424. The Gilmarsh Ghost Tour

Radio Silenced Directors Matt Bettenelli open and Tyler Gillette are back for round two with

“their new horror comedy film, "Ready or Not Two."”

Here I come. Samara Weaving returns as Grace, the Battle Warren and Bulletty Bride, and is joined by Stars, Catherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Sean Hadesy, Nestor Carbano, David Kronenberg, and Elijah Wood after Grace Mary's into a mysterious family and is forced to play a life or death theme of hide and seek.

She emerges victorious, but what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole new twisted battle.

“This time with her estranged sister faith at her side, the duo faces a shadowy group of”

rival devil worshiping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the Satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion don't miss the full tilt insanity, ready or not to, here I come, when it hits theaters March 20th.

Hello and welcome to Scare You to Sleep. I'm your host Shelby Novak and I'm here to read you, a bedtime story.

“Before we begin, I wanted to let you know that there is currently a new ramble you to sleep”

available on Patreon, and that also came out today, so if you're a fan of the rambles at the end of the show, then you can find a whole episode of my nonsense over on Patreon.com/ScareYouToSleep. This week's tale comes to us from Caroline Giri, who I would consider a beloved author of this show.

Caroline's work never fails to delight me and tonight's story is no exception, please enjoy

the Gilmarsh Ghost to her. Everyone that loses a loved one in the Sleepy Town of Gilmarsh comes to me for the funeral flowers. I don't shy away from the bleakness of death. I don't create safe options with my floral tributes. Modest, muted, washed out watercolor is not my thing. I prefer to boldly honor death with deep, dramatic, velvety black. My tributes could be described

as macabre by some, maybe as morbid by others, but despite this, the customers love them, and I adore making them. I put my heart into every piece. I'd pour my soul into, if only a had one. Every carefully positioned cowardly, every queen of the night to live, every bat flower, are all positioned precisely. So the overall effect is equally as respectful, as it is, resplendent. Also, with me being a believer in the supernatural, I expect the

deceased love them too. Although death will have rendered them inert, at least for now,

never again, will they trace the velvety softness of a petal, with their fingertips,

or inhale the sweet scent of a fresh bloom. Elizabeth Clark, who owns the florist, busy Lizzie's, where I work, has often commented on how many more funeral bouquets we've been providing since I came under her employment. Although she's never sure whether that's because word gets around, and customers are now coming from further afield or weather. More people have been dying in Gilmars since

I came back to town. I'm in busy Lizzie's alone tonight. It isn't good for me to be alone with my thoughts. Dark is ascending on the cobbled street outside. My own reflection meets my gaze rather than that of unknown strangers, as they walk by. It's cold and dimly

it's dark early. Despite it adding to the already creepy atmosphere, it helps me get in

“the zone. The air tonight smells of lilies and occasionally something else, something”

earthy and organic, not flowers. Something beyond the bloom phase and into the sweet stench of decay. This place is worse at night. I snip methodically at the end of some black tulips stems. Botanically speaking, there is no such thing as a completely black flower. I hold a single tulip to the light. A hint of blackened garnet shines through. I shut

her and place it carefully in the vase. The clock on the wall ticks a steady passing of

time of inevitability. That's and the wet snip of my scissors on the stems. Are they

“only sounds? With each snip, I am conscious that I am cutting into something that once had”

life like a vein or a tendon. I shudder at the unwelcome thought. I take in what I hope will be a calming breath, but the door to the cellar creeks open behind me. I pause, too live in one hand and scissors in the other, candlelight playing on its blades and casting my shadow on the wall. The clock ticks on. I stay staring straight ahead. Barely moving, but I close the open scissors and adjust my grip. Slowly raising my hand, primed and ready

for what is behind me. Persephone. I slump back in my seat as the florist resident black

“cat jumps up beside me on the counter and nosils her soft head into my arm. Perring softly.”

