First-Time Homeowner & Feeders of the Storm

In select theaters, March 20 from "Strandre Leasing."

“Deep in the American South, a back alley absent bar harbors a deadly secret.”

Countess Elizabeth Bathory and her glamorous coven of vampires keep their killer instincts sharp by praying on lonely singles through dating apps, seducing and slaughtering to preserve their youth. But when Elizabeth swipes right on the wrong profiles, a cunning undercover vampire hunter and a band of emotionally stunted bros, the hunt spirals into hilariously horrifying

chaos. Rist cutters a love story producer Adam Sherman writes and directs this hilarious horror comedy that stars mean a suvarry, Stephen Dorf.

Tom Behringer, Rosa Salazar, Tyrese Gibson, Lockman Monroe, and more.

Don't miss vampires of the Velvet Lounge, inselect theaters, March 20th, tickets on sale now. From the executive producers of Stranger Things, comes a series that asks the question, "Are you sure?" He's the one. Something very bad is going to happen.

It is an atmospheric psychological horror set in the five days leading up to an intimate wedding. During Camilla Murrone, and Adam Demargo, this isn't just a story about cold feet. It's about the visceral anxiety and mounting terror of realizing you might be marrying the wrong person.

As Rachel questions whether Nikki is truly the one, her doubts spiral into something darker, and the show explores the ultimate horror.

“How can you ever be certain you've made the right choice?”

It's edgy, and it's not a spoiler if it's in the title. Something very bad is going to happen. The only question is, "What is it?" Watch something very bad is going to happen. On March 26th, only on Netflix.

The game has only just begun. Radio Silence Directors Matt Bettenelli Open and Tyler Gillette are back for round two with their new horror comedy film, "Ready You're Not to Here I Come." Samara Weaving returns as Grace, the battle worn and bloody bride, and is joined by stars, Katherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Sean Hadisey, Nestor Carvino, David Cronenberg,

Elijah Wood, after Grace Mary's into a mysterious family, and is forced to play a life or death theme of hide and seek.

“She emerges victorious, but what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole”

new twisted battle. This time, with her estranged sister faith at her side, the duo faces a shadowing group of rival devil worshiping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the Satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion

don't miss the full tilt insanity, "Ready You're Not To Here I Come." When it hits theaters, March 20th. "No." "This is creepy." A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban

legends in the world, whether these stories truly happened, or about simply fabrications is for you to decide, these stories made in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. This is the discretion it is advised.

First up, from writer Emily Ruth Varona and narrated by Lisha Akans, creepy presence,

first time homeowner. There's a listing for a two bed, one bath in the suburbs close to the train station. It's over twice as much as you can afford, but you decided to schedule a two or anyway, just to get an idea of what's available. Your new to the area, having come to start a new job with better pay.

You've rented twice over the last two years, but after saving up every spare penny, you're ready to be a first-time homeowner. For three weeks you've been sleeping on the couch of your cousin's tiny apartment.

furniture out from the storage unit you're renting for 150 a month.

“The day of the two are comes and you're buzzing with excitement, head to toe adrenaline”

and dopamine. This is it. This is the start of your home buying journey. Only the photos online seemed to have been taking at deceiving angles. It turns out that both bedrooms are the size of a bathroom, and the bathroom is the size

of a closet. The walls are freshly painted, and there's decent light in the kitchen, but you don't love the fixtures, or the floors, or the fact that the backyard is a pile of rocks against the neighbors' taint-linked fence. The street is noisy.

The yard has lovely flower beds, but you have no idea how to take care of them.

The driveway is cracked in several places, and we'll probably need to be re-sealed. This is what 350K over your price range gets you? Discuraged, you continue looking. Next, the friend gives you a tip on a two-bed to bath with a flex space in the attic. There's a real yard and even a garage.

But the house is on a major road right by a traffic light. The asking price is within your budget, but there are already three other potential buyers ready to put in offers. The ceiling has water stains, and the carpet has been ripped up, but not replaced. There's no refrigerator, or microwave, and the basement is prone to flooding.

You skip out on the bidding war, and keep searching.

You visit six tear downs, four town homes, three condos, and a studio apartment down the street

from the office that cost more than that place in the suburbs by the train station. You start to wonder if you're wasting your time.

