S14E10 - "Festering Growths" - Horror Hill

Moment, I checked the code.

“Oh, huh, Homer was convinced, bringing 150 € more.”

Yeah, really, but why do you know what? Because, as a member of the administration's life, that's simply the story for all of you. Yes, I'd like to ask you something. Twenty-four-seven and unbeamable German,

that's simply the one that has to be understood. Steuern, read it! Say, with this story.

Now, we have to try it out.

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as 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. Greetings listeners and welcome back to Horror Hill.

I'm Eric Peabody, your host and narrator. Tonight, we delve again into the all-too-real psychological horrors of J.R. Hammontoshin with this story, nothing goes wrong from the couch. Casey and Ben are two young adults that are finding their way in the world battling the usual insecurities that come with new careers, new relationships, and new living situations.

All in all, they seem to be doing quite well. Casey's girlfriend Deborah lives with them, they don't seem too strapped for cash and their shared apartment isn't that small and is nearly bug-free. Our story opens with a scene that many of you find people have actually lived through at some point over the past 20 years or so, hanging out with a friend on the couch, drinking

beers, and playing Mario Kart. However, unbeknownst to our protagonists, something is festering in the apartment above theirs, and is soon to burst forth and become a very real problem. In grand J.R. Hammontoshin fashion, the verminous seed upstairs mirrors less tangible verminous seeds in their minds, small insecurities that we all feel, and that now have

fertile ground to grow in. 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 DarkNights.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today.

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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 J.R. Hammontoshin, I give you, nothing goes wrong from the couch. Chapter 1. In the Great Western Tradition, two post-collegiate American male roommates, in the great

the opposite ends of the couch and played video games.

“It was a Sunday afternoon and they drank the night before, but they weren't hung over,”

unless you count the moderate combination of alcohol, marijuana, sleep deprivation, and yesterday's diet of cheap, heavily salted and carb-heavy foods as a kind of perpetual motion machine for an ambient hangover. Of the two, Casey at least went to the gym three times, ish, a week, and had the dawning awareness that this post-colleged pizza and beer's lifestyle had an expiration date, as

his innate leanness was filling out in unflattering ways. Ben, shorter, naturally stalkier, and blessed with a strange reserve of unarmed muscles that kept his metabolism churning, was happy to let it ride. Casey's girlfriend Deborah was at some drink and paint class with a friend and then off to the gym, which didn't seem like the smartest combination.

Deborah was often busy with these random classes and events, fun aside, they called them, and Casey usually joined her, even on events that didn't really interest him.

“But perhaps less so since Ben had moved in and gave him a handy alternative, couples needed”

their decompression time anyway. Ben was making a good salary selling advertising for Google, which seemed like one of those jobs that shouldn't exist. Didn't Google sell itself? Not six figures great or anything, but still, Casey was surprised how well Ben was doing.

Better than Casey was doing as an account executive, which was just being a glorified secretary for finicky and demanding corporate clients, and better than Deborah as a junior architect, architect being one of those demanding low-paying jobs that may be a great signifier for television characters, but not so much in the real world.

The video game session had started as leconically as always.

Casey had come home with some items from CVS. He saw Ben, nestled in his corner of the couch and the t-shirt he woke up in, and the gym shorts that should lose that appellative descriptor, given they were worn almost exclusively as loungewear. Ben was playing the newest version of Mario Kart online and doing well with Princess Peach,

as he often did. Casey recognized the track, coconut coast, as the last of the set for egg cup. Ben was silent in concentration, although even in silent concentration there was something goofy, carefree, and inviting about his presence. Maybe it was his wide-set, masculine chin that lent the impression he was somehow always

in control of the situation. Counterbalanced with his boyish, semi-fro, of brown, curly hair that wouldn't be worn by anybody who didn't have a sense of playfulness. It was that combination of confidence and ease, Casey had to concede, that likely made Ben a good salesperson.

Ben's Princess Peach came in second. "Ah, hell yeah!" Ben said, when he saw that Luigi came in third, ever since Luigi's death stare became a meme in an earlier iteration of the game, Nintendo kept embellishing upon Luigi's various stairs whenever Luigi came up short.

"That cold blooded killer," said Casey. Luigi's death stare this time was the stony, slow-panting glare, vaguely morally superior content. Ben nodded to Casey's corner, motioned with his controller, and asked, "Cart?" Even though words were superfluous between them.

Casey picked it up, logged into his account, case files, which he always thought to change

because it wasn't clever or had anything to recommend it, and they started playing. Both old prose, who chatted and played reflexively, only going silent when they were concentrating on passing somebody, or, when something traumatic happened, like the inopportune timing of the purple shell that landed Ben's Princess Peach into a ravine. So where's Deborah?

Ben asked, "She went to some drinking paint class in the afternoon with that girl Alva,

“and then I think she's going to a rowing class."”

Deborah had shared a bedroom with Casey for the past two years in their two bedroom apartment. Ben had moved into the spare second bedroom about six months ago, after their Craigslist room made graciously left without warning. Sharing one room between them in a two bedroom apartment wasn't ideal, and once the lease ended, Casey and Deborah were going to get their own apartment.

They were saving money, as Deborah always said whenever Casey grasped at the situation

that had become, to Casey, mildly embarrassing, and amasculating. They could save money in their own apartment, Casey would grumble, if only in his mind. He liked living with Ben, but the extra space would have been worth it. Deborah's out drinking and then working out, Deborah gets drunk off one drink, so even

I mean, we've done way worse. Casey echoed his friend. That doesn't sound like the Deborah I know. And Deborah knew them both well, Ben and Casey had actually both met her at approximately the same time, as they'd all shared an English class sophomore year of college.

Casey, however, had locked into sharing a dorm building with Deborah that same year, and by the end of the year, they were a unit, which Ben wasn't initially thrilled about. He'd liked drunkenly curousing with Casey as best friend since high school. Well, sure, they'd still drunkenly curoused if you could call it then, but then often with Deborah, who took it upon herself to try and hook Ben up with somebody.

Her proposed prospects of such a standard deviation below what Ben fancied a suitable potential partner that it made him question what Deborah thought of him. Casey made a face that was the equivalent of a shrug. And I say, "That's the story I was told and I'm sticking to it." Track one, the shy guy shallows, ended with Ben in first, Casey in third.

As the closing race animation played, Ben got up and walked to the fridge. Bears? You know it? Ben peered into the fridge. They all shared the top row, which was for drinks, and the crisper drawer for fruits and vegetables.

Although, since Deborah's purchases consumed the crisper, Casey and Deborah as a unit ended up with a disproportionate amount of the refrigerator space. Not that Ben cared, but it was impossible to go through seminars at work on awareness training and recognizing inefficiencies and not become, well, aware of distribution inefficiencies. We classy your trash you denied.

Ben asked, "Body mostly concealed behind the open refrigerator door." I mean, I feel like, by nature, we are trashy bitches, and it is Sunday, and we both got to go to work tomorrow, so let's pretend we're high class. And we are playing Mario Kartanai, the gold standard of kart racing games. True, not like we're playing what, beach buggy racing, like a set of common horrors.

So, classy meant breaking into the dwindling supply of shlaffley summer lockers, not the surplus of course lights.

For Casey, the onset of beer drinking always had a liberating effect.

In intoxication, there was that scaled back feeling of being exactly where you needed to be, knowing everything that needs to be known on any given subject, and a rosy sensation that whatever you don't know, you'll learn.

“Does it ever happen to you that you get horny, and then all of a sudden you have to take”

a shit, asked Ben? Casey paused a moment and looked thoughtful. "Funny, I always have the opposite problem," he said dryly. Ben snorted a laugh that wide, mischievous smile of his, guess your shit really don't stink. Sit down to take a shit, hard on sticking out of both ends.

Casey laughed, and not having any witty or repartated ad, stated more glumly than he expected. "Well, I don't really have to worry about getting too horny any time soon. What do you mean?" Casey usually kept any personal troubles or disagreements in his relationship with Deborah Private, even from Ben, but this one could be excused as darkly amusing, and maybe he could

benefit from Ben's advice. He'd wanted to get Ben's opinion on this, but had no natural way of bringing it up. A shit joke had been the natural entry point. So Deborah got kind of mad at me.

"Well, mad ish, at me, I don't know what the word is, but as you know, I never use

“Instagram really, I think I follow only like five people, including Deborah.”

Deborah never posts on Instagram. True. Casey fleetingly noted and moved past how quickly Ben knew that. "Well, she noticed that the people I followed, they're all basically hot girls, although I didn't even know her, remember her, really look at it, like remember Mallory Brenda?"

"Oh yeah, I remember her." "Well, when she was trying out modeling, she asked for everyone to follow her account, so I did." What a sacrifice. Mal subscribed to see her perfect body Mallory, but only to help you fulfill your dreams.

She's still actually trying to model and posting pictures. "Oh, I know, unfortunately, no one ever told her that no one can be a professional model with the name Mallory." "Well, yeah, and there were some other people who I added on Instagram like that for whatever

reason, and I never even look at it.

“I think it's only like six people in total, but Deborah noticed and, well, she wasn't”

mad, really, but I don't know, like disappointed. Ben leaned into a tight curve where he overtook a CPU-controlled Bowser."

It's not. Now it's one of those things. She just said, like, "Why are all your Instagram friends, Hawk girls?" And she didn't say it in a fun way, I take it. "No, no, definitely not a fun way."

She didn't say it as some kinky prelude to sex, like she was impressed with my taste or something. And she believed my explanation, which is true, but, eh.

