S14E09 - "Childhood Friends" - Horror Hill

Moment, I checked the code. Oh, huh! Homer was a part of the party. It brings about about 150 euros a year.

Yeah, right, but why do you know what?

“Because, as a member of the party, life-enjoyed, that's just the story of all the fans.”

Yeah, I'm asking you, too. Twenty-four-seven and unbeam-a-dolled, that's just the one that's the one that's left us. The story is just... say, with this story. Now, let's try it out. Join Tails for Dark Nights. The following program is a production of Chilling Entertainment and the Creative Team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights,

and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcast Network. Visit SimplyScaryPodcast.com to learn more about this and our other weekly storytelling programs, and become a patron today to show your support and get instant access to our extensive archive of downloadable tales of terror. Thank you for listening, and enjoy the show. .

Disclaimer.

“Horror Hill is a horror anthology podcast bringing you scary stories from all corners of the internet,”

and beyond. As such, certain stories include content that some listeners might find offensive. Listener discretion is advised. Good evening, listeners, and welcome back to Horror Hill.

As always, I'm your host and narrator, Eric Peabody.

I'd like to thank you all for the well wishes last week. Fortunately, whatever virus decided to pay me a visit, found my rotted out husk a little less hospitable than it expected, and as thankfully moved on to greener pastures. It'll take more than that to knock me down for good.

That is not dead, which can eternal lie and all that jazz. Tonight, we have a story from author Arcade Combring, who we've previously featured back in season 10 with fishing hole and the 16th floor. The tale tonight is titled The Boy from Delirri Park. To put it mildly, it's about a young girl that meets a strange new friend and his family in the woods.

Now listeners, I generally try to avoid narrating first person female perspective stories,

because, well, I'm not a female narrator, and I like to keep things as effortlessly immersive as possible. However, this story is really quite good, and far be it for me to deny you wonderful folks such a chilling tale. So, I'll ask that you grant me this one concession,

“and let's go walking down this forest path together, shall we?”

You're listening to the free edition of this program. If you'd like to help support Horror Hill and also remove these pesky ads, head to chilling tales for Dark Nights.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today. You'll get instant access to hundreds of ad-free stories, so what are you waiting for?

Also, if you're watching on YouTube, do us a favor and drop a like and subscribe. Become part of our Dark Circle listeners. And now, from author R.K. Combring, I give you the boy from Delirri Park. There's a church at the corner of Pinoc and far back Avenue that takes up most of the block.

It's the Pierce Township Methodist Congregation, and that's where my family went every Sunday morning when I was growing up. After services, my brother and I would go across the street to a scrubby little playground nestled against a wide strip of woods. Delirri Park. It's not there anymore. They took out all the equipment about seven years ago,

and built a nice new park three streets over. It's got safer, modern equipment with a walking track and a skate park. Much different than when I was a girl, when it was just a couple of wobbly sea sails, a rusty swing set, a square of black top for jump rope, tag, and whatever else we could think of.

We just loved having a place to get out from under our parents for a little while. There was a tiny dairy bar, not much more than a cart with a roof on it, or you could get chocolate or vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles, if you wanted them, or an icy. My mother would give my older brother Will $3 to split with me, and they'd leave us at the park for the afternoon.

We'd stay till dark, me playing, and running around all day, and Will leaning against the fence trying to charm the high school girls. When the street lights came on, that was the signal to clear out, and all of us kids would trickle through the gate onto the sidewalks and walk home under the stars.

Sometimes, I babysit my nieces and nephew, and watch them climbing the jungle gym, or going down the slides at the new park. Honestly, I don't like going there.

It reminds me of things I'd like to forget, things that are always lurking in the corners of my mind.

A memory of Delirri Park that keeps me up at night, or rather, a memory of a boy I met there. A pale, strange little boy named Oscar Lunge. The first time I saw him, he was standing near a break in the hedges that ring to the park, backed by the sea saws where the woods started. He was watching us kids as we played.

His mouth was a thin, straight line, and his eyes were like two little black raisins shoved into a big ball of dome.

“I don't remember what I was doing, or who I was playing with, but I remember the way he stood there.”

One white hand resting on the seat of the sea saw, looking so alone and unhappy. Just a shy little fat boy, and I felt sad for him. He got me looking at him that day, saw that I'd stopped to watch him, and when I caught his eye, I waved to him, motion for him to come over. Instead, he turned and disappeared through the hedge into the trees.

I forgot all about him over the next week, because I did chores and played badminton with Holly Remerd across the street, and bugged Will to walk me to the dairy bar. I didn't think about him again until the next Sunday, when he came out of the woods, and spoke to me.

It was the first really hot day of the year, and only the second week of May.

I gone off by myself to stand in the shade by the hedge for a little while.

“I don't remember the game we'd been playing, but I was slick with sweat and out of breath.”

Despite the warmth, my mother said it was too early in the year for shorts, and had me wearing jeans and a cardigan over my tank top. I plopped down in the cool grass beneath the hedge, panting. Buck eyes littered the ground, and I gathered them up, arranging them in loops and patterns. I'd managed most of a figure eight when a shadow fell across me from behind. I looked over my shoulder, and there he was, standing close enough to reach out and touch me.

His cheeks were pacedy and smooth, and his brown hair clung to the top of his skull like frosting. He had on, of all things, a faded wonder woman t-shirt and cut-offs. He looked at me with a cautious, painful hope of an outcast. I knew about being an outsider. I was in first grade when we moved to Pierce. It was bad enough being the new girl and school, but even worse, I wore metal braces on my legs to

correct a defect that affected how I walked. They came off when I was nine, but those first two years were rough. Kids called me "robocop" or "c" three-pea. They said I didn't take baths because I'd rust. Other stuff, mean stuff. Even years later, all the way into high school, I still heard the occasional snicker behind my back, or the word "crystal" whispered as I passed by in the hallway.