“Maybe you should just give up, or rent, except renting in many cases is somehow more expensive”

than buying. Every night you stare at four sail listings online until you want to scream. Then you switch to rental listings until those where you out too, and you switch back to the four sail listings. Rinse, repeat.

One day, some time in the late spring, you find yourself taking a detour home from work when you spot a four sail sign in front of a little back road cottage. It's 20 minutes closer to the office than your cousin's apartment, and the cute bevy of shrubs lining the walkway caused you to lean on the break as you pass. You squint.

Trying to note the street address so you can look it up when you get home. But when you arrive at the apartment, you're cousin is throwing some kind of party. You end up spending the night hanging out with his friends, drinking too much before falling a sleep on the couch at midnight. The next day you're hung over, and exhausted, and you take the same detour after work.

This time, as you pass the cottage, you pull over to the side of the road and get out for a better look. This cute, really cute. The exterior is an off-white color with black shutters and a big bay window at the front of the house.

The lawn is attractive, but looks relatively low maintenance. There's a garage, and classy stone walkway leading from the driveway to the front door. You check for the four sail sign, dial the phone number, and schedule a tour. The listing agent is a little surprised to get your call, but agrees to show you the house.

She says it's got a few quarks, but when you hear the price, your heart begins to pound in your ears. It's been on the market for two years, and over time, the asking prices drop to the point where it's not just in, but a little under your budget. Worried, you ask if the quarks are structural, aka expensive to fix.

And when the agent assures you that the house is sound, you agree to meet the following Monday before work. All week long you think about the cottage. You picture it in your head, imagining yourself hanging picture frames, arranging the furniture, picking out paint swatches, turning this house into not just a home, but your home.

When Monday rolls around, you get there 30 minutes early and wait outside, walking up and down the driveway trying to get a better look at the back of the house. The listing agent arrives on time and is very professional, smiling as she punches in the number for the lockbox on the door.

“She retrieves a strange-looking key that seems a little outdated.”

You remind you of skeleton keys used in British period pieces. Upon noticing your curious expression, the agent assures you that this one is just as reliable as any other house key. Inside, she leads you through the entryway into a spacious yet cozy living room, with the picturesque little fireplace framed in the corner.

She informs you that the house was built in 1921, and that is in great shape for its age.

such as lead-free pipes and central air.

“The previous owner put in a new roof shortly before the home went on the market.”

There are three bedrooms and one full bath on the second floor, as well as one bedroom

and a full bath on the first floor. In addition to the fireplace in the living room, she explains that there is also a fire pit in the backyard centered on a large patio. There is a two-car garage, gas heat, and a public sewer system. As you cross the living room to the kitchen, you notice a shadow in the corner of the ceiling.

At first, you think it's from sunlight streaming in through one of the many windows, but then it riggles, rides, and scampers across the wall and around the corner. You ask the agent about it, but she smiles that pleasant smile again, calling it one of the unique charms of the house. She leads you into the kitchen, where the stainless steel appliances look fairly new.

You find a small dining space just off the kitchen that overlooks the backyard.

“Here, you notice another larger shadow lurking in the corner of the room between two windows.”

You squint, as if perhaps your eyes are merely unfocused, but your pretty sure the form has a loosely structured face, and eyes. The agent notices your staring and merely laughs, assuring you that it's simply another quirk of the residence. She says it is an astructural concern, merely a spectral one, and the two of you continue.

Stairs, the bedrooms are airy and bright, one even has beautiful wooden beams crisscrossing below the ceiling. The bathroom isn't on sweet, but it's three times the size of the bathroom we saw at the house by the train station. The agent informs you that such a big bathroom in a historic home is a rare feature.

There's a shower and a soaking tub, as well as a small but practical vanity. You notice a smudge at the top of the mirror.

“It moves, and you think it's a bug but it's not.”

It's a fine line of what appears to be blood, dripping from top to bottom of the mirror at a painstakingly eerie pace. The agent laughs again. The shadows love to play tricks, she explains. But the sight, however off-putting, isn't highly harmless, and she's right.

When you pass the bathroom on the way back downstairs not ten minutes later, the line of blood is gone.

There are two more shadows in the first bedroom.

Three in the second. The third upstairs bathroom, the one with the wooden beams, doesn't have any shadows, but the faint sound of someone crying can be heard from the closet door. The agent shrugs, as if to say, "What can you do?" And the two of you keep moving.