She nearly caved me a heart attack. I rub her ears and she purrs and butts her soft head against my hand. Her tail brushes against my arm as she pads past me to sit down amongst some wrapping paper. Her thick black fur ripples with golden shades of chestnet from the candlelight. Her eyes are knowing luminous orbs. She licks a paw, blissfully unaware of how much she scared me. Elizabeth keeps her here as she thinks there are mice in the cellar. I for

one. Now there is something much worse down there. The bell above the shop door jingles, as it swings open and Ethan walks in. Persephone doesn't raise her head. I smooth my hair for my face and adopt what I hope is a warm, normal face expression. "Hey, you have for tonight?" he asks. He always pops in here on Friday nights on the way home from

this day job. Even though the answer is always yes. I smile and greeting and keep sniffing

at the tulips stems. 7 p.m. sharp. It's going to be busy tonight. I can feel it. He says, giving his fist a little tramp and shake. And as quickly as he entered, he leaves busy Lizzie's closing the door behind him. It's after five, so I go to the door and lock it, carefully turning the sign over to Reed closed. I wish I had Ethan's confidence. We had started the Gilmarsh ghost to our six months ago, having grown up here together. I reached out

to Ethan via Facebook on my return and we met for a drink in the three pigeons, Gilmarsh's oldest pub. I didn't explain why I was back and Ethan didn't ask. We came up with the idea of the Gilmarsh ghost to our after-sharing a bottle of wine. A too strong, but deliciously full-bodied red that had us reminiscing on our childhood hopes and dreams. Ethan had wanted to be an actor growing up. The star of all our high school plays, but despite a couple of minor roles he ended up

working in a bank. I told him I thought he'd done well for himself, better than most, better than me,

I just needed some extra money to make ends meet. And I intended to spend as much time out of the

“limelight as possible. Things had started well and the people of sleepy Gilmarsh and some of the”

surrounding villages had been excited about this new form of entertainment and we had a healthy group of attendees each Friday night. The town of Gilmarsh has a rich history. It's hard to believe that over a thousand years ago, people walked these same streets. Just like today, they lived, breathed, worked, raised families, and died here. Even though Ethan may have embellished some of the tales he told on the tour, the cobbled streets and narrow alleyways made it easy to believe

that secrets were lying beneath the surface. I knew only too well that they were. Busy Lizzy's itself was supposed to be haunted. Local lore told the legend of a young girl who

“spear it dwelled in the cellar. She was said to be heard calling out mournfully, and as is often”

the case with ghost stories, was said to be dressed in Victorian clothing, spending eternity going up and down those cellar steps in her apron and petty coats. I used to tell the ghost tour audiences about the disembodied voices that entered my head as I descended the stone stairs to the cellar. That I heard whispering in my ear telling me to do bad things, and that now I was hearing the voices everywhere I went, not just when I was in the cellar. I told them how whatever whispered

to me was ever present, and I looked each and every one of them in the eye. Some people shifted uncomfortably, as I told them my woes, while some giggled anxiously. Ethan lapped it up,

“giving me a conspiratorial wink. Each time I told the audience about the darkness that was down there,”

the darkness that had found its way in me, if only he knew. Ironically, Ethan doesn't believe in ghosts. I want him to believe. I want him to believe in me. I want the Gilmarsh ghost tour to be a success again. He thinks I'm acting. The audience does too. Ethan was the main reason. I had come back to Gilmarsh. I had been in love with him since high school, although nothing had come of us. People would roll their eyes when they saw that. I had done his homework again, and he would blush and

butter and not really talk to me when there are other people around, but I never took it to heart.

He probably didn't want his friends knowing that he struggled with English, art, and history. I often thought about him, and was delighted and a little surprised when he agreed to meet me in the pub after all those years away. We'd never seen each other outside of school, and even though I knew I was on bar out time, it would be nice to believe, just for once, just for a while. No one else from our school days seemed to be around. Ethan didn't seem to see anyone from back then.

He didn't seem to have many friends these days from what I could gather. Finally, something in common.