I was always picked last for Jim, even though my legs had healed just fine, and I was always the

last one to find a lab partner in science class. Because of this, I gravitated to the outcasts, freaks and weirdos, who shuffled around the edges of the playground like kicked dogs. Hey, what's up? My smile was polite, but not over friendly. I'd found that if you came on too strong, the weird kids thought you were setting them up to be the butt of a joke, and they'd be scared back into the shadows. Hi, his voice was a thin, breathy whisper. I stood up,

brushing grass from my jeans, and faced him. I'm Leslie, I extended a hand to shake. He looked at it like no one had ever done that before, but after a moment he took it and we shook. His grip

“was feather-light and very dry. I'm Oscar Lunge. Nice to meet you, Oscar Lunge. Did you just move here?”

He gave his head a wordless little shake and my curiosity deepened.

surprising a giggle at me. I go to McLean, but next year I'll be switching to pierce metal.

“He looked off into the distance for a few silent moments, as if suddenly the clouds had become”

very interesting to him. I was about to ask him if he went to church when he spoke again. I don't go to any school. You don't go to school, not at all? I was fascinated by the idea of a kid who didn't have to go to school. A strange pain to look crossed his face. I mean, my father teaches me at our house. He nodded at me, his lips paraded in a turse, puckered grimace, and I realized he was trying to smile. He seemed horribly unpracticed at it,

and the result was pitiful. So your homeschooled. Yes, I'm homeschooled. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and then immediately pulled them back out, crossing his arms over his plump chest,

and finally dropping them back to his sides. His level of discomfort seemed intense,

but I prodded him further. Do you go to church? I go to the one across the street. He stopped smiling and issued a stiff little wave almost to salute with his left hand. I have to go now, see you later. He backed a few paces away from me till he'd reached the break in the hedge, and then disappeared into the woods. I walked over and peered down the shady trail. I could see the leaves and branches wavering in his wake, but it was too late to see which weighed

gone. Of all the awkward little boys I'd befriended, this one seemed like he might be the strangest

“of the bunch. The thought gave me a little thrill, and I wondered what secret shames he'd suffered”

at the hands of other kids. I wouldn't have admitted it then, but I enjoyed spending my time with

the losers and cast-offs, because I knew they would eventually reveal their worst humiliation's to me. Stories of playground chants, stolen Jim Clothes, and cruelty accurate caricatures passed from desk to desk. Next to these torments, the minimal teasing I took seemed much more bearable, hardly worth thinking about it all. Compared to them, I was popular, superior. It was sick, I know, and mean, but that's the way it was. I got off on it. Not only that,

but I also became a hero to those poor lost souls. I thought about what it would be like to bring Oscar out amongst the other kids. I lied to myself that it was because I wanted to help

“him make friends, but somewhere deep down, I knew the truth. I knew that if I coaxed Oscar”

into joining the crowd in the park, they would eat him alive like hyenas. They would tear into him mercilessly, making fun of his pudgy body as hair as clothes. It would be a frenzy. Afterwards, I would whisk him back to the hedges to try and make him feel better. I would speak softly to him and pretend to be his friend. I would fuss over him and say what assholes those kids all were, and he would be so grateful to have just one person on his side. He would be my pet

then devoted to me entirely. Please understand, at the time, I wasn't thinking of it in such cold, stark terms. I was a child and could easily delude myself that I was trying to help him. With half-formed plans of how best to gain the shy boy's trust, I left the shade to rejoin the normal kids in the sun. The flowers to Oscar lunches toad stool. The following Sunday was a gray dreary mess. The ground was soaked from the previous night's

thunderstorm. Earthworms writhed on the sidewalk and the sounds of cars splashing through puddles echoed all over town. Because of the wet weather, the leary park was mostly deserted. There was a trio of teenage girls and the sheltered bus stop listening to a boom box, a young woman pushing a baby carriage around the bird bath, and standing back by the sea saws, Oscar lunch. I made my way over to him, the sawden ground squalching around my sneakers. He was wearing the same clothes side seenmen the week

before, the Wonder Woman shirt and jean shorts. I realized that not only was he awkward and unpopular, he was also probably poor. He held his arm out and moved his hand back and forth in a stiff little wave. Hey Oscar, how are you? As I cycled up to him, a breeze shushed through the branches above the hedge, sending raindrops down onto our heads. I squealed and jumped back, covering my head, but

You're crazy, you know that? I smiled to show it was meant affectionately, but it didn't seem

to matter much to him one way or another. Yes, I'm crazy. He cocked his head and looked at me.

“For the first time, I saw genuine interest creep into his face. You want to come to my house with me?”

He paused and squinted his eyes for a moment as if in concentration and then opened them again. And hang out? I knew this was a chance to show Oscar I was trustworthy. His friend had to be a step in drawing him out into the harsh light of day where a circle of kids waited for him. My pulse was quickened. Maybe? Where do you live? He turned his whole body and pointed to the

break in the hedge where the path wound into the woods. In there, he turned back and favored me with

the twitching unpleasant grin. Just quiet tickled at the back of my mind. You and your parents, you live in the woods? Just my father and me and his face clouded for a moment, then he went on. Our house is through the woods. Yes, I want to show you my room, my things. I tried to imagine the kind of treasures he might keep in his room and couldn't.

“What was important to Oscar lunch? What strange objects would he stash in boxes and hide under his bed?”

