might.
There, kneeling in the centerof the room and surrounded by a
glimmering circle of drippingwax candles, was a dark robed
figure eagerly prostratingitself before a decapitated
(09:10):
goat's head strung up on thewall.
The figure rocked back andforth, yululating some
otherworldly chant as it claspedits vascular hands in prayer.
Suddenly the figure a woman wholooked older than death itself
spun her neck to meet myterrified gaze with her own
toothless, hungry smile.
(09:31):
I screamed, turning to run.
I found that all the strengthhad abandoned my legs as I fell,
crashing into the floorboardsbelow.
Hopelessly, I tried to pullmyself out of the doorway by my
arm, screaming all the while.
I felt the monster's long,brittle nails scrape sickeningly
against the backs of my legs asshe pulled me into the room.
No, I pleaded, finally findingmy voice once more.
(09:54):
No, tears ran hot down my faceas I struggled.
I thought I was about to bekilled, to be eaten my head torn
off like the head of that pooranimal in the kitchen eaten.
My head torn off like the headof that poor animal in the
kitchen.
But instead of attacking me,the ghastly old woman held me
tightly in a sickening embrace,even as I convulsed on the floor
in terror.
(10:14):
My daughter, she said, mybeautiful daughter.
I could feel her cold bodypressed against mine and when I
found the courage to lift mygaze, I saw that I was now
laying in the middle of thecircle of candles.
Among these candles, staring atme with lifeless faces, were a
strange assortment of stuffedanimals, my stuffed animals, I
(10:38):
realized from when I was a girl,mom.
I looked into her face, herwretched, ancient face, with
deep dark fissures and throbbingwhite pustules under her eyes.
Yet her eyes were filled with amother's love, and the
resemblance could not bemistaken.
(10:59):
But how?
My mother was a woman of fifty,a vibrant, soulful woman with
kind eyes and a beautiful smile.
"'but how?
"'my mother was a woman offifty, "'a vibrant, soulful
woman with kind eyes and abeautiful smile.
"'you've come back to me', thewoman croaked.
"'after all these years' "'Ireached out to touch her hair
"'thin and greasy and stuck toher oily scalp "'My fingers
(11:23):
seemed to fade?
into a heavy mist, where mymother's head ought to be.
Mom, I cried.
What's happening?
Are you a ghost or-.
I looked at my surroundings onelast time.
The blood from the goat's headdripped onto the floor beneath
me, where it had been smearedinto the shape of a pentagram.
At every point of the demon'ssymbol, one of my childhood
(11:47):
objects had been placed.
This was a ritual to summon aghost, A ritual to summon me.
How long had I been gone?
My wedding to Michael seemedlike just a few months ago, and
the day he first hit me was soonafter that, but by the sight of
(12:07):
my mother's aged face, it hadall happened many decades ago.
I felt myself sobbing, weepingfor the life I had lost to the
hands of that man.
Why did you bring me back, Iasked bitterly.
I was overcome with grief,overcome with anger that I had
been forced back into this world, only to learn that I had no
(12:29):
place in it any longer.
The walls around me seemed tofall away and I could see the
endless ocean rage tempestuouslyin every direction.
The water was rising, closingin on me, ready to take me away
once more.
Don't go, my daughter.
Mother begged trying to hold onto me, even as my spirit began
(12:52):
to fade.
Stay a little longer, please,oh please.
Frustrating herself once more,she chanted as loud as she could
, bargaining with the devil tokeep my shade alive.
But her voice was drowned outby the sound of the encroaching
sea.
The crashing of the wavesboomed louder and louder in my
(13:21):
head until I could hear nothingelse.
And soon the ocean Forget me.
I whispered, praying that shecould still hear my voice.
My only response was therelentless pull of the ocean,
waves dragging me once more intotheir cold watery depths.
(13:44):
Me once more into their coldwatery depths.
Speaker 2 (13:50):
Wow, first of all, a PSA really listen to how your
partner treats your mother.
Oh, I think that is verytelling, just to begin with.
Speaker 1 (14:00):
A good point, a very good point.
Speaker 2 (14:01):
Besides that, I thought the tone of this story
was really, really strong.
Right from the get-go.
You felt a sort of uneasinessabout it and you know it just
sort of grew and grew as theepisode went along.