This track was over, Ben, again, in first, Casey fucked it up in fifth and was awarded

no points. Ben took a swig of his beer and just accumulated with his beer holding hand, which was fun, because it made him feel like he was dispensing well-worn wisdom. Having hot insta friends is just one of those silent things that's not great or pleasant to think about, and maybe you don't want to hear about it, but it's not like a bad

“thing, just one of those things that aren't supposed to be commented on, you know?”

It's like taking a shit, like if you text a Deborah whenever you took a shit, she'd be like, "What the fuck is this? I don't want to hear about this, but it's not like you're doing anything wrong. It's just one of those unpleasant things that just happened." Casey's beer was held between his legs as the next race started.

"Wait, what? You know that made no sense, right?" I mean, I think it's quite possibly the worst example anyone could have possibly ever given. Ben, Stone faced, kept his eyes duly fixed on the screen as if something caught his interest. Casey and Ben could banter and exchange insults internally, but every friendship rests

atop a sense of folkrum of power and perception. Even though Ben would have relished mocking Casey for saying something so, admittedly stupid

“and sloppy, it felt different when Casey attacked his intelligence.”

Effectively, there's no excuse for this double standard, Ben understood.

Ben could never explain it to a non-interested party and expect to be viewed as in the

ride. But with the history between them, Ben had the distinct impression the Casey always thought he was better than him somehow. With the girlfriend, with generally being more academically inclined, for being just generally busier with activities and events, as if activity itself, no matter how pointless or stupid,

was inherently virtuous, which was doubly obnoxious because they both knew that Deborah was half, no, three quarters, of the reason he was so busy, like Casey really cared so much about alumni events or museum receptions. But it really came down to Ben knew, was that Ben was making more money and having more success in his career, which overthrew Casey's expectations for how he felt the world

should be operating, as if there was a one-to-one correspondence between Casey's academic

effort and post-college professional success. Poor Casey didn't realize yet that the world operated on more than just book smarts and needless labor. Casey, taller, arguably smarter, who to college at least semi-seriously, who had it all together with the responsible lovely long-term girlfriend, wasn't doing as well as Ben.

With his strong jaw and strangely cavalier, ingratiating style of relaxed confidence, found a niche where he excelled. So, whenever Casey took too much enjoyment in a Ben faux-pa, Ben couldn't avoid feeling burned by the subtext, or see it as some sublimated way for Casey to recover some aspect of his lost manhood.

Ben, reflecting upon all this instantly, took the stoic approach, less for its own virtue than because he knew it would deprive Casey if whatever victory he thought he'd achieved. Like flirting is what I mean, like flirting, a harmless thing that everyone does is what I meant. Ben was probably being too hard on his friend and glimpsing these sinister psychological

motivations. With Mario Kart Sakarton, both resumed their drinking and hollowed shooting the shit pastime, any unpleasantness over Ben's shorn feelings or Casey's air of superiority vanished. Ten minutes later, Debrot was coming back into the apartment complex, unloading the day's looker from her car.

She came home too late to hear Ben stating that from all the beer and chips he couldn't

“stop farting, with Casey reminding him that's how a loser talks.”

A winner would say, "I won't stop farting." Ben agreed, then narrowed his eyes in ominous concentration, Casey begging for him to reconsider what he was about to do, but his luck would have it, Ben had run dry. And they all missed what was going on in the apartment directly above theirs. Chapter 2 In the apartment, directly above theirs.

the front door and you'd see an outstretched foot, extending from the open bathroom door.

“Closer, feel the steam heat of the running hot water.”

Turn the corner. See sprawled on the bathroom floor, a very naked, water-slipped, heavy-set woman in her 60s, her poor health and skin folds, making her death seem even more unseemly empathetic. This verona lived alone in this apartment for over a decade and died alone too, or at least without another human around.

Before your eyes took in the relatively placid, puffy, moon-like visage of Miss verona, you couldn't avoid the gaping gore of her lower half. The blood black red, the damage to total and complete to note specifically that her perennium, or the area between her anus and vagina, had been demolished.

Burst through with such force that her adjacent structure could do nothing but obey the law

of physics and collapse inward. Notice a particular blood spatter, not a heavy spatter, more like a single outward light spritzing, almost as if a cute little dog had unexpectedly stuck his wet little black button nose in the rain of her blood, and shook itself vigorously one time before being dragged away by an impatient owner.

The damage was repellently captivating, you could only catch maybe a single telling detail about her body before revulsion forced you to look away. That observed detail would likely be the narrow, bloodied striations along the belly, the delicacy of those marks a jarring juxtaposition given the carnage of her vaginal area, that most guarded and sicker sank to various, that body part that gets deemed from childhood

as "private".

Seeing those striations would make most people think of Garot wire, those thin wires'

movie assassins used to choke countless unnamed henchmen. Given this scene, maybe you wouldn't have noticed the fleeing panicked animal. What it resembled, you couldn't be sure, too much was going on there, too much was moving just on the periphery and that scramble of newly birthed frenzyed life, with all the torque and contortion of a flipped over beetle writing itself.

But whatever it was, maybe you'd remember it resembling a small black and horse tail, it would have glided past you out of the bathroom and under the apartment door. Chapter 3 Coming! Casey paused the game, bounded from the couch when he heard Deborah knocking on the door

as if he was being paid based on his efficiency.

“In a sense, Ben figured, maybe Casey was being so paid, that's what relationships are,”

and even though Casey and Deborah had been together for a while, it was good Casey still put in the effort. Deborah was his world, really. To be fair, Casey was Deborah's too, although Ben added as a constant closing line to himself, Deborah's potential world seemed larger than Casey's.

Whenever Deborah entered the picture, Casey's demeanor softened appreciably. His speech slowed, his body language became more nurturing, he became less quick to judge, even his eyes seemed wider in gentler, all in service of the Kabuki theater of fidelity and companionship. Hey babe, Casey opened the door, wondering to himself why Deborah just didn't open

it herself, until he saw her lugging back her artwork, with a Jim bag slung over her other shoulder. Great, something else to take up space in their tiny bedroom. What do you got there? Can't you tell?

I'll give you an obvious obvious hint, we were drinking nap of alley winds, and she put her Jim bag against the kitchen table and lifted up the painting. It showed a respectable, if amateurishly, simplified view of an elongated, orange suspension bridge in three-quarter view, with some nebulous patch of green and purple hilltop in the distance, to suggest the fog shrouded land beyond.

Damn, that's pretty good. It was better than he could ever do. Casey wasn't a skilled artist and attempting painting, even at a drink and draw would only frustrate him.

“If he coming better at it wouldn't benefit his life in any quantitative way, so why bother?”

A philosophy which Casey and Deborah had several good-natured arguments about. Deborah felt you needed to have an open mind, and there were cross-disciplinary benefits to try new things, and also something about brain circuitry and longevity. Ben, if participating, would take an even stronger position than Casey and posit that,

and which could actually directly benefit you, and it was wasteful to fritter away precious

“time on a constellation of random activities that won't lead to anything.”

Casey would usually eventually concede Deborah's point and admit that her philosophy led to more fun activities. "Oh, yeah, the Golden Gate Bridge, that's pretty good." "I liked Ben from the couch." "Oh, hey Ben, didn't see you there, see? He got it, it's Sunday, I blend into the couch.

I see, rocking the shorts still, I'm jealous. Have you left the house today?" "Nope." Casey had obviously known it was the Golden Gate Bridge. "I knew, come on, give me more credit than that. I know. You can hang that up in the main room."

Ben offered. "That's an above the alcohol collection edition for sure." "Nice. Maybe one day we can actually add wine to our collection." Ben raised a beer. "Well, I've been doing my part by drinking the beers so we can clean house and get more

alcohol, maybe some wine." "Hey, credit me too," Casey chipped in. "I've been playing video games with them and drinking too." "Following my lead, though." "Fare."

"We all know, if Casey's drinking and I'm not around, that means he's following your lead, Ben, but I truly thank you both for your service." Ben just circulated knowingly. He was a bit disappointed that Deborah hadn't come home all sweaty and fragrant, and some crop-topped, elevated sports bra and some tight-fitting workout pants.

"Hey, Dev, you worked out before the drink and draw, right?" "Hey, Ben, of course." "See? Ben gave Casey a knowing face." "Casey, you thought I'd drink then work out? Do you even know me?" Casey shrugged defensively.

"I misheard this morning, but figured it out." That means she did technically have something to drink and then draw home. Not sure that's much safer than drinking and then using workout equipment. But yes, the idea for being tipsy and working out was unfathomable. Knowing her, she probably actually had only one wine early in the class and drove home

about two hours later. "Okay, I'm going to go shower." "Well, you know where to find us." Casey said as he took two beers from the fridge. "I hope you haven't drank too much, we should think about dinner in a bit."

"This is only my second."

"Yeah, I've been keeping watch. Don't worry, he's speaking the truth." "Hey, Dev, you want a beer for the shower? It'll keep him away from Casey." Ben offered. "Hmm, she pretended to consider. Maybe I should bring a course in there. I mean, is it even possible for a course to get even

“more watered down? I think that's actually how they make them. They make a normal beer and then the”

workers leave it in a shower overnight." Casey, back on the couch, dangled a beer suggestively toward Stepera. "And the more beers we drink, the sooner we replace it with wine," Casey added. "And then if you poured beer on yourself in the shower to be like an actual beer commercial, a course commercial," said Ben too quickly.