He didn't seem like a reader so I didn't expect he'd have any books, and he was poor, so toys and games would probably be limited. Maybe it was stuff he'd scrounge from thrift shops or even junkyards. The weirder the better, as far as I was concerned. How far is your house? I looked out across the park for my brother. I spotted him sitting at the bus stop, talking with the girls who had the radio. I figured if Oscar's house wasn't too far away, I could go with him,

hang out for a bit, and be back well before dark to walk home with well. Not far at all. Ten minutes through the woods, maybe. He waddled over to the break in the hedge and beckoned to me, smiling in that peculiar off-putting way. Come on, I want to show you my stuff,

“and we have, he paused, squinting again before going on. Popsicles. You like popsicles?”

I did like popsicles. Also, my curiosity was running away with me. There was a darkly exciting freak show aspect to all of this. I just had to see the place he called home. I glanced over at Will one last time, wondering briefly if I should tell him where I was going, when Oscar called to me and his hushed, raspy tone. Come on Leslie, I want you to meet my dad. Okay, here I come. I joined him at the entrance to the woods, and we set off down the path.

The temperature felt 10 degrees cooler under the dripping canopy of trees. All the sounds from the park and the streets beyond were muffled. All I could really hear were our footsteps on the leaf littered path and the siding leaves. Oscar made almost no noise as he trembled onward ahead of me, and I was surprised. A boy, his size, jogging, such uneven ground should have been panting and weasing, but it seemed like he wasn't even breathing at all. We'd been walking for a few minutes

when he ducked suddenly into the trees to the left of the path. "Hey, I stopped and put my hands on my hips. Where are you going?" he turned and smiled at me with puckered lips. This way, this way to get to my house. A little splinter of doubt slid into me. Sometimes, bad things happened to pretty young girls when they ran off into the woods with strangers. In fact, 10 or so years before that, a girl named Lisa Miles had disappeared after she come home from college. They found

her purse, one of her shoes, and her broken glasses on the riverbank by the bridge, which was

just a mile or so away from where Oscar and I were standing. They never did find her body.

Now, here I was, following a boy, I barely knew, willy-nilly down the trail like a fairy tale knife traipsing along behind a gnome who promised, "What? What exactly was it I was out here for?" A popsicle? A chance to see Oscar's rock collection or jar of dead bugs? No one knew where I was, and all I really knew about Oscar was his name. I stopped trying to decide if I was going to fall low or turn and go back to the park.

He saw my hesitation and tromped back to where I stood at the side of the path.

it's okay. We can go." I looked into his smooth, round face, into his tiny little black eyes and

“thought, "What am I worried about?" I thought that if I turned back, it would be of”

meeting I was scared, and that was one thing I never wanted to admit. After the bullshed,

I put up with over my leg braces, and I thought of myself as a tough, resourceful girl, unafraid of anyone or anything. No, it's okay. I was just trying to get the spot straight in my head in case I ever want to come back by myself. I decided, though, to make one concession to ease my concern. But I want to call my mom when we get there, to let her know where I am. Oscar nodded enthusiastically and said he had a phone in his room. Then he was off plowing through

the calf-high weeds with me galloping behind. We walked for another six or seven minutes and

a mostly straight line from where we'd left the path. I wondered how deep we'd have to go before

“we got to his house. I wasn't even sure how far the woods stretched. I'd never thought they were”

big enough to get lost in, but, once I was wandering through their green guts, it seemed like a real possibility. Oscar's ten-minute walk had spun out to nearly a half-hour before we finally came to a place where the trees opened up, and formed a ring around a wide, flat clearing. The bushes and trees stopping right at the edge in an almost perfect line all the way around. The earth was a sickly gray, more like ash than dirt, and salted with tiny white stones,

and at the center of the clearing, sat Oscar's house. I'd never seen a house that looked so old.

It was neither wood nor brick, but two stories of cobbled stone that jotted up from the ground like an arrow pointing to the sky. Its roof was wooden and steeply pitched, a few thin slats missing here and there. The second floor windows were boarded up, and the large first floor window was nearly opaque with grime. A rusty, red metal tube with a wheel attached to it was thrust into the dirt, and it took me a minute to realize it was an old-fashioned water pump. It was like we'd

come through the woods not just in distance, but in time. I wish it had occurred to me at that time that there were no power lines running to the house, which meant there was no phone line, and that Oscar had lied about calling home. Maybe I would have realized that something was wrong that I needed to turn around and get away as fast as I could. Instead, I was overcome with curiosity, burning to know what a house so strange and ancient must look like on the inside.

We walked up to the front of the house and found the heavy wooden door hanging wide open, a smell drifted out. It was like a car radiator that had gone bad, a hot, chemical smell. Oscar made his way in, swallowed by the gloom, and I followed. We were standing in what I guessed was the kitchen. There were old, shabby cabinets hung around the room, under the cabinets was a long counter with a filthy double basin sunk into the chipped granite top, strings and splatters

of some dark viscous matter clung to the sides of the basin. A huge table dominated the center of the room overflowing with a manic array of oddments, dirty dishes, metal rods, books, loose papers, stained rags, and other less identifiable things all threatening to slide to the floor the slightest disturbance. I didn't see a fridge anywhere, or a stove, and was going to ask Oscar about where they kept and cooked their food. When a tall, lanky man and a strappy undershirt and black pants

came around the corner from the hallway beyond the kitchen. He stopped and peered down at us from behind an enormous pair of square framed glasses. He smiled, showing a lot of shiny white teeth. Well, hey there! He planted his hands on his hips. He must be Leslie, yeah? His voice was loud and

“strident in the small cluttered room. Oscar said you'd be coming by to see us?”