Early on in our Ghosts tour days, a couple of faces I've recognized from school could be seeing hanging around our tour, lurking at the back of the crowd, laughing at us. And I felt my cheeks flamed, my awkwardness of youth returning. I fixed a stare on them, suffering the worst second-hand embarrassment for Ethan, as well as myself. But he seemed unaware that they weren't here to be nice. He just thought they were trying to

get away without paying because he knew them. Although I did notice a red flush rise across his cheeks whenever I brought up. As the weeks passed by, I could feel us growing closer. Friday nights for the only nights I got to see him, of course. He was very busy with work in the weekend. As our audience numbers began to dwindle and as summer turned to autumn, I began to worry if the Gil Marsh Ghost tour came to an end. I wouldn't see him as much or

My mobile phone buzzes loudly against the wood of the counter, making Persephone's tail twitch

“and irritation. An Instagram notification. My heart sinks immediately. I haven't told Ethan”

about the messages I've been getting on the Gil Marsh Ghost tour Instagram page. They've all been an on-mess, of course, usually from a username that has no followers and is only following

us, always something with an air of menace such as user 666, one user watching you and so on.

They heckled the Gil Marsh Ghost tour pages saying how cringe and embarrassing me and Ethan were. They mocked the Victorian get-up by war each week. At Ethan's request saying I was the creepiest part of the tour and they mocked Ethan's failed acting career and too tight shirt. I couldn't bear for Ethan to read the comments so I did a pretty good job of deleting them before he could see them. The culprit would then slide into my messages and tell me how ugly and useless I was and that Ethan

was using me. The trolling happened as soon as the rival Ghost tour arrived in Gil Marsh last month. This new Ghost tour had a different angle. It was called sip and scare and for an over-priced ticket they took their audience from pub to pub, drinking goolishly named cocktails and hearing

“about the local legends, passing key places of interest on route to the next pub. They had paid”

actors and steuges providing jump scares that made for amazing social media content and everyone

was raving about it. At one pub they did a Ouija board and another they had a terror reading. Everyone loved it. No one was interested in our Gil Marsh Ghost tour anymore and I'm sure the fabulous Katherine and Alan the husband and wife duo who ran sip and scare were behind the trolling and the messages. They didn't have bothered. The Gil Marsh Ghost tour was declining in popularity to the point that I wondered if I could go on much longer. I can't let our little ghost tour fail.

So tonight I have decided to pull out all the stops and get people back to see the Gil Marsh Ghost tour. Get everyone talking about it and I know exactly how to do it. I shall invite them into busy Lizzie's as part of the Ghost tour. The previous audience members we've had have shown a real interest in my tales of the haunted seller and what lies under the cobbles here in Gil Marsh. Of course I haven't asked Elizabeth's permission

she wouldn't have said yes but when I raised the idea to Ethan his eyes had lid up and I simply could not bear to disappoint him. I basked in the glow of his excitement. I'll make the place look amazing. I had said leaning forward and looking into Ethan's big brown eyes. I wasn't sure if I imagined it but I felt he backed away from me somewhat and broke eye contact with me.

People have always told me I can stand a little bit too close and I know I can be a little

intense. I've been told but I knew this would be amazing. I knew I would create a night no one could forget. So in the quiet shop floor and was only the candle light. I draw the blinds and set about clearing my workspace and preparing for the night's activities. I know what I need to do. I just don't want to do it. The clock continues to tick on the wall, rhythmic as a heart beat.

“But if the shop floor is the heart of the floorists then what is the basement?”

My costume is down there and also something else. I don't want to go down there. I should be used to it by now. Elizabeth doesn't know this but the seller of busy Lizzy's has become my home. When I first came back to Gilmarish I thought finding a place to live would be easy. It wasn't. I wasn't able to provide the references for letting agents. After the incident that happened when I was away no one could know I was here. I mean

to an end here. Back in Gilmarish where I was born. When I had first arrived back in Gilmarish

“I had stayed in a cheap hotel with the plan being only to stay till I found my feet.”