"Good way to convince me not to do it. I had one wine, so I'm good for the entire day. I don't want to go buck wild and trash the apartment and break my beautiful new art before it gets to grace our walls." Ben smiled. "You sure? Could make the shower more fun?" "Positive." "Such yourself. More for us, and this is the good stuff, the fancy beers," Casey added. He didn't like feeling like he was supplementing conversation rather than directing it.

"Well, you two fancy boys can enjoy, and she went into their bedroom and, as Casey and Ben resumed their game and drinking, slipped into the bathroom with a change of clothes. Both Ben and Casey looked at her as she went in. Casey directly, Ben subtly, the latter disappointed that she hadn't done something like "undress and wrap herself in a towel." She never did that, but he had

always held out hope. When he'd first moved in, she'd sometimes casually come out of the shower

wrapped in a towel before swiftly retreating to her bedroom, but that had quickly stopped. He suspected Casey's request. "Any dinner plans?" Casey inquired.

“And when Deborah gets out of the shower, want to see if she'd be down for some overcooked?”

Sounds good. Overcooked was an isometric, cartoony, cooperative cooking game, where each character controlled a little chef, and they had to work together, avoid environmental hazards and obstacles to jointly prepare meals before time ran out. It was when some and breezy, unlike Mario Card, which was deadly serious and played for keeps. And no dinner plans, probably. Not a known,

You too going out or doing something? Sounds like it. Maybe we'll just make something. If you do, make extra. We'll see, which meant that they'd see what Deborah wanted to do. Casey was doing better this round in Mario Card. Ben felt strangely bad about overreacting internally to Casey's prior good-natured insults. The warm purring of the rushing shower could be faintly heard in the living room. So, Casey, you were kind enough to share that thing you told me

about earlier, and he indicated toward Deborah in the shower, and it took Casey a moment to figure out what Ben was referring to. He realized and appreciated Ben's subtlety and not blurting, you know, Deborah and the Instagram thing. So, listen to this. I was at lunch with Bill and Dan

“from work. You remember them, right? Yeah, I remember. I met them at a couple of your work happy hours.”

Seems like good dudes. Yeah, they are. So, we were out to lunch at work, and Dan, you know, he's all into this healthy eating stuff, and he's pretty ripped and goes to the gym like every night.

Oh yeah, sexy ripped Dan. How could I not remember Dan now? And he's also always reading this

health advice stuff. So, he told me that he read the study that men who keep their phones in their front pocket have a greater risk of getting testicular cancer. Is that true? I don't know. Makes sense, though. I guess. Radiation from the phones. I don't really think phones are radioactive, but I got what you're saying. Then, I don't know, electronic wavelengths from the phone or some shit. I don't know. Anyway, so he tells me you looked it up afterward and it seems a legitimate,

“and men who keep their phones in their back pocket don't have the same risk of getting testicular”

cancer. I wonder if those guys get asked cancer. Huh, you know, that's a good point. Although it's not like the phones are up to your asshole, whereas in your front pocket they are pretty close to your balls. Anyway, so later that day the three of us are at our mandatory Wednesday all hands

on deck meeting, which is basically as it sounds, the entire office. And I start thinking about my

phone padding my legs and freaking out because I can't find my phone. You know, when you check, recheck, triple check and just in the pity or stomach realize that you lost your phone and you are truly fucked to the point. I start telling people, I lost my phone. As I'm searching the immediate area, retracing my steps, thinking about the fucking restaurant and all that, worried that people might realize I had a drinker to at lunch. Oh, shit. And then, of course, I find it. I take

and dance advice and put it in my back pocket. Casey nodded sympathetically, doing that exaggerated exhale to acknowledge the punchline of the story. Well, now you get to something moved abruptly and the unfocused outer reach of Casey's periphery. The spatial sense in your brain reserved for noticing a tiny flying net or some other unexpected zipping thing. It was at his back right,

“and he turned his head slightly expecting a quick resolution. But, no, what was it?”

And turned his attention fully to the front door where he sensed the motion. He saw mail being pushed under the door slot. No, that wasn't it. That wasn't mail, like a black mop head or something. The tiny, what could it be? Dude? Was his piddling attempt to encapsulate all that he saw? Ben followed his line of sight, eyes arched and bewilderment, face blanched, mouth slightly open in a small oe of something like excited anticipation. As of soon, he'd have a new story to

regale clients with. About that crazy time and animal just slipped in under their door. A little black dogs snout. No. She's this. Ben shouted. An approximately foot-long bristly black line seemed after a second or two of resistance to wrangle its way under their front door. Chapter four. Bug wrangling. Is that a fucking millipede dude? Ben asked with some alarm. More like a fucking billion-a-peed, Casey answered. Casey only got a fleeting glance, but the

impressions loomed and enlarged in his mind with the servitude of gospel truth. Whatever it was, it was at least a foot for sure. It was too coarse and too thorny looking to be a millipede. Those had functional legs only on one side, not legs all over their body, right? A billipede.

Casey mumbled as if clarifying to himself. It glided across the floor. Bug's always seemed to move

with unexpected gunshots just went off speed. Even with that expectation, it's speed was startling.

Casey's feet folded up so he was sitting on an ankle, Ben in an ungainly withering lotus position. At round to the opposite wall, darted about halfway back toward where it came from, pivoted some slight distance in an angular direction, then rocketed with brilliant speed to the protective shadows in the kitchen. Its motions were too precise to be solely instinctual, and there seemed to be some

“underlying mathematical cohesion in each traveled segment of distance. But the fuck is it doing?”

Casey could see the outline of the insect and the shadow created by the fridge, or at least thought he saw a slightly darkened string-like shape that he told himself was the unwanted guest. Casey's position naturally made him the dedicated century. Ben, on the farther side of the couch, had no hopes of seeing where it went. Let's both go there and crush that thing. Word. Casey replied. Debra's lucky she's spending so much time soaping herself up in there. She's

missing all the fun. Maybe we can get it alive and become Instagram famous. Ben seemed weirdly giddy. Maybe just seeing this as a novel form of excitement. The way the two hung out often created a kind of force field of joky irreverence, which made otherwise unpleasant or boring episode's fun. Or perhaps Ben had the added comfort of knowing that whatever else,

the insect had to get through Casey first. Like the twinge of security, one feels walking at a

crosswalk parallel to people closer to the source of traffic. If someone blows the light, hell, at least there's a few bodies as buffers. Casey, if we do capture that thing,

“you should post the pictures online, post a couple of disgusting giant insect pictures,”

and no way Debra is going to be spying on your Instagram accounts anymore. Casey was silent for a moment, trying to spot the creature in the shadows. I don't think it moved. Unfortunately, don't really think there's time to put out a one a dead or alive poster on him. I think we got to go in there and take it out. I don't think it's moved. Let's go. See, isn't it a good thing I kept my shoes on?

Ben said, as he slipped one off and held it in his right hand. Debra always demanded that they

not walk around the house with their shoes. Casey, always, always complied, and made a show of his compliance. Ben often did, and when he didn't, it was usually Casey who would have to deal with Debra's bedroom complaints. Debra's frustration channeled as an inexplicable sourness toward Casey,

“as, after all, Casey was Ben's friend, and it was originally Casey's idea to have Ben move in.”

A Casey's self-preserving insistence, Ben was usually good about the shoe thing, but fortunately, not today. Dude, you're lucky Debra didn't see that. Casey told him distractedly. It's a flip flop, it's not really a shoe, and you mean you're lucky Debra didn't see that. Fine, then we're both lucky. Well, buddy, let's see if our luck runs out. I looked at each other. Ben's flip flop gripped in his right hand. Casey armed with a bear

paper towel roll left near the couch. They baby steps sculpt toward the kitchen, figuring out how to proceed. But just as Casey crossed the threshold of the kitchen, the intruder practically skidded onto its highing quarters, its multiferious legs moving

with such counter-veiling fervor as to propel the life creature, if only for a second,

clear off the ground, and the blink of an eye, and seem to clear half the distance between them, and then scrambled and rolled and short forward progressing circles like a man on fire. Holy fuck! Casey yelled, these unexpected moves more than they'd bargained for. Fuck, dude, kill it! Ben responded. Ben pivoted around Casey and launched his flip flop, which didn't come close. Fuck! Casey steeled himself with his paper towel roll,

knowing he had only one opportunity to strike, but upon realizing he was wearing only socks, jumped out of the way rather than face the possibility that the skittering mass of stringy shapes might crawl over his feet. And in that moment of retreat, it was gone. Only a second after it disappeared did they both realize, based on its trajectory, that it must have slipped under the bathroom door.