The sudden appearance of the man and his booming cheerful voice scared me. Something felt wrong. He said Oscar told him I'd be coming to see them, but we hadn't talked about it before that day. I looked at the pudgy boy standing next to me, my heart beginning to beat faster. His expression was blank, like the face of a statue. He pointed at the man.

It's nice to meet you. I noticed suddenly that Oscar's father was holding a jar in his hand.

“The room was dark, so I couldn't tell exactly what it was, but something twisted and”

writhed behind the glass. "Ah, well, it's nice to meet you too, sweetheart. Why don't you come on in here and we can all get to know each other? I've got some questions." He took a step back and jestered towards the hallway with his free hand. "I need to call my mom and let her know I'm here if that's okay. As my pulse sped up, my mind seemed to slow down. I felt sleepy, like I was caught between

waking and dreaming. Mr. Lunch's words seemed strange. Questions? What kind of questions could he have?"

"Oh, of course, sweetheart. There's a phone right in here. My feet began carrying me forward, even as I was thinking that I wanted to turn the other way and leave. Oscar stepped behind me.

“Blocking the way back, and, with his hand against my back, softly urged me on."”

"I walked past Mr. Lunch into the almost total darkness of the hallway. I heard his feet shuffled behind me as he and Oscar ushered me through the open doorway of the room across from the kitchen. "My eyes weren't ready for the sudden brightness of this new room, golden sunlight streamed in through six tall windows that lined the walls, three on either side of the room. Somewhere deep within my mind, a voice seemed to whisper

that this did not drive with the design of the house. No such windows had been visible from the outside, besides which a few minutes ago the sky had been gray and overcast, the sun lost behind a screen of clouds. That voice, so full of concern and alarm, was very faint, though.

“And the door was already shutting behind me. The lock, turning, loudly."”

In the center of the room, was a green dentist's chair bolted to the floor with an old fashioned goose neck lamp peering over the back. Small, leather straps sat curled on each arm, and another one lay unsnapped on the seat. Next to the chair was a rickety cart with two shelves. On the top shelf was a tray holding an array of ancient, tarnished instruments that looked made for probing, scraping, slicing, and snipping. There was a spool of thick, dark thread,

and I imagined that somewhere on the tray were the needles that went with it. The lower shelf was crowded with an assortment of objects that were somehow more ominous than the instruments above. I could see a tall jar, similar to the one Mr. Lunge was holding, filled with a cloudy green liquid. There was a small, square pan, or bin, filled with dark soil from which sprouted strange white fungi. They looked like

slimy fingers poking up from beneath the ground. I'd never seen anything like them.

There were other things too, strange lumps and shapes that I couldn't quite make out, but that filled me with dread nonetheless. In a strange, detached way, I could feel the fear creeping up my legs, turning in my guts, and settling in my chest. The voice in my head, jibbered and sobbed that we had to get out at once, but with a sinking heart, I knew it was much too light for that. A strange, doomed, leather-gene numbed me. I was more sad than scared, imagining

how my mother would cry when I didn't come home. I barely flinched when Mr. Lunge's hand came down on my shoulder. You want to help me with something sweetheart? His tone was kind, but there was a cold, eagerness that frosted the edge. I turned to look up at his face, and began to cry. His eyes, they, gleamed, wide, like someone pretending to be crazy except he wasn't pretending. His head tilted and he grinned madly down at me. I want to go home.

The words came out in a stuttering sob, tears streaming down my face, and still he grinned. I... want to go home. I want to go home. I was trying to scream it, but it came out in weird, breathy whistles. Oh, honey, it's okay. It's going to be okay. His voice held no hint of comfort or

The dark, moving thing inside came flying out with a horrible, angry buzzing. It hovered in the

“air between us, and I saw that it was some kind of wasp or a hornet, but unlike any I'd ever seen.”

It was huge. The size of a grown man's thumb, its black body wringed with velvety purple stripes, its stinger long and vicious. More disturbing, though, was the fact that it seemed to have many more

legs than it ought to. I could never have been accused of being a bug expert, but I knew I'd never

seen a bee or wasp with dozens of legs hanging from its plump body. All of them pawing, obscenely at the air. I was staring, hypnotized. When it darted forward, was shocking speed, and latched onto my face near the corner of my mouth. By screamed and staggered backward, reaching up to bad at a way. But instead of knocking at free, I ended up smashing its hot,

“fleshy body into my cheek. I pulled my hand back to smack at it again, when a flare of white”

agony surged down my neck, across my chest and up into my head, squeezing my ears and bulging behind my eyes. The thing had plunged its stinger into the soft skin underneath my chin. I could feel its venom sinking into my scar. My face stiffening in a painful rectus. My teeth clenching. It was excruciating. Scream after maddening scream jammed up behind my locked jaw, unable to fight their way out of me. My vision exploded into electric blue auroras that blotted everything else out.

And all I could hear was my poison to blood rushing in my ears. I grasped my face in both hands and rubbed, scratched, tugged, and needed my swollen feverish cheeks, hoping somehow to root out the pain. Within a few moments, the bright blue lights had faded to black, and my knees went weak. I was out before my body hit the floor. At some point, I floated out of the darkness to an echoing place of grey haze, within which were only the voice of the man asking me questions, and my own as I

answered. How old are you? 11. How much do you weigh? I don't know. Do you love your family, your mom and dad? Yes? Have you ever kissed a boy? Yes, Danny Lannum, on the lips.

“Have you ever kissed another girl? You? No. Are you a virgin?”