Speaker 1 (14:15):
Yeah, I think that's absolutely correct and it also
starts as something again we'vetalked about on this series this
year.
I feel like a lot, but itstarts with something so normal
and human and relatable and then, just like, explodes into
something monstrous andotherworldly and I love that.
Speaker 2 (14:32):
I love like grounding us and then like fucking us up
you know, oh, totally, I mean,you really felt.
You really felt for the motherat the end there you just
totally uh could see what washappening.
When at first, when she wasfirst introduced, you were just
like who is this?
You know crazy old woman, yeah.
But then all of a sudden you'relike, oh man, what, what she
(14:53):
could have gone throughdevastation.
Yeah, absolutely.
Speaker 1 (14:57):
Okay, so this story was written by Joseph Hare.
Joseph lives in the picturesqueEnglish town of Barnard Castle
with his gorgeous rescue dog,jackie Jackie, and while he's
not writing amateur fiction, youcan find him working at the
Auckland Project Foundation toimprove the welfare of people
experiencing homelessness.
Speaker 2 (15:18):
Bravo, 10 out of 10.
Speaker 1 (15:19):
Yeah, he's mostly steered clear of social media,
but he does have a Blue Skyaccount, which we will link to
below, of course, so that youcan stay tuned to any new
projects.
As well as horror, he alsowrites fantasy and satire
fiction, and this is a reallycool fun fact that I think is
fascinating.
He actually worked on a studentfilm with Stephen Fry when he
(15:41):
was 19.
Speaker 2 (15:42):
Whoa.
Speaker 1 (15:43):
And as such, he wrote words that Stephen Fry has said
, I mean pretty cool, prettycool.
Speaker 2 (15:48):
That's awesome.
What a resume.
Speaker 1 (15:50):
He says, not that he's bragging, but listen, brag
all you want.
That's the coolest thing I'veever heard.
And he's also working on a darkfantasy book called the Pillars
of Damnation, so we willanxiously await the publication
of that.
And, as always, our friendDenali Bartel did a haunting, a
hauntingly good job with thisone.
Speaker 2 (16:09):
Another slam dunk.
Speaker 1 (16:10):
Yes, I love their narration style and I feel again
like there's just so muchemotion that bleeds through,
despite their very even and calmapproach to narration.
Like you could still sort offeel the undertones of it, if
that makes sense.
Speaker 2 (16:25):
Oh yeah, they could do any type of story, really,
yeah yeah, absolutely okay.
Speaker 1 (16:30):
So we still have two stories that await our eager
ears.
Shall we roll the tape, let'sdo it and just a quick content
warning before we play this nextstory.
It's a bit graphic.
I don't even quite know how tocontent warn this one, but it's
a little bit graphic and justkeep that in mind.
If it's not something you'reyou're interested in hearing the
(16:56):
bork ridden by glenn duncan,bred by moik you do not
recognize the bodies in theforest.
Speaker 5 (17:08):
I implore you to listen to me, just listen.
No one knows when the bodiesstarted appearing, hanging from
the gnarled branches of CogHollow.
Little Janine says she sees thebody of her grandmother hanging
like a broken chicken wing atthe edge of the school.
Postman Milton swears he seesthe checkered house dress of his
sister flapping in the windlike laundry out to dry.
(17:29):
They say there is a rule ofthrees for examples, but I think
you get it.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the woods.
Sometimes they appear out ofthe corner of your eye like a
little light flash.
Other times they appear in themiddle of errands, trips around
town, staring directly at youwith vacant, lifeless eyes.
The time does not matter.
(17:49):
People have seen them overtheir morning eggs and coffee
outside the window of Pat'sdiner.
Dusk makes only the oneswearing darker clothing more
difficult to see.
But no one usually dies wearingflashy clothing.
Most of the bodies wearinglighter clothing are children or
little siblings.
I've always seen them too.
Without pattern or prompt.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
(18:12):
The bodies always hang, alwayssway.
No one knows why the bodiesappear.
No one knows why two people cansee the same body and robert,
from the corner of bleaker, andrye, sees his estranged sister.
And why?
Hannah?
The bartender at jacob's tavernsees her father who died of
cancer 10 years ago.
The bartender at Jacob's Tavernsees her father who died of
cancer ten years ago.