Chapter 5. Uh-oh. Debra, don't freak out, but we think a big-ish bug might have just gone under the door. Casey was trying to keep his voice calm, and it wasn't really apparent why the prospect was so terrifying.

over reacted with his trionic terror that Casey used to figure must have, in large part,

“been a way to make him feel like a hero. But he later learned how truly terrified Debra was”

about the more repulsive looking insects. Her terror had been that of someone who really must have thought that a little spider would, say, grow to dog size, tackle her, subdue her with venom, and make her watch as it feasted on her organs. Ben stood back, understanding that the situation behind the shower had become exclusively Casey's domain, although still making subtle motions of movement as if he was going to help. Ben kept

his eyes on Casey and the door. "What?" Casey heard Debra ask, muted first by rushing water

and then the door. Figured to go into the bathroom, he thought strangely, the hothouse humidity of her overlong shower of fitting environment for some kind of Amazonian nightmare. "A big bug,

“we think it's a millipede or something, just might have crawled under the door?" He very well knew”

it wasn't a millipede. "Don't worry, Deb, it was just like, yeah, millipede or something." Ben barked from a few feet away. Casey looked back, Ben offering an "I tried, drug, some muffled words unheard, a, hold on!" the water abruptly stopped, and then, screaming. A startled, even a highly frightened initial reaction was to be expected. But not this. This was a scream that could not be tempered or consoled with assurance as alone. This was a scream that

could not be reasoned with. The piercing pitch of this scream could only end with the bloody dampness of a torn vocal cord. Ben came beside his friend and paused, almost thinking he must have missed something, like there must be two strange occurrences simultaneously. "Debra, open the door,

“open the door!" Casey was attempting to turn the locked knob, pointlessly. "Help me, help me, please,”

help me!" Just hit it, hit it with a shampoo bottle or something. But when Casey heard the thump that could only be her entire body taking a hard fall in the tub, their stood only churning panic, as if it had been hiding in plain sight beyond the protective coating of their aloof irreverence. "Fuck!" Casey muttered to himself, took a step back, and in the process collided with Ben, then just started front kicking the door just under the knob. Once, twice, three times,

and still she was screaming, and he heard scrambling, and he wasn't even sure as kicks were working. "Here," he heard Ben. Ben, squat, and stout, kicked twice in the interstices of Casey's

attempts, and with the second blow his foot pierced the door. They both started kicking over each other

until enough space was opened for Casey's hand. He unlocked the door, Ben right behind him. Casey didn't know what he planned to do, but Ben's constant motion behind him seemed to force him forward. The shower was still running, and the beaten looking baby blue shower curtain with the rubber duckies was largely amassed to the left, water spraying all over the bathroom floor. He couldn't understand why, until he saw Deborah, and envisioned the scenario where she'd swung the shampoo bottle,

mist, and half knocked off the curtain. Deborah was on her back in the tub, stark naked, and body, slickly wet, and do we, kicking up in the air, shampoo bottle held upside down like a club. She was in strange hysterics, eyes glued to the leftward wall by the sink. "Tepard, Jesus, what is it? What's happened?" Casey whispered, "Some combination of consoling her and respecting some subconscious privacy of her vulnerable nudity." "It's still here,

it attacked me and misted, it attacked me again, I hit it, it's still alive, I saw crawling." She answered in halting gasps. "Honey, Casey lowered his voice, feeling a searching combination of anger and embarrassment. It's just a bug." "No, it leapted me, it leapt right at me, it landed on me, and was crawling directly toward my

fucking, my, my Percy, like it was trying to kill me that way." In some split second of

discretionary word choice, the playful word "Pussy" seemed more benign than the clinical and solid vagina. Casey turned and saw Ben looking under the sink, although he had the distinct impression that Ben was deliberately avoiding his gaze, and that a millisecond before his attention had been on Deborah, and the reflection of the mirror, Casey could see that Ben had a flushed,

Deborah was calming down, scooted up her back against the backward curve of the tub,

“calming herself down with the fanning flutter of her left arm, her breasts jiggling and tandem.”

Casey said, "Here, angrily, and shut off the water, then facing her, began to lift her to her feet, his stomach roiled with acid, but he wasn't nervous. There was some surging undercurrent of hatred and anger, the wish to strike out at someone, and as he looked at her, there was an unaccountable feeling of shame and humiliation at her smoothness, the upturned points of her hardened nipples, the movement of her full breasts,

the rounding outline of her hips. Then she screamed simultaneously as Ben yelled, "Oh fuck!" and flung himself backward away from the sink in one sudden swift movement. Casey turned, and couldn't account for what he saw. The black shape that he was sure had seemed at least a foot, now seemed no more than six inches at most. It sped down the wall where

“the mirror hung, extending itself halfway off the wall. It's little limbs of flurry.”

What was it doing? Bracing itself, greedily shoveling air into its mouth, and, almost as if traveling via suction, flicked itself onto the shower wall. It slithered through the forest of miniature conditioner bottles and body washes before anyone could say anything, and Casey blinked, and Deborah was all crazed motion and moving limbs, and she started smacking her inner thigh and groin as if battling a swarm of mosquitoes.

She spun once as if something was actively hanging off of her, and screamed and continued to smack almost every part of her body, as Casey lunged for her, though she slipped wholly out of his grasp. In one flowing sequence, Ben bounded into the shower and appeared to scrape something off her chest, at the tail end of his movement he panicked, and flung whatever he touched hard

“against a wall, and then Casey sighed. The insect smashed against the wall and then twitched”

spasmotically, fell back to the tub, and was segmented into triple its size. Now it was definitely over a fun. Around its holster conference, tiny, skinny, legs spun and churned, with certain longer, brambly appendages sticking and jabbing into the air. Its middle segment was more twig-like and brittle. What could be called the front of the creature was so identified by two antennas, so wispy thin they were distinguished only by the disorienting effect of their rapid

movement. Ben and Casey subconsciously both realized the creature was purely black, whereas before, maybe an allusion created by its speed, it appeared to have some uneven reddish modeling sheen. It lifted itself and stood up, a narrow vertical line of writhing insectile chaos. The motion was transfixing, and Casey was thinking to move, to act, to kill it, but found himself stunned

into a momentary stupor, thinking only that he was witnessing something incredible. It truly

stood up in almost a perfect vertical column, certainly above one foot, and was so repugnantly disgusting it was almost inspiring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw repulsion and terror mixed in Debra's face and a sort of disequilibrium on Ben's, as if he now realized that his display of temerity hadn't solved the problem. And again, like a suction, the creature flung itself forward and upward, its antennaed front half projecting directly toward Debra's crotch. Ben

wrapped both hands and arms around Debra and leaned into her body. She collapsed under his weight, and they scrambled and both screamed Debra more frantically and hysterically, Ben more a grown of pain. Casey bounded over to them, not sure what to do, looking for the insect to slip into view and ready with a conditioner bottle when it did. Ben's movement became more animated, and he stood up to his feet and started stomping while Debra hunched against a corner. They all saw the wounded

insect roll from the corner, and then, as if it were never there at all, disappeared down the drain.

From all fours, Debra pounced and plugged the drain with the stopper. Get bleach, poured bleach down the drain, we have to make sure it's dead, and we can't have that thing alive in this house! Debra was putting her weight on the stopper, as if she was bracing for a returning onslaught. Casey has the least active of the three, felt like her orders were directed toward him. That sounds like a terrible idea, and for all he knew could destroy the drains,

but, ashamed of his inaction, didn't want to compound things by refusing to do as she asked.

and share it a telling look with Casey." Then, as if reconsidering said, "Maybe we should just

“get out of here. The drain and the water is going to push it out of here." "Yeah, let's get out of here."”

Casey agreed. "Let's get you dressed and out of here." And was finally able to conceal her

nakedness with a towel. There was something pointless about covering her, he felt without thought. Every permutation of her nakedness, every available glance and every available position had already been offered on display. He rubbed her dry, and in being the only one privy to touching her, felt a re-established connection. Ben walked out of the room. "Do you want to go to the hospital?" Casey whispered in her ear. She nodded plaintively, and he sighed internally, not expecting her to exceed.

"Are there any marks on your body?" Casey asked. But then thought better of pressing the point, and instead figured the best approach would be to let her have her peace of mind. It would be a

“long night emergency rooms and everything. Why had he said hospital and not urgent care? Maybe”

one of those urgent care walking clinics would be fine?" As she dried and dressed, Casey told Ben, who was now sitting on the couch in silence, that the two of them would be going to a hospital. Casey thanked him, and Ben said, "Of course, of course." And then Deborah, as they were leaving,

turned to thank Ben also. Her thanks seemed at first perfunctory. Maybe she was still dazed

from the bizarre enormity of what had happened. But, as if catching herself not giving credit where credit was due, hugged him and repeated the thanks, voice redlanded with an unusual emotional salemnity. Ben didn't really hug her back, only on ironic padding, and both he and Casey gave each other knowing, undercutting smiles, as if both in on the same sub-surface choke. Waiting for the elevator with Deborah, saying nothing of substance. Casey realized his

throat felt very sore, and he ached for this pointless lengthy visit to the ER to be over and done with. His only job now was to be supportive, he knew. There was an unagnolaged distance between them, and every overly attentive act felt like a tiny atonement, for what he wasn't exactly sure. Ben went to his bedroom, thought about what to do for dinner. He had a nervous impatient energy, he couldn't wait to go to sleep, sheets over his face, to have leisurely time

undisturbed with his own thoughts. Chapter six, a night together, alone.

“Suffice to say, everything at the ER checked out. No one was surprised. What did she expected?”

That scary story to tell in the dark come true, a cheek full of spider eggs? That night in bed, Casey held Deborah in his arms. He had the impression she didn't want to be hugged and was making a show of her begrudging acceptance. He felt both hostile and constrained. He thought of a circus bear on a rampage, with an explanatory, rationalizing flashback showing the bear suffering the indignity of being forced to ride around in a little car wearing a face.

Stupid, that was too cute an image for what he was feeling.