I think so. If that means I haven't done it yet, then yes, I am. Have you ever seen a ghost or a spirit? Have you ever seen a monster? No. But Will says he saw my grandma sitting in our kitchen the day after a funeral. I believe him. He sounded sad when he said it. Have you ever drank blood or urine? God, no. Have you ever killed an animal? Something other than an insect?

Mouse or a rat? A stray dog, maybe. I could never. I love animals. I have a dog named Peter Brady

and three goldfish named Inquis Blinky and Clyde. This last one is important, Leslie. Have you ever accidentally or deliberately, killed a human being? Of course not. I'm just a little girl. After that, there were no more questions, and everything went black again. I don't know how long it was before I finally crawled out of the darkness, but eventually my eyes opened and I realized I was awake. I was in a different room than the

one Mr. Lunge and Oscar had led me to. This room had no windows and was lit by six

naked of fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. It was much smaller than the first,

covered in a peeling lavender wallpaper that wrinkled and bulged from years of moisture and wrought. I tried to sit up, but couldn't. I looked down and found myself strapped into the green dentist's chair. My wrists held tight by the leather restraints on the arms. My clothes

piss and misery, and was spotted with faded pink stains. A tube stuck out of my arm at the

Kirk of my elbow, threaded into a vein with a thick needle. I could feel another one wrapped around my leg, the needle shoved in high on my inner thigh. I couldn't see what the tubes were connected to, only that they both drooped over the chair. I could see, however, that the tubes were clear. Nothing was currently being siphoned out of me, or pumped in. Panic setting quickly, and my heart began pounding, a headache thumping in time with it. I squeezed

my eyes shut and tried to think through the pain. I was in a lot of trouble here, the worst of my life.

I couldn't believe I'd gotten myself into such a mess. Why did I follow a kid I knew nothing about

“back to his house? Why did I let him in his father bring me to that room with the chair?”

Suddenly, a realization bloomed in my mind. Does he have two dentist chairs? I mumbled out loud, remembering that the one in the bright room had been bolted to the floor. I was startled when Oscar's monotone voice came from my right. After this stinging, you see how things really are. It's the same chair, the same room, the way it really looks. Now you'll see everything for what it is.

I turned my head to face him, and it took a moment for my brain to make sense of what it was seeing.

I didn't gasp or scream because, in that brief span of seconds, I believed I must be in the

“grip of whatever drugs Mr. Lunge had used to subdue me and that it was a hallucination.”

Oscar no longer looked like himself or like a boy at all. He didn't look human. Wasn't human. His head was a fat, bulbous mound of crudely molded wax or putty. It was pale gray in color and poked with indentations and grooves left by the hands that shaped it. His eyes weren't raisins but two pennies, Lincoln sighed out. "In God we trust." Glenting in the flat light of the fluorescent bulbs. A plump round nose had been formed in the

center, and below that a thin trench had been dragged nearly all the way across the face. A line of what looked like brown lipstick was drawn in a circle around the trench to complete the illusion of a mouth. The whole thing seemed to be mounted to a thick wooden disc that poked up out of the neck of Oscar's t-shirt. Oscar? It came out as little more than a horrified squeak but he seemed to understand the big lumpy head nodded slowly and sadly and turned away

for me. Seeing him, it, move, was like watching the most outstanding special effects in the most realistic fantasy movie ever made. Except I knew it wasn't a movie. All I could do was sputter and hitch while taking in the complexity and grace of his arms. They were a sophisticated apparatus constructed from long, thin, dowel rods, elastic bands, and cords attached to tiny pulley systems and springs for maximum articulation. His hands, especially, were a miracle of engineering, an intersecting

web of tiny cogs, pins, bars, and strips of wood, thinest wigs, all working together to create the full mobility and grasp of a human hand. His fingers were nimble, but his movements were nonetheless stiff. I remembered how oddly he'd carried himself back at the park, back when I thought he was a real boy, and now I understood why. This is why I'd been looking at. This grotesque puppet cloaked in a thin glamour to trick people into seeing what their eyes

expected to see. An ordinary, if strange, human boy. After a few moments, managed to control my

“breathing enough to form words. Oscar, a how? What are you? My father, he knows many secret things.”

When he began speaking, I had to turn away. I couldn't stand the side of the thin, mouth-line, puckering up and crinkling like a clay-mation character come to life. It hurt my head,

He has been alive a long time. He has learned things, learned how to make many wonderful things

“with his hands, and how to command the, he faltered for a moment, searching for the right word.”

The world behind us. He knows how to speak with things. They come from outside and dwell in in dark places. I could hear his wooden arms clittering and clacking as he moved slowly around the chair. He wanted family. He built bodies, invited things from outside to dwell in them to be his sons. Here, his voice dropped, and it dismayed chill crept into his voice.

They did not want to be that. They wanted real bodies to live in, alive,

skin and sweat and blood. Father tricked them. He tricked them into his false bodies, and they were very angry with him. They are big, like him, tall, and strong. They may trouble, they, one is the word, threatened him, demanded real bodies, demanded bodies to do things with awful things. He let them into the woods at sunset. They made little trying to hide. They were not afraid in their tall, strong bodies. They took a girl and dragged her into the night.

They were nearly caught by the people. Father worked so fast to cover up what my brothers did.

The people knew something bad happened to the girl, but did not ever find her. I thought of Lisa Miles, the girl who disappeared a decade earlier, and shivered. I tried to imagine Oscar's brothers, tall, gaunt creatures, puppets, like him, but cruel and vicious, skulking through the shadows. I strained against the straps of my wrists,

“sweat, slicking my arms and forehead. Where is they now? Your brothers?”