As you head back downstairs, you think you notice a strange reflection in the window on the landing. But when you look directly at it, the face is gone. Back in the living room, that first shadow you saw has been joined by a second, and the two are racing around on the ceiling, chasing one another.

The agent explains that this is strictly a daytime phenomenon, and that things tend to quiet down at night across most of the house, safer the garage. There's a peculiar howling past residents have complained about coming from the garage at night. The agent advises you to stay clear past 9pm, though it's perfectly safe to go in and out any time after sunrise.

She takes you to the bedroom on the first floor, which smells of sulfur. A chill walks on spider legs down your spine. The agent recommends keeping a few extra blankets in this room. Lastly, you see the first floor bathroom. It's not as big as the one upstairs, but it's got just as much character with a pattern

tile floor and an accent wallpaper behind the sink. You love the aesthetic, even if there is a vague silhouette of a body lying in the bathtub. It shimmers, then fades shortly before you leave the room.

The listing agents grin never wavers.

You like the house, it's got good bones, and appears to be turnkey, which is unprecedented in this price bracket. You ask why the previous owner decided to sell, and she says that after retiring, the couple decided to move closer to the grandchildren. Prior to that, they'd lived happily in the house for over 15 years.

When you inquire as to whether the quirks are difficult to maintain, the agent likens them to houseplants or a cat. Fickle, but perfectly mundane.

So more like a cat, you think.

“But you've always liked cats, haven't you?”

The price can't be beat. The space is clean, functional, and has more charming personality than a Pinterest mood board. The seller is motivated. So you might even be able to get them to cover closing costs. When you ask why no one has snapped this place up yet, the agent shrugs.

People can be sensitive about the quirks, you see. But for the right owner, this house is a dream. You think you might be the right owner.

In fact, you feel the rightness of a tingling beneath your skin, or maybe that chill has

followed you into the room. A few stray lines of blood streaked down the wall behind the agent that she tells you about the neighborhood. You hear a whisper in your ear. Stay.

“It begs in a voice warm, a smoke and soft as feathers.”

Stay here with us. You turn around, certain you can feel a presence rising behind you. But all you see is the empty living room. The hardwood floors, the beautiful fireplace, drawn back into the listing agent summary of the square footage.

You see more blood oozing from the ceiling above, a shadow shifts behind the agent in

a way that makes your skin crawl, get rid of her, and her wretched smile. The voice hums, stay. Well, the listing agent grins, her teeth white and straight and perfect. Just like the facts of the house, it spacious, not to mention beautiful. There's room to grow, but it's not too big that you can't manage it all on your own.

The mortgage won't break you, the neighborhood is hard to beat. You consider the shadows that roam the house, the walls with their dripping blood. The voice that no longer sounds like it's coming from behind you, but rather inside of your skull. There is something wrong with this house.

Something you don't quite trust, but a good deal is a good deal.

“And in this market, who are you to turn down a bargain?”

Morning, the following film is so intense. We're only allowed to advertise it for 15 seconds. Excuse me? Sussey Bates. They will kill you only in theaters March 27, radar.

And next, for murder George Bylet Parker, a narrative I made to fort, creepy presence, feeders of the storm. The chaos of three merging thunderstorms, a walloping soup of mist, a sleet storm from slow, and a particularly violent gale, which shook the corrugated battlements and howled as though banches were back in fashion, kept siff from sleep.

Though we'd lived in band 1.3a, a designated weather dump for months, the sudden and voracious melting pots of shitty weather that arrived, flung by banishing magic from all over the continent and persisted, despite their frequent contradictions, for several hours still shad him up. He turned on the replica coal fire and pretended he could feel the warmth in his fingertips.

Truth was, after mere weeks on band 1.3a, extremities were mostly decorative. Amated up the Wall Zoo, as the custodian had described them, the pods which housed the wretched workers responded to voice commands and neural nudges, something which had taken siff a bit of learning. Imagine you nodding but with your mind, custodian Juliet said, and siff had nodded.