The sheets were itchy and the decor dated and ugly. Luckily I had been able to find work after a couple of weeks. Elizabeth's previous staff member had disappeared at what was described as inexplicably short notice leaving her somewhat in the lurch and making room for me. People are so unreliable these days. I had said in my interview as Elizabeth told me how she had lost

my predecessor with no notice whatsoever. I thought she loved it here.

Settle Elizabeth, waving her heavily bangled wrists in the air and then she just stopped showing up. I nodded sympathetically. Of course I had given Elizabeth fake references. A florist up north

“that didn't exist. I had claimed it was a small family run company and I had created a generic”

Gmail address and when a reference request dropped in the inbox I responded with my own glowing reference. Although it was fictitious it was also true. I was a good florist and my love of the macabre and the Gothic meant I did make a wonderful floral tribute for a funeral. As was the case with so many of my skills the muse would visit me and something deep and primal in me would take over. However Elizabeth's wage despite my working full-time was not enough to make ends meet.

I couldn't stretch out my meager savings to cover cheap hotel rooms anymore. Ethan didn't pay me anything for my work on the ghost to her either.

“And I didn't like to ask. It wasn't like he was making much. Luckily Elizabeth didn't like to go”

down in the cellar so she was unaware that some of my humble belongings were down there. Well, in fact, my only belongings all stuffed into a small brown tattie suitcase that used to belong to my mother. I missed staying at hotels even if they were basic. The rooms were all uniform and even with the tattie dated decor I took comfort in the fact that I was amongst a hundred sleeping people all in rooms identical to mine and that I wasn't alone.

Like corpses in overcrowded 18th century cemeteries, I liked the anonymity. Although one night around midnight, I returned to my room after a trip to the 24-hour supermarket across the street. I'm somewhat a creature of the night after all. As I swiped my card to enter my room, my neighbor arrived to enter his. Our eyes made brief contact as he entered his room. He smelled of an expensive aftershave,

cigarettes and booze. A businessman, I surmised. Here for work, making use of the expense account at the hotel bar. He smiled at me, which took me completely by surprise. A brush hadn't touched my hair in days and makeup had become a thing of the past. Something I instantly regretted. My mouth dropped open but before I could say anything, his door opened and closed shut again with him behind it. I stood there for a few minutes wondering what I should have said

could have said. I entered my own room, put the chain across the door, wondering if he had done the same.

I mean, you never know who you might be sharing a room next to.

Then I heard his television turn on and I walked instinctively to the wall dividing our rooms. And pressed my ear to it. I heard the ups and downs of different voices as he changed the channels. I pictured him lying in bed, tie loosened, top button, undone, thinkingly settled on the news. I stood there, ear pressed against the wall for hours so I finally got the courage to knock on his door. But tonight, I bring my mind back to the present and start the descent down the

acusingly. I ignore her. I start first with my costume. Although it's not much of a costume,

“all my clothes are black. They fit a lot looser than they used to. I noticed.”

My black tights sag at the ankles. I imagine the rival goes to her laughing at me taunting me. I slip my boots on. They aren't actually part of the fancy dress. They're mine. I love these boots. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking on air in them, but I'm gliding across the floor on their polished pointed tips. I put on the mop cap that Ethan encourages me to wear.

I'd rolled my eyes at him and asked why he thought all ghosts came from the Victorian period,

but he insisted. I secure it with bobby pins and let a few black silky tendrils of my hair fall around my face. I look in the mirror and the candle light down here. I see how gaunt I look. Dark shadows under my eyes. Something hollow around my eye sockets. I brush a translucent powder over my cheeks, adding to my wand powder and dab concealer on my lips and study my face in my small compact mirror. I now understand where the phrase "deathly pale" comes from.