Father did not want them to lead people here. He tricked them again. They are not so smart as they are hungry. He told them a girl was in the cellar for them. A play thing. They did not question, but hurried fast downstairs. Their father locked them tight, and there they stayed for many years. They hate him. Sometimes they cry out and howl that night. They hate me too, because I am not like them. When he said that, I forced

myself to look at him. He stood at the side of the dentist's chair, his wooden arms crossed over his wide chest. I wondered what was beneath the t-shirt you wore. What his body was built from. Could he feel pain? He seemed to feel emotion. The features that made up his face were far less sophisticated than his arms, but somehow, I could read sadness and regret in the tilt of his misshapen head. In spite of everything, I felt sorry for him. This pathetic bizarre

abomination was all alone in the world, friendless and unloved by his family. Then I remembered that he'd let me here so that his father could use me for God only knew what. I squashed my pity, and narrowed my eyes at him. Oscar, my voice was harsh and commanding.

“"Look at me. What did you have to do to me? What am I here for?"”

He made a choked, gargling sound, a sound of distress, and turned away for me. "I'm sorry. I did not want to have you heard. I should not have asked him. I was just so, alone. I came to this body freely, wanted to be in the light of this world. I want to laugh, and be among others. It was dark where I was. So dark and cold. I thought this would be better.

kick at the chair. "What does that mean? What are you sorry for? What is he doing?"

“"I asked for a sister. For games, and reading, and walking with. Father wanted to make this happen,”

and wanted to try something new. Wanted his daughter to be a real body, of skin, and blood, not of wax and wood. He thought he might invite in something something like me to live where you once did inside. Inside of you. "What? I felt my chest tightened as my breath began whistling in and out. "No, you can't!" "I know. He knows. It did not work. He could not make it so. He could not cast you out just as he could not cast my brothers from the false bodies. For a moment, I felt hopeful.

"Okay, so then he'll let me go!" "Right?" He was quiet for what felt like a full minute before he answered.

"Oh, no, Leslie. I'm so sorry for this. So sorry for you. Please. Do not hate me.

“What do you mean?" "You have been stained. You see us as we are. They cannot find us in the house.”

He says you could find your way back and bring them. You could bring them and show them. If they came and you showed them, they might take father and me apart from each other. "I don't understand," I said. "Even though I thought maybe I had some idea." "He will not let you ever leave. When he wakes back up, he will come here to you." "And shut up!"

I pulled and struggled against the straps and strained as hard as I could against the belt around my waist. "Don't say another word. Just help me. Please!" "Husker, you've gotta help me!" He stood still, his back to me, making unhappy sputtering sounds. He rocked from foot to foot and pressed his hands to the side of his head. I kept saying his name, my voice rising. I begged him to unstrap me and let me go.

I lied and told him he could come and live with me and my family. I promised him anything he wanted, even said I'd marry him so long as he cut me loose. Every second that passed, I imagined Mr. Lunge awakening and heading down the must-y hallway to silence me forever. Finally, Oscar turned around, his strange, doughy face, a mask of conflict.

“"You must run and run fast. You'll not be safe till you're free of the woods. And then you”

must still even watch after that. He will always want to catch you back."

"Go nowhere, alone." As he said this, his softly rattling fingers began working at the strap that held my right wrist down. In a moment, it was loose, and I yanked my arm free, feeling pins and needles, tingle backwards from my wiggling fingertips. Oscar hurried to the other side of the chair and began undoing the other restraint, as I used my free hand to un-buckle the belt around my waist.

In a moment, I was totally free of the dentist's chair. I slid the tubes from my arm and thigh and dropped them to the floor. I jumped my feet and sprinted for the door. Oscar waddled after me. I turned glance at the rest of his body, my curiosity unwilling to be denied. His legs were, if anything, more elaborately designed than his arms and hands. There were round wheels and counterbalances suspended between wires at the knee that were

constantly spinning while long strips of rubber expanded and contracted with each step. For a moment, my fear was overwhelmed again with wonder at the magic that dwelt within this house. That part of me quickly grew faint beneath the louder voice of terror, though, and I pulled the door open and scurried out into the black hallway. Night had fallen outside. The only light I had to navigate by was from the room behind me. It leaked into the hallway just bright enough

to keep me from running into the wall straight ahead. I crept forward at a slant to the impenetrable

I shuffled along, feeling for obstacles and trying to rebuild the layout of the room in my mind.

I was pretty sure the big, cluttered table was to my left with the counter and cabinets to my right. Not a drop of moonlight or star shine made its way past the dirty window to help me navigate. I didn't even know for sure if my eyes were open or closed. I was listening to the left, trying to gently bump into the tables so I could feel my way around it, and from there, guess my way to the door. I was beginning to think I'd gotten myself turned around.

When light suddenly filled the room, shocking in its brightness, blinding me. I screamed and shoved my fists into my eyes, rubbing to clear away the stinging brilliance. I was more confused than ever, and the unreality, shock, and terror of everything I'd seen that day

“finally overwhelmed me. I'd handled everything very resourcefully up till then, I think.”