He kissed the back of her head and said he was sorry, and the first few times she didn't

acknowledge it, only padded his hand, until eventually she asswaged him with how he had nothing to be sorry for. It was okay. And he was sorry. But in the higher regions of his brain, he knew it was a kind of shame without culpability, operating more on the logic of where remorse was present, guilt must be found. Just as one can be confident that where there was a tree that buried down in the soil there must have once been a seed. Who could really be prepared for

such a crazy situation like that, though? He'd stomped roaches and swatted bees out of the air and thrown out mice found in traps, the expected masculine responsibilities. How could he ever expect to know how to handle a rampaging nightmare bug that really did seem to manifest as impossible as it sounds, a singular interest in biting Deborah. And if we were being truthful, wasn't she sort of overblowing things, making it all seem more significant than it was? It was her conflation

of un admittedly big, weird bug to some kind of masked intruder that exacerbated his amasculation and incompetence, like the embellishments on a rumor that ruins one's reputation.

uneasy aftermath of a fight. A strange pawl was cast, a distorting slime that worked in several

“insidious ways. It hid from view the irreverent understanding Deborah he so loved, replaced her with”

this grave stranger who seemed to be processing some kind of loss. Worse, it seemed to negate all the

considerate acts he'd always undertaken on Deborah's behalf, like he'd, in the blink of an

eye, or the mist-timed turn of his head, worked up some relationship debt that must be repaid. Don't be insecure and stupid, trying to think of it from her perspective. What was she thinking, actually? It would be idiotic to voice his concerns now, but don't overdo it, stop apologizing. If you apologize, she'll assume you did something wrong, even if only subconsciously. She wanted to be alone, he could tell, and in a perfect

world he'd sleep on the couch just to give her that alone time. If sleeping on the couch didn't

“connot all the baggage. So he decided the best course of action would be to just hug her and be supportive,”

and whisper some more proactive plans to put her mind at ease. Handle the process of fixing the door,

get an exterminator, pronto, and shore up some masculine credibility by, for fucking sure, sending that exterminator bills straight to the fucking management company. Also, be a good idea to pour bleach down the drain and come to think of it. He should do it now before they forgot, offering, while knowing, of course, she'll say just to stay in bed and do it tomorrow, which she did, but, again, kind of reluctantly.

He felt he should have pressed on and insisted, or just gone and done it, and there was another minor loss in his staying in bed. She still felt so distant. His concern for Deborah, his concern for their relationship and his self-pity and amasculation were all syncing lead-in feelings, the type that leave you immobilized. There was another equally unpleasant put all together different feelings stirring inside of him, one of fiery, acidic injustice, the recognition that something

had been taken from him, and no one would do anything about it, except himself. Chapter 7. No time like the present.

Things didn't get any better the following day. First thing in the morning,

Casey poured bleach down the drain, and then set the stopper firmly to make sure nothing could squeeze through. He knew pouring bleach would do nothing, and he also knew that the insect could come back up the pipes and get around that stopper if it really somehow had a desire to, if that were possible. If they were truly living in a world where insects had conscious long-term goals, he searched online and found an exterminator who could come that night. The exterminator's

price was a huge rip-off, and he'd be embarrassed to submit that to the management company for reimbursement. He hoped Debra wouldn't be madder at the expense than anything else. Casey sent Debra texts that work detailing the arrangements and what he'd done, waiting for her affirmations and sifting through the meaning in each response or choice of a moticon. Gone were the exclamations and exaggerations of her oft animated texts.

Was it Kurt? Yeah, dismissive? Wasn? Okay. A signal that these texts were annoying,

“that she wanted the conversation to end. I think we should move out immediately. Debra told”

him in their bedroom later that day after they both returned from work. His heart exploded in his chest until he realized she'd said, "We, not I." Okay. I spent like half my day at work looking up real estate listings. I'm putting together a list of good ones to send you. Okay, great. Yes. Usually, she loved considering real estate. Debra squeezed his hand and smiled slightly. It was like the blinking a machine does to let you know it's still on.

That's a good step. It's good. A great start. We'll get on this and have a new place all to ourselves before you know it. As she'd recently adopted the solid role he usually inhabited, he took on the chipper, we can do it positivity, she often provided. I hope they're persisted a constricting sobriety that he couldn't quite identify as if he needed to carefully pre-select his words. He was stepping into dangerous ground, he knew. But as momentous a decision is breaking a lease

deserved some airing out. The best he could muster was. Is everything all right? I just feel,

and embarrassed and when he went in to console her, he could tell by the pinched look on her face

“that there were obviously additional feelings, hard to process, of a different,”

more troubling cast. And it's just so, I feel just so weird and ashamed and I know it was my fault for overreacting. This cued the easiest good boyfriend line, you weren't overreacting. She nodded an acknowledgement of the expected proper response, hasty to continue. And now everything just feels so weird, you know? Enter pressing eyes filled in the details. Yes, Casey knew. Frustrated, fatigued and trapped and

consciousness all throughout the overheated night of the incident. He'd enraged himself with his helpless thoughts about Ben. But the demands and seeming normality of the following day had

cooled his temperature. He just avoided thinking about it, a strategy that usually never worked,

but strangely, was finding some success here. Maybe moving out would be the best idea.

“Not see Ben, not be reminded of it. A portion of him found her exposed nudity exciting,”

as he'd always wanted confirmation from another on the appeal of her proportions, which he always thought were deserved by her choice of clothing. In his overheated tossing and turning, his heart would skip a beat, and he enjoyed a troublesome erection whenever he replayed certain portions of this whole shitshell. That was a developing avenue of his mind best left decommissioned with a prompt moving out. He'd not really even talked to Ben all day,

except texting him that an exterminator would be coming by later. While speaking with Debra, he'd heard the front door open and wondered if Debra heard too. Must not have, because when Casey said he'd go speak to Ben and let him know the plan, Debra shook her head as if she now just realized that the expected completion of an unpleasant task just got dramatically expedited. She even put her hand to her forehead, a move that seemed inherently comic.

The atmosphere in their bedroom was suffocating and Casey needed to get out. Debra and passively moved to her computer to joylessly watch YouTube videos and reread the same websites. No, she didn't want anything from the kitchen as she'd eaten a late lunch at work. Casey knew that, but preferred the pretext of going to the kitchen, and oh, look who's home, it's Ben, two birds one stone. He wondered if Debra showered today or used the bathroom this morning.

She must have brushed her teeth and washed her face at least. With that now be a whole thing, which she need to be accompanied to the bathroom every time she went, Casey standing guard outside with a flashlight every time she had to take a late night dump. The showering part wouldn't be so bad. Need company? He could ask, although joint showering actually kind of sucked,

one party always cold and waiting for the water, can't really properly clean your asshole and

genitals with someone else there, and some of those contortions like bending down to clean your feet or never a good look on anyone. He couldn't picture her wanting a joint shower these days anyway, not the time to ask that anyway. He was fucked even in his fantasies. Chapter 8. That bugs never coming back. Hey Ben. Casey greeted him after knocking his way into Ben's bedroom.

So, Casey. Ben turned away from his computer and stood up, but languidly leaning and resting against the desk. Casey sensed an unexpressed smirk, which seemed to lift off Ben's face and dispersed throughout the atmosphere. Just get home? Yeah. Hate wings at Fox holds with some guys from work. exterminator come yet? Cool, cool, cool. Why? No, sometime later tonight. You know that whole sometime between six and ten bullshit. You don't have to worry about that

“if you plan on going back out or something. We'll be here. Did no exterminators work so late?”

Well, you know, for the right price, I guess. Got you by the balls. Right? Surely he meant the exterminator. So, Ben, I feel like I should, you know, just let you know that the whole situation in the bathroom really freaked Deborah out. So, she wants us, meaning me and her to find a new place as soon as possible. You know, we've been thinking to get in a place of our own for some time, you know, next steps and all. Casey wasn't sure, but he expected. Maybe an impassioned,

what? Or it's equivalent, dude. Instead, after a beat, and leave me here with the bugs, I guess.

the comment caught flared hot until forced to come out. You should leave too, maybe. Not the worst

idea. So you're just going to bail on the lease. Why not just wait until the lease is up in a few months rather than breaking it, and it's just a bug, dude. Apartments get bugs. That was no ordinary bug, man. Come on. And anyway, you know, Deborah's pretty positive about getting out of here. So, you know, can't really, decisions been made done. Yeah, man. You know how it is. I guess I understand. I mean, maybe I don't. How definite is this? Maybe give it a week or so,

and when she realizes that bug was stomped and flushed down the drain, I mean, I killed that bug straight disrespectful warrior style. I don't think it was dead, dude. Maybe not, but it definitely

learned a lesson. It'll tell all its freakish bug friends not to come back. Oh, don't get me wrong.

I'm sure it had to go to the bug. ER get a bunch of stitches and a walker. A bug walker for all 1000 legs. Bitch will have a limp for the rest of its life, better learn to roll up in a ball. Imagine going from a sentipede thing to a pill bug, I took that bug's manhood. That's a mask relating. His wife is going to leave him for sure. Kids won't want to talk to him.

“Hall 10,000 of him. I'm sure. Speaking of hospitals, Deborah is all right, right?”

Yeah, she's all good. Cool. Ben rubbed his nose and fidgeted, not a shrug exactly, but serving the identical purpose. Well, I guess that's it then. Yeah, Casey nodded, continued speaking, both to fill space and, as if he owed an explanation, even though he knew he didn't. Deborah just feels off-freaked out about the whole thing. About what exactly? The bug? The whole thing. What do you mean? It's just a bug.