Then I see something in the mirror behind me. I drop the mirror in a cracks and half. Seven years of bad luck bestowed upon myself. I will do this. I stand and straighten my back. The creators of the other ghost tour are in for a shock. As will the whole of Gilmarch be, and Ethan's ghost tour will go down in history. I spend some time in the candle light making the place look as spooky as I can. It doesn't take much, as the seller is the creepiest place

I'd ever seen. I tidy away my clothes and any evidence I have been sleeping here. I don't want to spoil the effect after all. I admire my handy work and shutter as I leave the room. Back upstairs in the shop floor, I get things ready for the arrival of the tour. I take pictures for Instagram. I want our ghost tour rivals to see they have competition and if nothing else. I want the world to see something fantastic. I want to be remembered.

I want my work to be remembered. Have some recognition, some fame, some envy. Hot sticky cider, simmers in the slow cooker, warm, spicy, and intoxicating. Perfect for ghost stories. I like tea lights, fragrance with honey and bargamot. I wonder briefly if this is a fire hazard, but decided safe. That is until I see Persephone, slink by with her tail in the air. I decide to shutter in the seller just in case her long black fluffy tail catches a light,

or perhaps more likely she knocks one over on purpose. A cat after my own heart. I take a cat treat from the packet in the drawer and throw it down the stairs. Persephone bounds after it, claws skittering on the concrete steps. I shut Persephone down there. She'll be fine to later

“and let's face it. She isn't alone. Seller door, I think to myself, the most beautiful sound”

in the English language. I get ready to leave. When I reach the high street the night is pretty, a large full moon hangs heavy in the sky. Cloud sink and swim below, swallowing and threatening to burst. Like the night is set to implode. As I walked down the cobbled high street, luckily I am a legend in heels. I check my mobile phone for any activity. Nothing. Before I left today I had message Catherine and Alan aka "Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful" from the

rival Ghost Tour asking them to come along. See what we were all about before they judged us.

I've never been sure it was them mocking me. As I had never received any replies from my engagement

“with the trolls, but my suspicions held firm. It's no secret, I mean. I've told you already,”

that the Gil Marsh Ghost Tour is dwindling in numbers week by week. We've even had occurrences where

our sorrows. These were my favorite nights. Missouri loves company and if I could moan to Ethan

“about the injustice of it all, it could only bring us closer. Right? Actually some nights we have just”

one solitary person turn up and believe you me that is worse than no one. I was always only a

heartbeat away from taking the solo attendee to the three pigeons for a drink instead of an excruciating tour for all three of us. Although as if I could hardly afford my own drinks, let alone pay for someone else's. Tonight, however, was different. As I walked along the cobbles, sure footed as a mountain goat despite the slick dampness underfoot. There was already a sea of expecting people, including Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful. I beamed my biggest smile at them.

They nodded and looked at each other uncomfortably. Mrs. Wonderful shifting from one well healed boot to another. This evening goes well. I noticed that Ethan is wearing a new white shirt. He looks summer too. I watch him chatting with a pretty girl and giggling with her. I wonder what they're talking about and feel a tug of annoyance. The tour is going to plan. We know it by road. It is amazing how much better it goes with a larger crowd, how the crowd lifts each other and shares

banter. I point out key places on the tour like I always do. I adopt what I hope are menacing facial

expressions when it's called for. Lifting the lantern to my chin with my flat somber effect, working its magic. By the time we reach Busy Busy, the night has already been a success. Faces are flushed red from the cold. People are smiling, ready for a mug of warm cider and the promise of entering a bona fide haunted hotspot. It is time for me to take my turn. Despite our shared high school play history, Ethan is the main event. I've left those days far

“behind me, but we have discussed this and I'm happy to oblige. I think people think my pale face,”

large dark eyes and Tim Burton vibes is down to good makeup, good costume and wardrobe.