But after all, I was still just a little girl. A little girl who'd found herself threatened and experimented on, surrounded by monsters and alchemy. I'd held up as long as I could,

but in that flash of light, I finally crumpled to the floor, crying and wheezing,

curling into a ball and hoping that whatever happened to me would be quick and painless. Heavy footsteps thudded against the wooden floor, and a soft, scolding voice called to me from across the room. Leslie, Tisk, Tisk, how'd you get out? I crawled away from that voice, dragging myself along the floor. My eyelids had opened to slits, and vague shapes were beginning to come into focus. I pushed with my feet, shoving my butt along

“until I bumped up against a wall. My eyes adjusted quickly, and as the room became clearer,”

I realized I wasn't in the kitchen at all. This was a room I hadn't yet been in,

high-sealing, and paneled with uneven gray wood planks. It was empty, except for a large cage shoved against the wall across from the doorway. The cage was empty, except for a stained, limp-eared, stuffed bunny. It stared up at the ceiling with unseeing, blue-button eyes slumped against the vire bars. Leslie, come over here to me now, please. A thick wooden door was set into the wall behind Mr. Lunge, and his voice was answered

with the sounds of barking, bleeding, and a horrendous pounding from the other side of it. Something in there sounded like it wanted to get out very badly.

“Several, somethings. I had no idea how I'd wound up in that room, but I wasn't surprised to find that”

the house had turned me around somehow. My blood ran cold at the sounds of those, things, pawing, and howling at the seller door. I shrank back against the wall, pleading with Mr. Lunge. Please, please let me go. I promise I won't tell anybody what happened. He stepped forward, grinning, one hand behind his back. He wasn't hurrying. Sweetie, you're going to stay right here with us. Please don't kill me! I stood up against the wall

and began scooting to the left. Mr. Lunge chuckled, as if I'd just asked him some absurdly darling question. "Cue you, has that what Oscar told you I was going to do?" He stopped where he was, and laughed long and loud. The sounds behind in the seller grew, and his laughter mixed with them like a nightmare harmony. I still hear that noise in my nightmares. With all the ruckus going on and me distracting him, Mr. Lunge didn't notice Oscars sneak into

the room behind him. He had an old brass ring of keys in his mechanical hand. He sculpt along the wall opposite me, holding one wooden finger up to his face to shush me, as he crept towards the seller. Mr. Lunge, meanwhile, took another few steps towards me, still chuckling like the friendly a stonkel in the world. He took his hand out from behind his back. Grasps in his fingers was an ancient metal syringe, with a thick rust-eaten needle at the end. "Honey, how not going to kill

you? That would be awful, wouldn't it?" I think he thought his tone was comforting.

"I'll keep you fat and dry, and you can play with Mr. Bunny face." His mouth still smiled,

“but his eyes darkened behind his thick glasses. Of course, I'll have to remove your tongue to make”

sure you stay quiet. Maybe your entire lower jaw, but that's no big deal, as in. He was only three steps away now. He raised the syringe and flicked the needle tip with his other hand, a few nasty droplets of dark liquid popped into the air. His soul only hurt for a little bit. He reached out for me. His fingertips brushing the front of my gown, went aloud, creaking and banging, filled the room, and all at once, everything went insane. Oscars voice called out very quiet,

but audible. "Run, Nestle. Now." The terrible noises from behind the door rose to a deafening crescendo, and Mr. Lunge, his arms still outstretched to me, turned and looked over his shoulder.

“"I looked too, and my mouth fell open. I only hesitated a moment before I broke into a run,”

but what I saw, coming out of the darkness of that cellar, will never leave me.

Time slowed, and that two or three seconds seemed to go on, endlessly." Three tall, spindle-legged things, clothed and tattered rags, came shambling into the room, all sharing the same stiff, scissoring stride. As crude as Oscars assembly was, these creatures have been put together with an even less aesthetic sensibility, though their construction was just as intricate. There was no way, even with the use of magic, these would ever have passed for

human. They were all as tall as Mr. Lunge himself, maybe a bit taller, with long, thin arms carved

“from what looked like raw tree limbs. The hands at the end of these were wide, with only two long,”

curved fingers like talons, and an opposable curved and jointed thumb. They clattered like dry branches, blowing against each other in a constant wind. There was so much more, bands and belts that hung from their barrel-like bodies, the seemingly impossible motion of their jointless legs, that I really only saw them for a moment, and there was only one feature that stood out above all the others. Their heads. I almost laughed at the black absurdity of it,

and maybe I even did. It was so loud and there, and so long ago, it's possible I ran out of that room laughing like a crazy person. It was the sight of those brightly colored heads, swiveling on some recessed ball and socket hidden by their rags. If one thing could be said for Oscar's father, it's that he had a fierce sense of whimsy. They looked like they'd come from some long ago carousel that it perhaps stopped spinning around the time of the moon landing. Three, jolly, wooden animal heads.

There was a tiger, a gorilla, and a hippo. Each with a big friendly, tooth-bearing smile. Though the paint was peeling, the colors were still very vibrant. They would have been almost cute if not for the fact that Oscar's father had dug the original eyes out, leaving gaping black holes from which issued another worldly green glow that misted and condensed in the air. Suddenly, Mr. Lunge's squealing, terrified voice rose and wordless outcry,

and time went back to normal. The things converged on him, wrapping their long arms around his body. One of them, the one with the gorilla head, turned and fixed me with a passing glance. My eyes locked with the glowing holes beneath its brow, before it turned back to its mark. Pressing matter. That was it. My dismissal. My notice to vacate the premises immediately. If I knew what was good for me. I shot out of the room and into the dark hallway,

now considerably less dark since Mr. Lunge had turned on some of the lights. I ran straight ahead. Where there should have been a doorway into the room where I'd been held captive,

different closed door. I turned the knob and shoved against it crashing into the kitchen.