With your mind, she'd drooled, as though siff were a child, and he hadn't been bothered to comment that he'd been nodding, in politeness no less, at redvice, rather than attempting a neural nudge. It wasn't as though any relationship begun on band 1.3a would last. The amenities and the pods which did depend upon physical touch were kept to a minimum,

and the siff's relief didn't require fine motor skills. He shuffled to the edge of his mattress, and lent his weight against the large pad to the left of his bunk, which opened the viewing window, hoping that seeing the cacophony

Advice, given by custodian Juliet, from the crashes and bumps in the night.

“Siff couldn't understand why anyone inhabiting the pods would want to see their reflection,”

an angle his thin frame away from the mirrored panel, as it slid back to reveal the storm outside. It was very soon regretted being able to see outside. The view did nothing to a lay as fears, custodian Juliet was full of crap. A tornado whipped lightning from black cloud, making it look as though a vortex straight

the hell was outside his window, tapping the not so light fingers like Kathy beckoning to Heathcliff. Hale stones as big as skulls cratered the rock beneath.

Pain flew upwards against the flimsy gravity, and the rest of the band was lost behind

an immovable and blankly staring high rise of fog. A wayward hailed stone ricochet off one of the outer battlements striking the viewing window with such force that it chipped the glass.

“Muscle's frozen internally, Siff was frantic.”

The impact spiderweb to cross the window, the fractures jerking away from the center point as they were fissures drawn by a mechanical hand. Siff recoil then jammed one flailing fist against the switchpad, such was his fear that he forgot to turn from the closing mirror, and before he knew it he was staring into his own wild eyes.

His skin around was pale, flaking, and reddened from the occasional burst of magic radiation. He could see the life graining away, and suddenly fear of what was to come struck him in the chest, to his shame, a moan escaped his lips. The view from his pod brought less terror. Siff was shaking now, the coal fire cold and without comfort, and Siff wished beyond anything

as heart had ever yearned for that he was elsewhere. Wished that the insulated walls would fall, and the sun would shine, and that he was laying

“in the warmth of its rays while it was some other poor fucker's fate to turn veal like”

under the pounding of magic storms and electric charges, moved by those rich enough to employ a weathermage to save their garden parties, damn the consequences. Siff imagined the pockets of bad weather as swirling torrents seemed from the edge of the atmosphere, but he knew that they were even more insignificant than that. But they, in their pods and under the flesh-sauphining climatic conditions, would go largely

unnoticed and unseen and unloved until their tenderized flesh was presented, garnished, on a plate for someone with wealth-blooded eyes, their skin tanned with a sun only the macavillion capitalist could afford. When they spoke to comment on the softness of the meat, how it melted on the tongue, you

would hear in their voice the years of pure air, and the way their vocal folds had never

strained against the scream of storms or fear or machinery. Between mouthfuls of Siff and his colleagues, they would discuss the colonies and the margins and their latest investments. Siff had to get out. Outside was mandatory for the tenderizing effects, but during storms such as this, their

pods were often locked electronically by a centralized system, determined and more than a little manic, he tried the door. Exit pod, please. The pods automated system was silent, still. Siff's throat was parched with fear and the fumes of dust and radiation, which invariably

made it through the pod's air filtration system. You think their future diners would prefer their food to have had fresh air, but so little consideration was given to the human cattle, it was a wonder they got any air at all. So he thought perhaps his voice was too weak. He tried again, pushing the words from his stomach.

Exit pod, please. He felt he was running out of oxygen. The fear had crawled up from his belly to grip his chest and now it was clawing at his throat, making each breath fat of a drowning man breaking the surface. At last, the reply came.

In advisable, conditions deemed high risk. Siff smashed his almost numb fist against the doorframe, in advisable, but I still have free will for a moment longer. Wind shuddered the pod. In his desperation, Siff wondered if this was his final day that he died in his pod like

tuna, brined tin sold on his product.

After months on the band, Siff's fingers barely moved, but nevertheless, he pressed

“them into the groove between the wall and the door, trying to get enough traction to grip”

to pull. His scrabbling hands were no match for the hydraulic door seal, and each dumb knuckled paw bloomed bruises across his skin. Open! He was screaming now, but his capacity to care was submerged under the overwhelming need to

get out, out of the pod, out of his life, his fate. He pitted his pathetic body against the hatch in a twisted embrace of the coded metal. Almost inaudible, under the roar of the storm, the door mechanism word. The vibrations brought Siff to his feet, glancing at the gul of his reflection.