But as I start to speak, the smile slowly start to drop. The excited chatter and banter withering under the metaphorical lights, like a match blown out by a soft firm breath. And here I say, when we are outside Busy Busy Busy is my day job. I make funeral flowers. People look at each other and smile unsure whether I'm joking or not, but they want to hear more nonetheless. It would be the perfect job I continue, lantern to my face, my eyes scanning the crowd,

stopping on Ethan and then Alan and Catherine, who both seemed intrigued by me, surprised that I speak and I'm not just a figment of their imagination. But there's something in the cellar, I say, that won't let me work, won't give me peace after a too long pause. Shall we go in? Ethan's voice booms and I open the door and let everyone in.

“The crowd loves the interior of Busy Busy Busy Busy in why wouldn't they?”

At his old-world charm wouldn't beams exposed brickwork and the smell of beautiful flowers. Some bouquets in water for the morning, even though it doesn't matter now. Help yourselves. I start serving warm cider. People drink greedily as I knew they would. Enjoy it guys. I think, as I offer refill after refill. Show time. The large ticking clock on the wall takes over to 9pm and I know the time has come.

I tap the ladle on the side of the simmering slow cooker and the bustle on the shop floor fizzles out and dies. It's been a lovely evening I say, "Are you sure you want to spoil it?" The clock ticks on, nervous laughter ripples across the room, along with a cool draft that everyone

you can follow me down the stairs. I snap the lights using the switch behind me. There's no

“hocus-pocus, but everyone jumps. I suppress a smile. The candle lit lantern in my hand and the”

fairy lights drape across the exposed brickwork of the shop floor are the only lights now. I see the girl who had been giggling with Ethan, go to set her glass of mold wind down. Oh, no. I say, "Take it with you." I say, letting a smile bloom across my features.

No one else, smiles. I walk with my lantern, held high across the room. I say louder than the

previous dialogue. If you are of a nervous disposition leave now, consider this your trigger warning.

“Everyone else follow me. The seller door creaks open. I hesitate. The air smells”

stale, expected. After that, I smell an earthy smell. Pete, moss, something else. I walk down the stairs. They'll follow. They're invested. It's so dark down here. It takes my eyes a while to adjust. As everyone walks down the stairs, my eyes. When they are used to the dark of the seller, scan the room. Do I have everyone's undivided attention? It seems I do. My hand hovers over the light switch. One sweep of my hand and it will be the big reveal.

Things haunt us. I say, feeling the tension radiate from Ethan, who will not know where I'm taking this wondering what I'm about to say as I go off-piece and deviate from our script.

“But, is it the things we've done? The things others have done? Or, the things we might do?”

Everyone is listening. The girl that has been giggling with Ethan earlier hasn't taken a sip of her drink. She's clutching the mug. Even though I'm sure it will now be stone cold.

I've been trapped down here. I say, my voice trembling for the first time tonight.

With my thoughts, alone, I had no choice. I'm aware tears are starting to fall. And Ethan, who has stepped back into the shadows, looks triumphant. Like I'm giving the performance of my life, which I suppose I am, I did bad things. I say, I'm not well and I came here and slept down here and I had nothing and no one and she knew. I was talking about Elizabeth. She knew. I said, and so, she had to go. Not that it makes a difference, but she scared me.

I say, and she haunted me and I haunted me and it all brought me here brought us here. I snapped the light on. Elizabeth's body is in an old chair. It's dusty, faded upholstery, and stark contrast against Elizabeth's pristine clothing, pristine that is apart from the bloody wounds on her face. The once porcelain flesh reduced to the texture of peach pits, blood dripping down her face, and down her throat, deform a necklace of blood,

floors twine keeps her upright. I didn't mean to do it, but she knew she knew that my references were false and she knew what was sleeping in the cellar. I knew the game was up and I did feel bad for Elizabeth. The scissors in the neck were too gruesome. For one, I needed to decorate her. Decorate her beautifully with flower tributes, with an apology. I'd given her a crown of white roses,

carnations in her mouth. Percephany, who appears to have eaten her dead mistresses cheeks,

“sits purring, contentedly on her lap, the end.”