Even more the bodies will be ofloved ones, strangled by a rope
(18:33):
and hanging like a limpscarecrow.
Always regardless of how theydied and you will want to save
them.
The bodies only sway in thebranches, leticed by gnarled,
dying leaves.
They do not come into town andeveryone from Adam knows not to
go into the forest.
They won't hurt you, we tellthe children, and they don't.
(18:55):
Last autumn, same time aroundnow actually, paul McCoy was
taking a walk down the fields,keeping very clear of the forest
.
Paul had seen the bodies.
He has gotten used to seeingMama McCoy dangling from the
rafters, coarse ropes cinchingher liver-spotted neck.
He is used to seeing hisbrothers and sisters bent at odd
(19:16):
geometries, sunspots of bloodsplattered on the clothes they
died in, not the ones they wereburied in.
Paul understands this of theforest, knows this is just a
trick, knows its ruses.
His constitution is strong, asis everyone's in Cog Hollow.
But once he hears the voices ofhis estranged son who ran away
from home at 16 and missed everyChristmas since, Paul came
(19:39):
a-running into that dark forest,past the dangling bodies, past
the tattered remains of those herecognized but knows isn't real
.
Can you imagine that, duckingunderneath boots of your brother
scuffed with grime and fishflecks from the docks, running
in between the heels of thesemolina-dusted shoes of his
cake-loving mother, fat butweightless, held up by a thin
(20:01):
reed of a branch, paul goes intothe forest, into its stomach,
finds his boy stuck in time,still at 16.
The next morning we all seePaul in the middle of Main
Street, his body snapped at alljoints, spleen ballooned out of
him, entrails underneath thecrisp air, no teeth, no tongue.
(20:22):
It is little Janine and herschool friends who find him on
their way to morning classes.
This is not a coincidence.
I'm trying to help this makesense for you.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
The FBI came and visited ourlittle town for Mr McCoy's
murder, because even our locallaw enforcement could not lie
about the bodies in the forest.
(20:44):
The first wave was simple,protocol, invasive because they
existed Black vans parked alongthe side of the main road, suits
and sunglasses, takingresidents in the Clarence Inn
right on McGowan.
They interviewed everyone,myself included.
It was the forest, we said.
The forest took Paul McCoy.
The forest, they said, as if wewere crazy.
(21:05):
The forest, not the bodies.
The FBI directed theirattention to the forest.
Their back turned to us.
We watched them from our forest, not the bodies.
The FBI directed theirattention to the forest.
Their back turned to us.
We watched them from ourwindows, watched the sun set as
they waded through the longbrowning grass, step over the
plants, getting ready for thegreat resurrection of next year.
We saw them nudge one anotherpoint at bodies that we all
recognized.
(21:26):
I saw an agent point a shakingfinger to my grandfather who
died in 82, and claim that shewas his little sister, samantha.
We saw minds begin to break andit was both fascinating and sad
.
Pistols drawn, as if this coulddispel the illusion Into the
brush.
They went, pulled by the needto save their siblings, their
(21:47):
parents, their lovers.
Those that remained wereshattered afterwards and, yes,
it was heartbreaking.
The second wave consisted ofchemists, botanists, all the
eggheads.
They shut down poor Rosie's Puband Pat's Diner for a place to
hold their beakers and testtubes.
They set up a perimeter aroundtown, long barriers with 24-hour
(22:08):
surveillance Riflemen posted atthe corners of all junctions
aimed at the forest.
They worked in shifts of twohours, consistently moving up
and down the rickety ladders.
I get it Enough.
Exposure to seeing your mama orlittle sister all twisted and
hanging limp is enough to breakyou emotionally, even though you
know it's fake.
When they went into the forestthey wore quarantine outfits.
(22:32):
I saw some of the agentsreturning to town with tears in
their eyes, some with splotchesof blood from suicides of their
colleagues.
Occasionally one of the hazmatat FBI agents will appear like a
crumpled candy wrapper in themiddle of Main Street, tossed
aside like trash.
No teeth, no tongue.
The third wave overlapped withthe second.
(22:53):
They brought psychologists totalk to us before they pricked
at us with needles and littlerods.
They thought we were causingthe bodies in the forest that we
were playing a giant trick onthe FBI, why we are plagued with
it as much as they.
We've just learned to live withit.