You know, man. Okay. How do you feel about it? It didn't matter how he felt, is that what Ben wanted him to say? Because in a relationship, when one party's zeal greatly exceeded the others in difference, you did with the more passionate party wanted, because that's what you do to keep aqua points. They were planning on moving out anyway, so if anything, this just put a good fire under their asses to do it. It accelerated plans. It didn't transform

them. So whatever righteousness Ben was aspiring to convey was contrived at birth. And do you know what? Fuck him. He knew what the whole thing meant. Truthfully, I'm not super crazy about how the whole thing went down either. Okay. Well, sorry, man. I was only trying to help, you know. I was just following your lead. Okay, man. Well, fine. Still, it's... and he was going to say it wasn't a big deal,

because this was his good friend, and his indignation had a showy brittle hollowness, like he was performing more out of duty than genuine emotion. Although Ben's obstinence was renewing some of the flavor to last night's overheated anger. That's smart-iness. That was

“it. That... he thinks he's gotten something over on me. That's what it is. That's the fucking”

unexpressed smirk. He doesn't even need to smirk. It's like a perpetual victory he can return to. Memories. Fuck, that's what it is, isn't it? Memories of my girlfriend in his mind completely naked and bouncing and completely shaved. He now knows Deborah. My girlfriend has a completely shaved pussy. Maybe even saw the two beauty marks a few inches above her left nipple, separated in such a way that they looked like little shadow imitations of the nipple piercing

she had in college. Maybe he saw that her vaginal lips were a bit larger than average, contented knowing that he had to go to cruelty to unleash at the appropriate time. Well, no, Ben wasn't really like that. But who knew what Ben shared with his friends at work? Now, anytime Casey or Deborah met any of his friends, who knew what they'd be thinking,

“chuckling at. What they being, sizing her up, trying to fill in the details of Ben's narrative?”

I mean, you didn't need to grab her like that, and the words sprouted spikes in his throat. What? Are you crazy? I was protecting her. She didn't need protection, man. Well, you were free to do it if you didn't have your thumb up your ass the whole time. Dude, there's a fucking bug jumping around at her. I got her out of the way because you sure

shit weren't doing it. Oh, I thought a second ago it was just a harmless bug or something.

Now, it's a supervillain bug, so you had to grab Deborah's tits in order to save her, right? I didn't grab her tits, man. Can you listen to yourself? Do you think I do that? You were there!

indulging in his girlfriend's body, so he passively conceded the point and felt the following

was a fair middle ground of their respective physicians. He took some liberties, though. He regretted how it came out, something about the arch language added layer of opportunistic calculation. Liberties, what? I got her out of the way and she was naked. That's all. You're making it sound like I'm at fault here. Where's this coming from anyway? Is this coming from her? If so, let her come and talk to me if she has something to say. Casey shook his head and instinctively

rolled his eyes, less that the merits of Ben's suggestion and more is to what a clusterfuck that would be.

“No, no, no, can't have that. Honestly, do you really absolutely care that much? It's a body,”

calm down. Tell you what, I'll show her my cock if she wants. I'll show you and her my bear ass and cock and balls and I'll go out in the kitchen and dance on the counters for you. You can both look up to the unflattering underside of my hairy ass and low hanging balls and spit water up at me. Casey looked skeptically. Oh, so you're saying we should reward you then. You'd like that too much. You've sick fuck having water sprayed up your asshole. That's probably like

at least top five in your fetish list. They were both half smiling back in the unforced habit of their beloved Bikari antics. Look, honestly, man, do you really even care? Like, you know, sure it's a bit embarrassing and awkward, but honestly, it's not a big deal. We're all friends. I mean, it's not the first time I've seen you're not wearing much. Not the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“Dude calm down. I meant, remember that picture you sent me. What? In college, remember when you”

started dating, she was like wearing only a bikini bottom and hand-browing yourself on a beach

somewhere. Dude, what? What? Was that like when we first started hooking up like fucking a million

years ago? I sent you that? Anyway, this is obviously a million times different and I shouldn't have sent you that anyway. Wait, I think I'd originally just taken that from a Facebook page anyway. No, that was never on there. How do you know? What? Did you study your Facebook page? At this, Ben rolled his eyes, but tellingly turned away for a brief moment to adjust his computer. What? He didn't want the screen to go black all of a sudden? Yeah, right, more likely Casey had struck a nerve. You still have that picture, Ben? I don't know, man, doubt it.

You have pictures of her saved on your computer or in your emails or something? You seem to know where social media pictures pretty well. I'll get fucked, dude. Show me your computer, dude. Show me you don't have that one or any other ones of her saved. Debra had erased all swimwear pictures or anything else that could be perceived as debauchter just unprofessional around junior year after she started applying for internships.

Oh, what are you fucking McGruff the crime dog? Casey fucking bikini photos never. What are you going to do? Search all my emails and pictures?

“You still have them, don't you? I bet you have all those pictures of her from back in the day. How else would you even remember that one?”

Why don't you remember that? Oh, don't fucking reverse it. A crazed orchestra at different pitches. Now really, no guy ever deletes, fucking squirrel the way like some fucking squirrel. Oh, you're a lunatic man. It's official. A heavy knocking. It was coming from the door of the apartment. The sound muted by the time it reached through into Ben's room. Casey heard movement and went out to see Debra, timid and uncertain, looking at him hesitantly. Chapter 9. Don't worry, he's a professional exterminator. I think the exterminators here. Debra said,

she had been watching Casey as he came out of Ben's room and been peering in. There'd been some eye contact between her and Ben. He hoped Ben didn't give any kind of fucking smart-allicky look or worse offer some little aside, last thing he fucking needed. Okay, I got it. As Casey went to the door, Ben followed, casually smiling as if expecting a delivery. Unseen by either of the two boys, upon Ben's emergence, Debra's blanched expression wilted even further. She took a step forward,

as if to get away, then stopped, turned, and drifted toward her bedroom door without going inside. Casey didn't know whether to continue to the door or see how Debra was doing, so he unsuccessfully attempted both, took a step forward with a detour to whisper, "Everything okay? I'm fine.

Funny, by providing her something familiar, Casey thought, I was able to renew her.

“I should get boyfriend points for both trying to help and inadvertently doing so.”

Just please don't let Ben do or say anything stupid. On a superficial level, Ben wasn't doing anything too complain about, but his mere good mood was a provocation. Casey be lined to the door, not sure if Ben was in route, but wanting to beat him anyway. The exterminator, a scraggly, good-natured man in his early thirties, naturally bulky, and made even bulky or carrying his rucksack of traps and ointments, confirmed he was in the right place and came in.

You know there's a bunch of police outside your apartment building? That was the only

pertinent information he really offered, and not exactly the kind of information that would

help to restore balance to the apartment. The initial courteousness brought by having to be civil around an outsider quickly evaporated, and the momentum of concern shifted. Now, Casey wanting

“nothing more than to accelerate the exterminator's departure to find out what was going on elsewhere in”

the building. Ben didn't share those concerns, not Ben, of course. Oh, he asked all about what the bug could have possibly been. Casey could sense Deborah leaning in, straining to hear without stepping into the conversation. When the exterminator, exterminator bills seemed an appropriate name. Seemed stumped and pressed for further details,

Ben turned to Deborah, as if drawing her out into a normal conversation would extend normal

seam on all parties. Deborah spoke meekly, but then re-gathered herself, describing the size, speed, and color of the insect, the way it jumped around the shower and seemed to be deliberately targeting her. It didn't help much when exterminator bill gafaud at the state of the door. No bug could be worth all that. A void I contact with Deborah, a void I contact with Deborah,

“Casey commanded himself. The shower was how the exterminator reacted to all the information provided.”

Beats him sounds like some kind of flying cockroach maybe, but certainly wouldn't have that many legs or be that big. exterminator bill deposited his ointments and traps and all the expected spots, sealed some corners and cracks in the bathroom and kitchen. Can you spray anything like bug spray? Deborah asked when he was done. Can't use the spray anymore, it's not good for pets. We don't have any pets. Sorry, we just aren't allowed to use that anymore.

Deborah, unconcerned even about a hypothetical animal possibly coming into the apartment, or a neighbor's pet, meant none of this pantomime solved was worth a damn. Ben walked the exterminator out. Deborah, Ben said when the three of them were alone. Casey could see immediately that whatever gloating fun Ben enjoyed with the exterminator had been only a Casey's expense. Upon addressing Deborah, Ben's demeanor softened considerably.

Is there, can we talk about, I don't want any bad blood between us. Deborah's expression was hard to read. She seemed leavened with an obvious desire to avoid the conversation, but also a counter-veiling wish to get it done, as if she knew the responsible thing would be to address whatever it was the compelled her so strongly to leave. Casey held his breath and wanted Deborah's sour feelings directed exclusively at Ben, for them to have a united front in their distaste,

to elevate himself and her eyes through commiseration. But her feelings he realized were more complicated than that, and perhaps too complicated to be expressed, competing forces that resulted in inertia. Casey could guess what those feelings entailed. The topmost feeling might be an appreciation for what Ben had done. Maybe this was the type of appreciation that would leave a permanent impression on her. Ben now being permanently associated with a type of appealing competence that

made her uneasy, and somehow feel a great diminishing of herself, like she became less than herself whenever she was in his presence. And this pained her for multiple reasons, and Casey too, because he felt the worst about his friend. He still felt Ben had taken a kind of advantage of the situation, but his reasons for believing so were weathering away the farther removed he became from the incident, under the natural good graces of their friendship, his expedient desire

for forgiveness and reconciliation, and his creeping suspicion that his reactions were colored more out of frustration and shame than accurate recall. There's no, we're just going to move out as on. I don't feel safe here anymore. Because of me, I don't feel comfortable at all for several

Ben nodded, tight jawed, clever girl. The requests to allow her to process the use of that

“therapeutic language currently in Vogue allowed her to shut the conversation down and make Ben”

look like an asshole if you wanted to press forward. Casey would congratulate her on that later. Debra returned to her room, giving them both sorrowful glances. Ben, jaw still tight, turned to Casey until to his head back as if staring down a hostile stranger on the street. Why exactly Casey didn't know or cared to know right now? What Ben be pissy? Casey was out of here. I'm going to check the mail and see what's going on outside. So, Casey left.