Thanks for listening, and thank you so much once again to this week's author, Caroline Geary. Caroline, my desk currently smells of green onions, because that is what I used to create the sound of cutting flowers. So, my desk smells like green onions, and they just kind of flew everywhere. I went a little crazy, and my brother's name is Ethan, so that was that was interesting to

for some of that dialogue. But I really love the story. Caroline, you always know how to paint a

beautiful picture of a little snippet of a world we get to view into, so I appreciate that about your work. And as I mentioned at the top of the show, if you'd like more from this show, you can go to pageurand.com/gariousleep, or you can find ad free episode as well as bonus episodes. This week's Rambal, or today's Rambal. I had due today, I was, I explained in the Rambal, why a Rambal came out the same day as an episode is not normal for that to happen, but I talk

about a lot of stuff. I kind of overshare, so if you'd like to hear me overshare. Again,

“as a viewer fan of these end rambles, which I have tightened up, I think over the years,”

so I can throw the rest of them over on Patreon, because some people don't like them at the end, which is totally understandable. What else? Oh, you can follow me on social media at scary to sleep. If you'd like to follow the show at Shelby B. Novak, if you'd like to follow me, as I've said before, I mostly just stick around Instagram these days. And yeah, so if you'd like to follow me there, if you have a story, you'd like considered for the show. You can send it to scary to [email protected].

Yes, if you've sent a mission, I probably have it categorized right now.

There are quite a few I need to go through. But always feel free. It never bothers me. If you shoot

me an email to say, "Hey, I said you a story, like a month ago, seven months ago,

“over a year ago." Yeah, I know. I am about one person.”

And I really, it's actually very helpful if I get a little reminder email. Not too many, if you send me like one week, I will be very off-put by that, because I again, I can only get to these so often I only have two eyes, as I've said. But a reminder email is very helpful. In fact, this episode you listen to tonight came about because Caroline sent me or a little reminder email. Things get lost in my inbox. I don't just get some missions to that inbox. I get a lot of

other things for a different work. I've gotten a little better because now I have a work email address when it comes to work things through my parent company, not my parent company. I don't. Scary to sleep does not have a parent company. But through the network, I belong to his parent company, syniverse. So I have an email over there. So it's getting a little easier to parse out work things that don't have to do with scary to sleep. See, here's the ramble part. I'm just

oversharing you don't care about that. You literally don't care and I don't blame you.

What other things do I always say at the end of the show? Please go check out my other ventures,

the bloody disgusting podcast over on YouTube, really trying to boost those numbers. This is not, don't give us, you don't have to go like if it's not your jam. It's totally different vibe of the show. It's a totally different speed, totally different subjects. But if you are, I have it all been curious about the bloody disgusting podcast and what goes on over there, then I would love if you could go watch us on YouTube and leave a comment and be like, hey,

I came over here because of that. You don't even have to say that. You can just participate. We usually ask questions. We love horror hot takes. If you have hot takes when it comes to like horror movies and stuff, then please let us know. We'd love to talk about it. We love to argue with people. I love to argue. So go, go argue if you ever want to. Oh, and still taking submissions

got sick after the convention or just in life and I managed to stay it off until today. So I'm a little slow moving. But I was like going to say, oh, shout out to be for sending me that chicken soup recipe by the way, that's going to come in clutch. Yeah, oh, oh, yes, I'm taking submission for questions and anonymous questions. The link is in the show notes. This has been pretty a pretty tame bunch. I usually get some get more

first of all, I get a lot of very graphic, sexual confessions, usually. I'm not saying like,

“you have to run and I just, I really don't care. That's why I allow anonymous submissions”

because you know, sometimes people just got to say stuff. And you know, it's interesting. It keeps me, it it it it entertains me. I'm not going to lie it entertains me. But I will say this is a more chased bunch of questions like their actual questions. I really do the last few have had to weed through a lot a lot of smut about myself, which is really weird. It's just weird because I mean, I'm just a guy. Like, I'm just I'm just here in my one bedroom apartment and then it's like, oh,