From there, I could look through the hallway across the room, the one I'd thought I'd just come out of, and see into the room with the dentist chair. I thought a wave of vertigo surge between my ears, and my knees buckled. I managed to grab onto the wall behind me and studied myself. After a moment, the dizziness passed, and I turned to the door that led out of the house. I was certain it would be locked or stuck or magically sealed, but when I turned the knob,

it rotated easily, and when I pulled the door swung inwards with a rusty squeak. A soft wet breeze blew in from outside, stirring my hair, and I ran out into the night. I won't bore you with my trip back home through the black ones. To be honest, I don't remember

“much about that part. I think I was in shock, and I just sort of,”

wandered aimlessly until I came to a place where the trees thinned, and I could see a streetlight shining down onto wet pavement. I'd found my way to the back end of skipping cricket road, which cut through the woods along the river for a while before crossing Main Street near the Snoko station. That was only four or five blocks from my house. Shortly before I got to Main Street, I had a thought that nod'd and nagged at me.

What was I going to tell my parents? It hadn't occurred to me until I'd stepped out onto the road, that I'd left my clothes somewhere back at Oscar's house. All I had on now was that, filthy nightgown. Did I tell them the truth? Some of the truth? Did I make up a story?

“Call the cops and lead them to Oscar's house. The idea of returning to that place even if I”

could find it, make my stomach cramp. Of course, I couldn't tell the whole truth because no one would believe that, even half the truth would only lead to more questions.

As I've mentioned though, I was a resourceful girl, and I finally concocted a story I thought might work.

When I walked into the yard, there was a police car sitting in the driveway. I went inside, and everyone exploded around me with hugs, tears, anger, and laughter. It was an emotional free for all. When the shock of my sudden appearance had subsided, the questions started. The story I told, and which I'm sure no one ever really believed, was that me and a couple of girls from school, I didn't know very well, had decided to go

skinny dipping down a thriver. I said those girls stole my clothes and ran off with them as a joke. Knowing that I was sometimes picked on, I thought my parents and will would buy this story, and I also thought it might get me some sympathy. I said I'd lost track of time, wandering the woods trying to find my clothes before deciding to just come home. Luckily, I told them. I discovered this dirty shirt hanging out of someone's garbage and

was able to put it on before I got onto the main streets. Nothing anyone said could shake me

“from my story, flimsy as it was. I told them I couldn't remember the girl's names that they were”

a couple years older, and that I wasn't a snitch anyway. With much rolling of eyes, everyone gradually began to leave till only my family remained. I knew I'd be punished, but that was okay. Anything would be okay after the horror of Oscar Lunge and his house. As it turned out, they were so relieved to have me home safe that I was only grounded for two weeks, an easy sentence considering the hell I must have put them through.

The Sunday after my punishment ended, I got into the car after church with my parents as will made his way across the street to Delere Park. I watched him go with dismay, not wanting him to send foot in that park. Will was older though, and really only went there to talk to girls. There would be little reason for him to go near the woods, and hopefully nothing would be bold enough to venture out into the daylight. My mom turned and gave me a funny look. Aren't you going

over to the park with your brother? You haven't seen your friends in two weeks. Nope, I'll see them at school. I shook my head looking out at the little playground. It no longer felt safe to me, especially now that Oscar's brothers had been freed.

After that, I never went to Delere Park again. There is one other thing.

She can't do as much for herself as she used to, and neither will nor I could stand to see her

put into a home. A couple of weeks ago, as we sat watching game shows, she asked if I'd heard

“about the missing girl. "No," I said. I haven't. What happened?”

Her eighth grade class was helping pick up trash in that empty lawn across from the church. And used to be that park, you and your brother played at all the time. Her friends said one minute she was shoving paper cups into a garbage bag back by the trees, and the next minute she was gone. I hope they find her. She's just a little thing. Since then, I've wondered about my decision not to talk about what happened to me.

How many other girls might there have been? There's no way of knowing how many.

Teenage girls disappear every year. Their pictures taped to convenience store windows and nailed to telephone poles. Some of them are runaways and summer victims of human monsters. But what about the ones in Pierce Township? What about this eighth grade girl and my mother,

“Brown-up? I've driven by that spot at least once a day since she told me. I can't stop thinking”

about it, wondering if maybe that little girl met a strange, but nice, little chubby boy, back by the hedge, who invited her to come see his room. I hope she'd be smarter than that. I hope that she'd turn and run in the other direction and tell her parents.

But it's a pretty weak hope. After all, I didn't run from him. I went with him,

and I never told. You've been listening to "The Boy from Delirri Park" by Arcée Combrink. Arcée Combrink is a writer and artist who lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with his wife and two sons. He is a founding cast member of the popular horror podcast "Night of the Living podcast." He enjoys iced tea, unsweet, and genuinely believes in Sasquatch.

Well friends, that concludes tonight's story. I know that we cover a wide gamut of content here on this show and generally don't shy away from particularly grizzly material, but even so, the "Are you a virgin?" question. "Filled me with a dread that I don't usually feel." I was rather relieved when it turned out that we were only dealing with possessed automaton instead of something more horrific.

That's a brand new sentence right there. My deep thanks go out to Arcée Combrink for one hell of a story, and also to all of you find folks for joining me. I hope that tonight's episode has helped distract you from the very real nightmares that many people are experiencing right now. May the old horror hill cast a ghostly light on some dark times. Until next week friends, stay spooky. You've been listening to the horror hill podcast, a production of chilling entertainment

and the creative team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Tonight's episode was hosted, narrated, scored, and finalized by yours truly, Eric Peabody, additional music by Nicky Mixorley. Got a terrifying tale of your own that you'd like performed, email it to us at submissions at simplyscarypodcast.com to have your work considered for future production. Note that any writing utilizing artificial intelligence is ineligible.

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If darkness is what you're after, listener, your search is over. Yet, let it be known. You haven't found the darkness. The darkness has found. [Music]