He slipped out of the widening hatch.

Immediately, a gust propelled him across the enclosure toward the generator. Week, Siff was unbalanced, unable to hold himself upright in the wind.

“His half-num feet caught on a newly formed hailedent, at which point a second gust took”

hold and slammed him into the generator's housing. Siff's bones ached, his body shaped itself around the domed casing like water. Round him, hailed met metal, the vicious thuds shaking Siff's core with each strike. So, this was it. He would die here.

Head and vital organs bludgeoned by hailstones. At least his body would be so mangled it would be inevitable.

His mother wouldn't get the final paycheck, but neither would a smug-sundweller picked

the crystal off Siff's medium-rare flesh from between his mullers with a gold toothpick. At that thought, ridiculous delight bubbled up past his teeth. It'd be for a new it. He was laughing at the obscured sky, lightning bolts raining down around him like Zeus was on one, and wanted mortals to fucking know it.

But Siff couldn't stop. He was free. Laughter poured from his lips, projectile vomit laughter that rang and shrieking dissonance against the clatter of hailstones in grind of his sheenering holler of wind. Siff hollered back, "Ooooh!"

He felt untouchable, rat-a-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, and rat-a-ta-ta-ta-ta when his maniacal giggles. He was untouchable, invincible. What other word was there for being on the edge of death and still grinning like a stripped bear skull? Lightning flashed above him, its trajectory broken by a sudden anchoring blip from the

large cone-shaped lightning catchers on the outer edge of the compound, which fueled the giant battery shipped out every quarter. Siff's laughter stomped. The lightning struck again, this time bolting straight into the cone's mouth. As it descended, the flash of light struck the shadows and carved out a lone figure from

the dark, stood eerily still on top of the battlements surrounding the compound. Half a mile away they had their arms to the sky as though welcoming death or conducting the winds, the silhouette turned and Siff knew, although how could it be, that the figure stared directly at him, a chill went through him. He peeled his body from the curved housing and staggered into the lee of the generator,

another jagged shard of light ran down into the cone's structure. The figure was gone. The storms were easing, yet still the sky was fractured, colors chasing darkness. Crouched, sheltered from the worst of the gale, Siff became aware of his body in a way he hadn't for a long time.

With a sudden surge of regret, he observed the absence of strength, the peculiarity in the way his limbs pulled weakly against the bone, the pathetic group of his flesh. He was fatten than weak, he was a calf kept in a dark box. What had been has accepted fate for months, years even, now seemed grotesque and horrific. Even the thought of his family, usually a reliable, motivating thought after his mother's

years of coaching him for this very role, couldn't stem the flow of terror. He didn't want this, he had, to escape. In the mosaic atmosphere emerged a steady beam of purple light, the headlamps of a patrol droid.

“Remember 2704, the weather is worsening, please return to your pod to ensure the safety”

of your body. The droids' tracks came to a standstill, about a foot away from Siff, the calm-screen position where a face might sit, flashed orange with the weather warning. Siff gave a bitter laugh.

The droid ignored his comment, "Please return to your pod."

“At his feet, a loose fist of rock called the Siff, bracing himself on the generator,”

he knelt and worked his fingers around the rough surface, feeling its weight.

Never had he felt a violent impulse so tremendous.

He staggered upright, grasping the rock desperately, thinking only of the satisfaction he would feel when he smashed the droids' calm-screen until its lights flickered and went out. He pulled back his arm, preparing to strike. Then, a hand on his, gently easing the rock from his palm. Siff raised his head, between him and the droids to the same figure Siff had seen on the

battlements. Of close, Siff could see the deep lines drawn around their full-lived mouth, an angular jaws morted a scar which cut a white crease through otherwise light-brown skin from throat to cheekbone.

“Siff dared a glance of the stranger's eyes.”