I had no idea people had these feelings about me. I'm just a voice on the radio, but so that's been interesting. Just again, overshare and be transparent. But hey, I it there's these have been some pretty solid questions. If you want to send me smut, that's fine. If you need to get that off your test or whatever, I don't care. But also, I just thought it was interesting. Usually,

“that's a lot of that. And this time, there's literally been zero of it. And I've been really”

appreciating a lot of the very well thought out. Again, well thought out questions. Thank you. But I am still accepting them. So go over the link, the NGO link in the show in the show notes. Shoot me over. It doesn't again. It doesn't have to be a question. It can be a comment. It can be a confession to a crime. I love those. I've gotten a few of those. Confess some crimes. Tell me you're most embarrassing story.

No, don't do that. That'll that'll that'll be a whole tangent. I get too bad about tangents anyway. Don't don't tempt me with the with the tangent. So yeah, send me it's in the link below. If you've ever just if you just have again thoughts, thoughts. If you have things you want to talk to me about well, like horror movies, then send it over to the bloody disgusting email address.

So Zena and I can both talk about that with you because that's always fun.

I might steal a few of your questions actually and use them over at the bloody disgusting podcast. What are you going to do about it? Fight me. Come at me, bro. Okay, now we go. No baking corner. Did I bake a single goddamn thing this week? Thinking? Thinking? No. I didn't. I'm going to real mango mood. You know those viral gummies that were kind of going crazy on like TikTok. The Peelie ones. You can peel them. So I got a bag of those on a lark. I was actually putting

together a little gift basket for my friends who were watching a little misclare about while I was at the convention and I was like going, I was just grabbing much of like fun, strange candies for them. And I saw those Peelie ones. So I got them a couple and I was like, I'm going to grab myself some because I keep seeing these on TikTok and I'm curious. And I bet they're going to be gross but whatever. And so I grabbed myself a bag of the mango ones. I heard the mango ones were the best.

And you guys, I am on my second big bag of them. It's bad. It's a problem. I don't know what. It's the

texture. I love everything mango flavored anyway. Like I probably every couple weeks stock up on

“dried mango from Trader Joe's. The one that has no added sugar. I think it's called like just”

mango or simply mango or I don't know. They're called but there's like the ones that have the sugar on them but then there's the other ones that don't. I get the boring adult no added sugar ones. But man, these little candies you guys. And I know so many people on the candy subreddit. Yes, I'm part of the candy subreddit. It's really interesting. They're kind of mean over there. They all say that it just tastes like chemicals in garbage and I guess I like chemicals in

garbage. I do like Diet Coke. What else? What's more chemicals in garbage in Diet Coke, right? I like my chemicals in garbage. I also love the taste of like cherry knife will. I like the taste of chemicals. I don't know. It's which is so funny because I eat so clean for the most part. Like I read very clean but then it's like I have these like

microplastics in my blood speak to me and whisper to me and they're like eat the weird mango

purely things. So I don't know it's wrong with me. I already rambled so long today. I'm sorry

“I guess I think it's because when I get a little sick I get a little like vulnerable feeling.”

It makes me want to just talk to someone and you're someone. So you're someone. My friends are all

in relationships and have plans this weekend. I don't. So you're sorry. You're stuck with me

“rambling at you about the peeling mango gummies. Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna go. I love you”

and drink your water. Don't get sick. Like I don't. Don't get sick. Make some chicken soup.

I don't know. Go live your lives. Bake something for me since I didn't bake anything. If you bake something cool, if you bake something cool with mangoes in it, I found like a dessert like a Filipino dessert that's like mango and condensed milk and cream and

“it's like in a pie crust and I think I want to make that soon. I'm like I've got mango”

fever. What can I say? Okay. All right. I'm gonna go. I love you. I see that already. Go get some sleep. I sure am. Sweet dreams. . [BLANK_AUDIO]