Chapter 10. A most reliable source. With the junk mail thrown away and no police vehicles outside, Casey went to superintendent Vickrim's apartment on the fourth floor.

“Vickrim answered, "Door opened enough only to reveal the sliver of his body,”

as the family have an ease stampeded toward the door." Vickrim said foreign words back to his wife, who, Casey sensed, was now backing away from the door with

the animal. Someone was found passed away on the third floor earlier today, Vickrim explained,

and police came by to pick up the body and look around. The natural follow-up questions, who, which apartment, and the big one, which Casey couched in a strange way as a foul play might reflect badly on Vickrim, as if he wasn't only the superintendent but the sheriff of the building. What she murdered. Casey didn't know whether it was because he and Debra were generous holiday tippers, or Vickrim looked back fondly on that one-time Casey nodded along uncomfortably,

when Vickrim shared some rather politically incorrect views about Pakistanis and the trouble they caused back home. All while Casey thought, "Okay, okay, whatever, just nod as he installs the air conditioners, or just that Vickrim wanted to close the door and get back to dinner, but whatever the reason he spilled the beans. Not a murder, but a big mess. The woman, a name Casey couldn't connect to a face or body, must have been deceased unfortunately for quite

“some time. That's why it's important to have a wife and family, Vickrim Crawford. That was the”

other thing about Vickrim, always asking when Casey was going to get married start a family.

So, he spilled the gruesome beans so readily and perhaps too eagerly as a kind of teaching tool. She died alone, must have been there for a long time, and was found practically in pieces. Perhaps realizing he'd divulged too much, Vickrim then added as a chaser. Very sad, very sad she was a nice woman, swatted away at an invisible dog, as the avenues was now nowhere near the door instead begging at the dinner table, said his good

buys and closed the door. What to do with this information? What to do? Certainly they didn't need a death in the building, that wouldn't set things at ease, but maybe let's think. Perhaps telling Debra and Ben could put everything in perspective. Let's forgive and forget and be grateful we have our lives. My waist are precious time, we all love each other, all dear friends. Yes, that could work. And realistically they will find out eventually, but the issue was,

when should I wait to tell them? Better to let everything return to some kind of equilibrium first before introducing this news, and telling Debra about a death will shoot their plan to leave the apartment into overdrive. He didn't want to leave, he realized, at least not yet, leaving would confirm his worst feelings about Ben, and maybe the worst feelings about himself, and was more about caving in than thinking through. He wasn't sure why, but he felt unsettled and leaving

now felt like losing. Who was he kidding? He knew he would tell her what he had learned,

he had always been honest, and the risks of deception outweighed the rewards, since he was already

in the doghouse. Okay, well, if not in than at least adjacent to, it was best to play it straight. He believed that Ben still had those old pictures of Debra saved somewhere in his email or on some computer. It didn't affect him really, but he felt like he should be upset, like there was some kind of, well, not betrayal, but something untwored about it. Let's go with that. And those were the thoughts he was thinking when he came back to the apartment and started telling Ben

planned. It went, "Ari, suffice to say. Not terribly so, but it wasn't a bonding experience.

“Maybe Ben shouldn't have teased saying, I bet it was a bug who did it."”

Casey ended it like this, which he regretted instantly before the words were even out of his mouth. Just tell me the truth. He asked in a low voice, "Enough not to be heard by Debra in their bedroom. You still have those pictures of her." Ben just shook his head. "Fuck you, dude." It wasn't hostile, but, reproachful, like Casey should be the one apologizing. Hadn't Ben essentially admitted he had them? And again, Casey didn't care. He should have asked

it lightly, like a parting buddy shot, a good-natured ribbing. But he didn't.

Anger, again, suspicions about Ben getting away with something flared up, but almost out of obligation. He didn't feel it, and he regretted how it ended. When he left, he heard Ben locking the bedroom door.

“Things didn't go much better in his own bedroom.”

It was obvious Debra was displeased. She looked burdened just by his presence. After extended periods of awkward isolating silence, it was obvious she'd also gotten ready for bed without him. She stated, almost without feeling. I heard you and Ben talking before, by the way, earlier tonight, before the exterminator came. "Okay." He wasn't sure what he'd said, but, certainly, she wasn't bringing it up to compliment how he handled things. Should he preemptively

apologize or wait to hear the specific grievances? It's fine. She stated blankly. "I don't want to make you feel bad. I just feel so uncomfortable about everything." The subject was depleted. Talking about this, at least now, wasn't going to do anybody any good. "Thank God that old woman had died," he thought mccobly. Because now he had a way to pivot from underwear this dour conversation was going. He instinctively stored that joke away to relate to Ben later.

It would take his sense memory, time to adjust to the new reality of their strained relationship. Maybe once everything was back to normal. Turning his head and pretextually fiddling away with some other thing, Casey casually explained the presence of the police officers. When Casey turned, Deborah was staring at him, "Why died?" "Mr. Romain, right above us, I just saw her like two days ago." That couldn't be easily reconciled with Vikram's account. He'd said she must have been laying

there for a long time to make such a mess. He didn't know exactly what that meant. He imagined a dody, fleshy old woman dead on her back, wearing a simple dark colored sweater in pajamas. Then imagined repeated time jumps into the future, revealing an increasingly disillude, congealing decomposition, a gradually expanding thickening puddle of sludgy matter where those flesh colors and dark clothing colors spilled into and threw each other. He approached Deborah,

she sat at her computer desk as if to console her. His proximity snapped her out of the calm of her morning. I helped again, he joked to himself. Casey did his filly old duty by truthfully telling her about the recent death, even though his better judgment rebelled against the admission. That duty didn't go so far as to report the unverified speculation of their Pakistani hating superintendent who took a sweet time responding to repairs. Maybe Vikram was just exaggerating,

or who knows, maybe in two days an old woman could decompose. He added a rotund gassy belly to his

“sweatshirt and sweatpants speculation. I believe she died of natural causes, I think.”

Deborah nodded gravely. She treated this spontaneous utterance suspiciously and with good reason.

He was obviously trying to delay concerns without dating to first recognize them.

This was brutal. He wanted the old Deborah to return. Their old relationship to return. Where do our real selves go when this, what was this? This fog of bullshit and discord between us? Where was the real Deborah, the real me, and that blessed entity, the real us of love and affection and fun and joking and planning? When things were going sideways, he wished he could just take Deborah by the shoulders and shake her like she was on the fritz, like these bad attitudes

and misgivings were just some personality blip that needed to be reset. That would have to wait,

just lying listlessly. Enough already, he thought, enough. And she said she wanted to be alone,

“but he could read the subtext or at least he thought he could. It had gone from some kind of”

sexualized anger at Ben and disappointment with him to some kind of shame and resentment toward both of them, blended with persistent paranoia about the illusory dangers of some flushed away bug. Yes, yes, the bug was creepy and gross. What bug wasn't, but enough. Enough. He dealt with a lot too. Fuck, he was practically losing his best friend over this. He needed to get inside her head if only she would communicate with him. Could he be missing something? What approach could he take

that would be respectful enough or appear respectful enough to get her back into her good graces to give him the benefit of the doubt? Would just the passage of time be enough, allow her to re-center herself and come to her own realization? The problem with waiting is that all you do is fill your time with worry. Being proactive, even if wrong-headed,

“at least provides the comfort of distraction. Maybe I should sleep on the couch tonight?”

Relations are partly a game of chicken. He made his counter move. Taking things to their logical extreme is a kind of challenge whereby the other party realizes they are courting a precipice and wisely pull back before the brink. She didn't blink. Maybe that's a good idea for tonight. He instantly regretted it. And it dawned upon him how serious this might all be. How could he explain that, of course, he didn't want to sleep on the couch. By even posing the question,

he was trying to get her to console him, reassure him that, of course, he was needed here that he was trying to bring her back into the fold by showing her the ramifications of where they were heading. How could you explain that? You can't, not sensibly, and not now. He scooched over and

“hugged her as she faced away from him and padded and rubbed his arm listlessly. If only to show that”

there still dimmed some spark of connection, he took that little show of affection to heart. I guess it's better if you just really want to be alone tonight. I'll miss you. I'll miss you too. I don't really have to go on the couch. It's just I'm sorry. I just feel so shitty and uncomfortable. I just want to be alone. I'm sorry about Ben and everything that happened. That's not your fault. You can't control nature. You can't control him. You can't control

it was all such a split-second thing. And you know how I, I worry, I just want to get out of this apartment already. I'm sure soon things will be back to normal light. I just have to admit I feel uncomfortable even around you right now and upset and disappointed. Okay. Truthfully, he was wearying of all this and maybe it would be best to leave.

Never so much to unpack there. By, you can't control nature. He hopes she meant that he could not

control the physical world of creepy crawly insects and not control nature, meaning her biological responses to what had happened. A strange repulsive attraction to Ben. No, that couldn't be it. So he kissed her and indulged himself in a long hug and she indulged right back, hugged and kissed him, which he appreciated. And after grabbing underwear, socks and a t-shirt for the next day, he went to the couch. Chapter 11 The world doesn't stop because you had a bug in your apartment.