Me, bill Montgomery and AnnieBeth all think this is what
makes them so suspicious of ourlittle town, that we have just
(23:16):
learned to live with it.
We have no other choice.
You do not recognize the bodiesin the forest.
The fourth wave was seances.
Shamans, people with Ouijaboards and funny incense made
our little town look like agypsy carnival.
Who knew the FBI had thisdivision, this paranormal sector
?
It was all so silly.
(23:38):
Here's a list of theories thatthe FBI revealed to us during
one of the mandatory town hallmeetings, when they locked the
doors from the outside.
Number one spores in the forestinhibited a neurochemical
response that evokes theemotional effect of seeing a
loved one hanging from the trees.
2.
The townsfolk have all beeninfected with some invasive
bacteria in the water or cropswhich make us perceptive to
(24:00):
illusions.
3.
Communism, just that Communism.
It goes without saying thatafter all these months the FBI
has determined nothing.
Perhaps it is the separation ofchurch and state.
They did not bring in anypriests, any holy men of any
kind.
In all their knowledge, no onenoticed that our little town of
Cog Hollow has no church, nopews of worship, no sacred
(24:24):
spaces.
We have our little diners, ourwatering holes, our corner
stores, but no church.
We had churches, but theycaught flames and you do not
recognize the bodies in theforest.
And not once did they ask us ifwe are religious we are.
We believe in the bark becausewe must.
We believe in the bark becausewe have no option not to.
(24:45):
We do not know where the barkcomes from or how long it has
resided in the forest.
All we know is that the barkneeds to feed.
I've seen the bark once.
I was at the edge of the foreston a crisp autumn morning, much
like this one, much like theone which took Paul McCoy, much
like today.
I was a boy then, fascinatedwith the impending doom that I
(25:06):
could allow myself if I juststepped forward.
I was fascinated with theimpending doom that I could
(25:27):
allow myself, died by the bludgeinto the head, the busted
cervix.
I stood at the edge of theforest, the toes of my sneakers
pressing upon the cold andshadowed earth, the leaves
moving like little tendrils,wind whistled through, the trees
moving in the empty spaces ofthe darkness.
The lifeless eyes of my lovedones looked down on me from
their bondages, their facesblistered and purple from
(25:50):
asphyxiation, eyes bulged.
I wanted to save them.
I did.
It is human nature and the barkpreys on this.
I told myself that I did notrecognize the bodies in the
forest.
I just wanted to stare at theabyss, like a sort of game, a
controlled dance with death, atug-of-war of wills.
The bark appeared in the threshof the woodland, a figure
(26:13):
looming behind the trees, ajuggernaut of cosmic insult.
I swear the trees parted likecurtains for it, or else reality
warped and twisted and broke asI gazed upon it, waiting,
salivating, to mangle my bodyand take my teeth and tongue.
Smells of rotted vegetables andmoss bombarded the forest and I
(26:34):
swear all the trees were in onit.
The bark is tall and loomingand bends at odd angles.
A dry and dusty cloak, like amoth's wing, wraps around a
hollowed skeletal torso.
Gnarled fingers look like roots.
It wears a crown that hassprouted naturally from its head
and its skin is a white bark,both petrified and flaky.
(26:58):
No eyes.
It stands with its arms foldedbehind its back, guarded by the
bodies.
It wants you to see, the bodiesyou want to see, and it waits.
The bark waits, clicking andclacking, the distant sound of
twigs breaking, the knottycreaking of wood bending Without
moving.
I could tell it was beckoningme into the forest, a
(27:20):
gravitational pull thatblackened out my peripheries.
I ran faster than I could thatday and still I woke up with
splinters.
I've seen the bark, yes, and Ihope I never see it again.
Now all I see are the bodies,some new, some old, lately well,
lately they look a little bitlike you.
Speaker 1 (27:48):
I mean, what an intense, horrifying, moving,
visceral story.
Speaker 2 (27:54):
Whoa, this, the premise of this one, really,
really spoke to me, I guess.
Speaker 1 (28:00):
Yeah.
Speaker 2 (28:01):
It felt like a Stephen King novel in some ways,
but totally.
I mean just the idea of whatthe story was about is
terrifying.
Speaker 1 (28:12):
I don't know if you're on Appalachian horror
TikTok the way that I am.