Dark pools, chestnut, rich, enfilled with some emotion Siff couldn't quite place, rested in ravaged hollows much like his own. The wind blew a tangle of almost black hair across their face. For whatever reason, Siff allowed the stone to drop from his fingers. The stranger was silent as Siff led them across the compound to his pod, stepping forward to support Siff's weakening frame when the gussets took hold. Despite the hail and the unrelenting

wind, the stranger's skin was hot against Siff's. When Siff stumbled, strong hands with dry warm palms kept him upright. As if in a dream, Siff found they had traversed the final few meters and now stood at the entrance to his pod. His companion smiled at him, waiting patiently for Siff to unlock the door. Siff's voice was ready as he commanded the pod to permit them. The hatch slid open. If Siff had expected some comment from the automated

voice, some acknowledgment of his companions' presence, non-came. Although he suposed,

aside from custodian Julie, he'd never had another person in his pod. People didn't

come to a band to make friends. Inside the door sealed against the raging elements, the relative quiet consumed them, the awkwardness chewed at Siff's body, making him second gas even the simplest of movements. Fumbling, he knocked his single tin cup from the shelf and the resounding clang met with the sounds of the storm. But something much louder was beginning within Siff. Through

the wet fabric of his shirt, his heart pounded. An arm span was all that separated he in the stranger, and the thought that he could reach out and finger the dark ringlets that fell around the handsome face made Siff's breath catch in his throat. "What was this person?" Siff had no grasp of their gender, no clue as to their position. Were they another pod dweller? Another whose family had sealed their fate and belt for them

a future as worker, machine tender than ultimately food? Something about them made them

seem otherworldly inhuman. In spite of himself, as Siff surveyed the curves and lines of their body, he wondered if the storms and residual magic really did soften human meat. And what would that taste like? Siff heaved at the air inside, all at once too thick and confining. The pod was so small that the stranger sent pleasantly odd with something spiced and intoxicating lingering in the air around them seemed to occupy every inch of

the space. He felt like prey. Every system in his body alert and ready to flee your fight, and yet, when the stranger crossed a small gap between them, Siff froze. His mind

“raised. Who was he anymore? Why was there such intense emotions charging through him?”

Telled immobile by confounding desire. Siff allowed the stranger to cup his chin in their hand. A flicker of what felt like static sparked where skin met. They turned his head this way in that, as though assessing his imperfections. Through his fear, lust shame, Siff darted another look at their face. Those beautiful lips were bent into a crooked smile. Their eyes focused unabashedly on his gaze locked. The stranger traced one long index finger

more than to be a frivolity, a catapay passed around on a platter. The harshness of their

“voice startled Siff, but it was hypnotic too. And after the words had faded from the air,”

their vibrations rattled Siff's insides, as though transmuting his very flesh into something newer, fuller. He felt liquid, like the air and he in the stranger and all around them was an ocean unified, unseparate. Still, with one finger tip pressed to Siff's cheek bone, the stranger continued. You deserve to be someone's final feast. We both do. It was as though a spell had been uttered. In a band to instructions unspoken, Siff sank to his knees.

His fear was unreachable, cracked somewhere outside him like the storm. Nothing beyond

this moment existed. The stranger's fingers tangled in Siff's hair as Siff hands somehow renewed, tug down the garments covering their erection. Above him, the stranger gasped as Siff took

“their cock in his mouth. He took his time, teasing and sucking and delighting in every twitch”

of pleasure that ran through them. Gripping their buttocks, clasping the flesh to him as though it were life raft, Siff drove their cock deep into his throat, relishing the salty heat, the dull pain. This joining was everything. Siff existed as though drawn in by gravity, consumed utterly by this mysterious figure who stood defiant against the storms and spoke with

almost demonic musicality. So absorbed with Siff, that at first he didn't feel the knife.

He opened his eyes and saw the stranger looking almost lovingly down on him. A blade was in their hand, poised over Siff, sort of dameckly's like. What came to him was two of Sorts, two paths, a choice. One, which would have to make before the stranger was permitted to continue.

“He made his choice. Siff lowered his brow when returned to sucking the stranger's cock,”

more vigorous now he had committed to the path ahead. The blood from the sliver of flesh carved from his collarbone drew rivulets down his arm, so that as he rocked back and forth, it covered his lips, his fingers, the stranger's palace. He looked up and saw his skin, muscle, fat being chewed, the stranger's face bloody lipped, mirror like. He felt himself go hard. The stranger grinned, gripping Siff's hair still with one hand, as the other lowered the handle

of the blade to rest in Siff's hand. Siff kept his lips wrapped around their cock, teasing with his tongue as he grasped the handle. The stranger's body bucked with pleasure. Siff drew the blade gently upward, letting the tip follow the contours of calf in her thigh, up along the ridges of the v where Siff could see his own reflection in a gleaming metal. He noted the strength in his face, the lines of his jaw, the calm power that rested,