He hadn't slept on a couch in a while. It wasn't as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. Her maybe the discomfort wasn't sufficient to overcome his mental and emotional exhaustion. Turning the lights out and darkening a bedroom felt like an artificial manipulation. The darkened living room with its concealed tables and chairs and rugs, whose proximities

were never encountered in pitch blackness, made him feel more alone and the darkness more complete.

Talked away into the curve of the couch's armrest reminded him of being a child, when nights seemed to stretch onto infinity. And he'd never wanted them to end because he relished the time to think and reflect, and the new day brought only burdens and obligations. He awoke into the familiar humdrum of his living room, made pedestrian in the daylight. He imagined himself an alcoholic for a moment, isn't this how drugs are portrayed in movies,

even though they're selfishly killing themselves and ruining the lives around them.

“He wasn't a drunk, just someone who'd not reacted fast enough, didn't always know what to say”

or do, and found himself in a predicament he didn't know how best to navigate. That was all really, wasn't it? And now there was some kind of stigma he just couldn't shake. This stupid fucking insect had temporarily exploded his world. He left for work before a Deborah did. He changed in the living room into his undergarments, and was going to wear the same black pants again for work, but he did quite often,

only just making sure no embarrassing telltale stain cropped up which would out him as being a

pants recycler. He needed to go back into the bedroom, though, to change his shirt and come to

think of it, grab his charging cell phone off the desk. He entered as furtively as he could and didn't turn on the light as it was easy enough to see in the morning sunrise. He plucked out of buttoned down and put it on. He watched Deborah sleeping on her side facing the inner wall just as he'd left her, and thought to kiss her on the cheek as she slept. It seemed hack-nade, and he wondered who it was for. Was it so he could tell himself he was a good person, or would he be waiting

for the opportunity to tell her once they patched things up, that he'd kiss her inner sleep, and she'd say how sweet he was and embrace him. And now, it wasn't for that he concluded, and he felt good about himself. As someone aware of the mercantile and kabuki aspects of relationship theater, he so often questioned himself about his motives. But here, he wanted to do it because he loved her and wanted to be close to her. He wanted to hold her and hug her,

as if to reduce them back to their essence, so all the shame and tension and unease riddling their relationship would squeeze out of them and they'd be back to who they were. He saw her turn and shift and didn't want to interrupt her sleep, as it was often troubled and deficient. It

“would serve her better to get her sleep to be better rested for the day, and that's what true love”

was, wasn't it? The ability to silently prioritize someone else as well being over your own. He felt good about himself, hugged and kissed her in his heart, and left. Riding the slightly cresting tide of warm feelings, he placed his hand delicately on the knob of Ben's door, felt resistance, and wasn't surprised. Apparently, this would be a talk for another time. He left work around 5pm, which was early for him, and really early for any young

middle-class professional these days, 630 or 7 was the norm, a fact that was still incredible to him.

All that time they spent at work, no wonder personal issues seemed to drag on and terminably, there was no free time to resolve them. If only they'd all taken off a few days of work, just to lock themselves in a room and air out their grievances. With that time off, he could have done a deep cleaning of the apartment, perhaps convinced Deborah that the apartment was safe, and not sure how this would work, but at least alleviate whatever bad

tidings and tensions existed among them. Back at home, and the apartment looked like he'd left it. He still felt calmly contented with himself, secure that he was trying to do right. He'd looked up some of the real estate listings Deborah had sent him earlier and took some good notes, made a little spreadsheet of people to contact and looked up some places on his own, in the same general locations and price ranges as she had. He hadn't told Deborah that yet,

and thought to texture about it during the day, but had only sent one text during the work day that she hadn't responded to. Thinking of you, he wished he'd said, "I love you because they had a rule that, when one of them says, "I love you," the other, no matter how they are feeling, has to say it back. It's a way of letting the other know that no matter how the other party was feeling at that time, they were secure and each other's love, and it was the spats and disagreements

that were passing. He made himself a glass of water and grabbed two polio mozzarella sticks, not knowing when Deborah would be home, but wanting to eat dinner with her, he chomped the two sticks down while sitting on the couch, thinking that would be enough to tie to mover. He sent Deborah another text, this time just asking when she'd be home tonight, and if they could get dinner together. He tried Ben's door again, and again found it locked. So he texted him too,

just asking, "Any chance you're around tonight?" taking the time to make sure Otto filled

“didn't fuck up the grammar. The proper grammar was important to him. He grabbed an apple too.”

Deborah could work late sometimes. It was rude of her not to get back to him. He had often waited

make it out of work at a reasonable hour, or that she was just going to eat in the office or sometimes

“that she had some other plans he'd forgotten about. Apple in hand, he picked up the crinkled”

cheese stick wrappers from the living room table and opened the kitchen garbage. Tossing them in, he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but, no, he didn't. He was wrong. Subconsciously, he was noticing something, something to give him pause. But what was it? Near the apartment door. It was nothing. It was Ben's shoes, three pairs of work shoes, all by the apartment door.

Ben only owned three proper pairs of shoes and pair of flip-flops and kept one pair of ratty gym shoes at the office. Ben's door was locked. Okay, so that means Ben had to have come home from work,

“taken off whatever work shoes he wore, locked his door, and left to go somewhere,”

in flip-flops, perhaps, across the street to do laundry.

But that didn't make any sense. He never wore flip-flops out of the house.

That's when you knew you were in deep for a good apartment hang, a Ben in flip-flops. Maybe he went to the gym. He could have, let's see, gone to work, then, gone to the gym afterward, where he uses gym shoes, but, but those are additional shoes he doesn't keep here. That doesn't make sense. Still, the three pairs of shoes. Okay, he went to the gym, brought his gym shoes home, left his work shoes,

accounting for all three pairs of shoes, then left somewhere in his gym shoes. That's not crazy, and maybe Ben stressed out too by all this. The gym could do some good. Ben hadn't gone to the gym in a while, though, although I guess that doesn't mean much, Casey thought. Ben wasn't at the gym, was he? Apple and hand, Casey knocked on Ben's door. No answer. Yes, locked. Apple and mouth,

he shot Ben another text. Let's grab a bear if we can. I'm sorry about all this going on. He needed to be careful, he didn't want to say anything that could put him in an uncomfortable position with Deborah. He sat down on the couch. He gripped the apple with his right hand and bit out an unexpectedly big chunk down to the hardened core. Looking at the seeds, he had a thought. How it could be that both Deborah and Vikram had been right.

Just an old, flashy lady on her back, dead. Just a normal dead body to be carted off to the morgue. Then, black insects erupting all at once on every square inch of her body and, as necessary, right through her clothes, each about a foot long, all fastened to her body, all waving and triumphant unison. Their shrill little screeches of triumph all in audible on their own, but united into something resembling the squeak of a substantial red. If you kept your ears peeled

and knew what you were listening for. Now, that was absurd. But it was equally absurd that an insect had been making a deliberate B-line for his girlfriend while she was in the shower.

“At her privates, really. That's what it had been doing.”

B-line. Huh. He never really thought about that word. Did B's really charge in a straight, uninterrupted

line? Why not bird-line? Unless there was something specific about the way B's or insects had been observed on the hunt. No. That was absurd, too. All absurd. He got up and threw out the largely eaten apple. He went to his bedroom. Had looked at the same as when he'd left it. Nothing new, no new sights, no new smells, no unexpected surprises. No new sights. The same, the same, the bed, the clump of sheets, Deborah was still sleeping in bed.

He furrowed his brow and his heart lost its morings. He felt its absence in his chest as it splashed down into his stomach. Replaying this morning, she'd shifted in bed, turned over, troubled sleep. No. He saw it again. He stood near her, and she had moved, shifted in bed, turned over. No. No. The sheets had shifted. Her face had stayed fixed on the inside wall.

hard, that's it. She was still there, facing the wall. She must be sick, must be sick in state

“home today. Legs still must be hard, shifting, that must be it. Whole body, too hard. She must be”

sick. Legs, body, neck, her blanket, the surface above an invisible ocean. All shifting, under the sheets. You've been listening to nothing goes wrong from the couch, by J. R. Hammontoshan. J. R. Hammontoshan is a writer of short stories, having released several collections, including a deep horror that was very nearly awed. With a voice that is often still confused,

but is becoming ever louder and clearer, and you shall never know security. You can find collections

of his work at Velix Books, www.vl-o-x-b-o-ok-s.com.

“I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I love J. R. Hammontoshan. He manages”

to get his fingers into the quietest, dirtiest parts of the everyday psyche, and shine a bright light on them, usually with some killer monsters to boot. Also, here's a random semi-related fact for you. Luigi's Death Stair, the Mario Kart meme, a good friend and bandmate of mine,

Megabirdo, was the first person to toss that video online and coined the term back in the

distant past of 2014. What a small, weird world we live in. Thanks to J. R. Hammontoshan for one hell of a story tonight, and thanks to all of you lovely listeners for joining me. Next week,

“we have a story from Ian Dean about a young man in Las Vegas that stumbles upon a rather”

unexpected talent. See you then, listeners, and until that time, stay spooky. You've been listening to the horror Hill podcast of reduction 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. If you enjoyed tonight's episode, why not help us spread our dark presence online? You can follow Chilling Tales for Dark Nights on social media, and upvote, subscribe, and hit the bell notification icon if you're listening to this on YouTube. It helps us out a lot, and also keeps you up to date on new episodes.

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get started. If you're looking for someone to narrate or handle audio production for your own personal project, I just so happened to know a guy. Email me at Eric Peabody [email protected]. That's ERIK, [email protected], and we can talk details. 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 you.

[Music]