Speaker 2 (28:17):
Unfortunately I'm not .
Speaker 1 (28:19):
But there is this like repeating.
There's I think it was onecreator and I wish I knew their
name, but there was one creator,I think, who kind of started
this trend of talking aboutwhat's in the woods in
Appalachia, but in a way wherehe just kept repeating multiple
times in the videos you don'tlook into the trees or something
like that.
Like you don't make eye contactwith the trees, you don't look
(28:41):
into the forest, you don'tacknowledge what's happening in
the forest.
And there's just something aboutthat repeated sort of mantra
that Glenn also uses in thisstory, which is obviously
different, but it's kind of justthat like the mechanic of
repeating that phrase over andover again is very chilling, I
think, and effective.
Speaker 2 (28:58):
I feel like humans being afraid of what lies within
the forest is sort of a tale asold as time too.
You know just you know Brothersknow brothers, grim, just truly
dark, dense woods that reallyrepresent the unknown.
Speaker 1 (29:14):
I feel like this is a very interesting take on that,
which not necessarily one thatwe hear all the time I also love
how it sort of shifts the tonea little bit part way through
when we start talking about likethe fbi and oh yeah, and I
think that and to me that feltlike it was like stephen king
meets an X-Files episode.
Speaker 2 (29:32):
Right, which was fun.
Speaker 1 (29:34):
So this story is by Glenn Duggan, who is currently
based in Brooklyn, new York City.
He exists within a Venn diagramof urban design, sociology and
good stories.
When not obsessing about one ofthose three, he can be found at
a park drinking black coffeeand listening to podcasts about
murder.
For more of his work, you canvisit his website,
whereisglennowcom, which, ofcourse, we will link in the
(29:56):
description of this podcast.
Yeah, and mike macera, ourfriend mike macera, read this
story.
So mike has been featured onthis podcast many times.
He is part of the band beachtherapy and definitely go listen
to beach therapy.
Anywhere you listen to musicSpotify is where I listen to
them.
But he's very, very talented,as I think everyone knows at
this point, and I thought he dida really good job with this
(30:17):
story.
And again, that like sort ofcadence of this repetitive frame
within you know, I think he dida really great job executing
that.
All right, alex, so we have afinal story.
Speaker 2 (30:30):
All right, let's get into it.
Speaker 1 (30:31):
Here we go.
Speaker 3 (30:35):
Poltergeists on President Street.
Written by Linda A Loschiavo.
Read by Alex Goldman.
Speaker 2 (30:46):
The memory knocks insistently, rattles its chain.
The story retold, summoned,shared, like leftovers from a
phantom feast.
My uncle's voice, anincantation that wiped the table
clean of holiday food, pouredthe chill down the backs of our
collars, goose-fleshed our armsas he explained how most ghosts
(31:10):
are a disappearing act, butpoltergeists engineer noisy
return engagements,vaudevillians of the void greedy
for a live audience.
A lifetime ago, his weeklypoker game was dinner theater
for restless spirits.
Stuck in a haunted house, hecarried his gut.
Hunger, boxed inside the GreatDepression, festering impatience
(31:34):
, unquiet cravings.
Nicotine nursed him daily,except when he donned altar boy
drag cassock.
In surplice, the priest wouldelevate the host to an invisible
god, his thurible filling theair with holy smoke.
Saints have no opportunity tostay dead, he thought, cupping a
(31:56):
fist to the flame, inhaling anunfiltered lucky strike behind
the rectory.
As his eyes scanned hissurroundings and a room for rent
drifted into view.
Complaints had carved an abyssbetween himself and his parents.
They were inhospitable to thestink of stogies and cigarettes
that fueled rounds of poker,angling their eyes like a
(32:19):
crucified Christ imploring thecard players to quit.
He needed a new venue andoffering rent money was his ace.
He ran enthusiastically up thestoop as a Wayne housewife
ghosted into view, her facewreathed by a French inhale.
A deal was struck for two gamesduring weeknights, eight in a
(32:41):
month, paid in advance.
From an inner sanctum, a room hecould not see, an unearthly
falsetto shrieked, dimming thesunshine, roaring into his ears.
We have ghosts, she explained.
No extra charge.
Now, those long ago, scaresrose like a steam.
In the same way, a flayedturkey breast releases its heat
(33:05):
to the carving knife.