coiled in his eyes. He let the blade decide, using no more than its own weight to break the skin. So sharp, it sank in as though through butter. As his tongue worked its way up and down the shaft, Siff quietly carved a small rectangle in the stranger's abdomen. Sometimes, he watched his own face, observed the bulge in his mouth. Met others, he focused on how the blade part of the flesh. When he created a three-sided flap, he drove the edge of the knife

upward to separate a half inch of skin and viscera. As he completed the rectangular incision, the stranger shuddered. They bit down in the last of the mouthful of Siff's body, sending trickles of red from their lips. With a final tug, Siff lifted the cutaway section, twisting the final corner to release it. He put it to his lips. Mesmerized, the stranger traced the outline of where Siff had cut with their finger.

Then, as though the tension that had been building suddenly snapped, they snaked an armor on Siff's waist and flipped him onto all fours, the knife clatter to the floor. The stranger seized it. This time, using it to tear through Siff's trousers until he was naked from the waist down. They left him there, exposed for what felt like minutes.

At last, sharp pain followed by swift, all-encompassing pleasure as the stranger entered him.

“He gave himself over, pressing his bones into the fleck flooring,”

pushing back into the stranger as they drove themselves into him. It was slow, not frantic, but charged with an intensity Siff hadn't experienced before. They fucked out of time. When the blade eventually found his flesh again, Siff almost came. This time, the stranger drove it into the softness of his flank. With each thrust, they cut away more of his flesh. When the strip had been removed, the stranger abruptly pulled out and grabbed Siff's chin,

turning him to face them. In their right hand, dangled Siff's flesh. In their left,

pure magic crackled. As he watched, the stranger touched their fingertips to the strip of meat. Magic, electric and searing fizzed along the length, sparking gold, purple, and blue.

“The smell of cooking meat filled the pod. But instead of making Siff nauseous,”

it made him only more aroused. Proud. That was his body, and he was sustaining another. Someone who was more captivating and beautiful than he ever knew could exist. Again, the stranger placed the knife in Siff's hand and Siff cut, delicately slicing until he could hold up his prize, showing the stranger their flesh as they had shown his. Once more, they used magic to roast the flesh. His tongue roved around the soft meat,

his mouth watering. It was impossibly good. He waited until he'd finished chewing. Then spoke. "You're a storm mover. The stranger not it. Why are you here?" The stranger to lazily strokes Siff's cock as he answered. "I've built great wealth

“without knowledge on those in the bands. I am here to atone to give myself to that which”

I had a hand in destroying." Siff didn't ask why the storm mover didn't challenge those in power. Those who made the system and fed the system and defended the system and controlled the storm movers in the rest of the world. The trees praise the axe. A single storm mover against the rest would be a raincoat in a hurricane. The storm mover lent in. Lips against Siff's cheek as they spoke. "We do this until nobody can find a use for us. We will not be product. We cannot be sold."

While the storms raged, the storm mover and Siff passed the knife between them until their flesh was tatters. Their hunger faded. The feast complete. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit CreepyPod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments,

share a light licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be re-broadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the CreepyPod cast production team and the story's author. You know, I've been having a hard time trying to explain what midnight burger is. So, how about I let them give it a shot? Just wanted to let you all know that I really, really appreciate

midnight burger. I just wanted to let you know that you definitely have the huge fan here and the Middle East and the GCC. Just wanted to give you guys a shout out. Tell you how much I love you guys. All of the weirdness is really my jam. Really write up my alley. First, I love your podcast.

It's been pure joy to listen to. Just here to say, "Of the great work that season was amazing."

I wanted to thank both of you for everything you've done that we really love this show. Your podcast is amazing. Such an amazing show altogether. It's really nice knowing that there's another dimension that I can travel to and kind of escape. You guys have actively ruined all of their audio dramas for me. You can't get people to understand the humaning that happens in the damn show. We're doing what you're doing because it's awesome. I love you guys.

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Thank you. Take care of love you. We open at six. At the Nexus of all things, there is a diner. Look for Midnight Burger on your favorite podcasting app or just go to weopinet6.com.