Then came, not the rapping,tapping Poe heard on his chamber
door, but the crashing smashingof crockery shelved in china
cabinets, glassware thrown atthe stove, forcing the players
to their feet, hunting for thesource of the commotion, only to
find nothing.
(33:26):
To my uncle's eye, though,there were no cabinets, at least
not anymore.
There had been at one time, butthe furious being continued,
smashing them in their absencedecades later.
On other evenings, spooks wouldoverturn the table, sending
hearts and clubs airborne,alarming.
(33:47):
All Haunting memories must havegnawed at the apparition's
loneliness, continuing aferocious domestic drama echoing
long ago chaos.
Priests came and went, theirblessings, novenas, incense,
prayers brittle as glass.
Nothing lived in theseinvocations no exorcism, no
(34:10):
catharsis.
Collectively, our blood forgetsto surge and flow as we shiver
on the brink of climax, myuncle's closing act.
Ventriloquy fills the room withunhinged cackling, a poltergeist
, maniacally gleeful, proud ofits performance.
As our soup pot boils dry andour percolator shrieks years
(34:34):
after, I dream of what must havehappened to wind a spirit so
angrily to that house.
A slow cooked rage, the sowingwind taunting the drawn shades,
tattered scullery, wallpaperscuffed by body slams, a furious
spouse abuse accumulated,stoking a fire in the belly.
(34:57):
Well-oiled revenge readyingseething, sharpening a six-inch
boning knife, a marital ragoutsplattered across the wall.
Now a dirge lullabies her earsas she swoons around the house
searching for a shovel,lozenging the word burial under
(35:19):
her tongue, she begins hermaniacal laughter.
Tomorrow's empty jar ofmourning fills with men in white
coats and a restraining garmentnearly split open by wild
whoops of merriment.
Freedom from her husband's rage.
At last there's a sense of thefuture humming.
Except it would not end there.
(35:41):
Emotions drowned in this bloodykitchen would resurface, be
regurgitated.
Have the last laugh surface.
Be regurgitated.
Have the last laugh well.
Speaker 1 (35:55):
First of all, alex, you did such a lovely job
reading that poem.
I thought you did really reallywell and it was so beautifully
narrated oh, thank you know.
Speaker 2 (36:04):
it really felt good to be able to narrate one of our
stories, especially especiallyhere on the last campfire
episode of the year.
And what a story that was.
I mean a beautiful poem and wewere just talking about it, but
what beautiful language it was.
Speaker 1 (36:22):
Oh, my gosh, very beautiful language.
I really love like thelozenging under her tongue, the
word you know, just like.
Oh, I really felt it.
Speaker 2 (36:30):
The choice of words was awesome.
Speaker 1 (36:32):
Was really awesome and surprising, and I love that
in poetry.
I also think it's so cool thatthis is a poem that's a
nonfiction poem, even thoughit's so ethereal and poetic
based on like a real paranormalexperience.
Speaker 2 (36:46):
Right, totally.
Speaker 1 (36:47):
Yeah, so cool.
So this poem was written byLindainda ann loschiavo, who is
a native new yorker and awardwinner.
Linda ann is a member of thebritish fantasy society hwa,
sfpa and the dramatist guild.
Just titles alone, just titlesthat were published in 2024
alone include always hauntedhalloween poems by Apprentice to
(37:11):
the Night with Universal Pressand I, of course.
I will leave all of thedifferent ways you can follow
Linda Ann on social media in thedescription below so that you
can stay attuned to new work shehas coming out.
Well, alex, as we are, I kindof think we're bringing home
this series for the year now,unless there's some kind of plot
twist.
But thank you so much forjoining us and it's been so very
(37:36):
fun, and I don't know again,one of my favorite parts of this
podcast is the community thatis being built around it, and so
thank you for being part ofthat.
Speaker 2 (37:45):
Oh, absolutely.
You know what a what a cool wayto celebrate um all types of
horror is by asking all of ourlisteners to contribute.
Speaker 1 (37:53):
Yeah.
Speaker 2 (37:54):
This has been a really cool series.
Speaker 1 (37:55):
Yes, amazing.
Okay, well, everybody, staywell, stay safe, stay spooky,
and we will talk to you verysoon.
Bye.
Speaker 2 (38:02):
Bye you.
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