Untold Podcast

​ ​Cassidie is part of the third generation of children to be born into Vibrant Village, a nursing home turned sanctuary, which protects her and its inhabitants from the dangers of the outside world.

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My great-grandmother died last week. She was the only window I had to a world outside of Vibrant Village. The walls seemed to thicken with each day of her passing. 
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When Nonna Lola was young, she was hired as a nurse and hairstylist for Vibrant Village, a self-sustaining nursing home complex. My Nonna told me it had been built in a deserted shopping mall. The nursing home was designed to look and function like a small town to help residents, particularly those with dementia, feel more at ease. As a child, I would go into her room, lie down in the bed next to her, and listen to her stories. Stories about the beginning of the village, the moon, space travel, the Great Pandemic, and butterflies. 

On a fateful night in Endor, one woman pierced the veil between the worlds. What did she see?

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Her lover had come again tonight. 

Not that he ever left her. But his presence was as arbitrary as his whims. She no longer questioned them. 

He had no living eyes, but she felt his gaze as she sprinkled fresh-cut herbs into the draught. The brackish liquid cast a strangely clear reflection in the firelight. She stared into a face that had once been beautiful. Bright, copper eyes gleaming out over full, soft lips and supple skin crowned by raven locks. Clouded now, the lips dry and bloodless, her aged flesh hanging loosely upon the bones.

Daon took what form he wished. Often he appeared to her as a raven. At other times a serpent. Once a black, man-like shadow of liquid fire. 

She lifted the bowl, breathed in fumes laced with incense. It masked the potion’s vile odor, but would do little for the taste. She looked to the side. Daon—a raven now—regarded her hungrily across the fire. Watching, waiting, whispering.

As the world descends into unknown horrors, a doctor finds himself battling the patients he is trying to save.

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Fear is beautiful, because it drives me into Your arms.

There's a lot to fear in a world of poisoned flesh, where time and space suddenly mean nothing. It was weeks ago, or seconds ago, that I sat, bored out of my mind in 7 AM morning rounds, giving and taking patient reports in the old Episcopal Hospital, praying to You half in jest just to make the attending's lecture end.

Oh, it ended, alright.

Now I stand in a narrow 17th century German alleyway under a blood moon. There is no 7 AM, and no end, or beginning. There is a man with wolf heads instead of hands and feet. They turn on him, eating him alive.

His screams are drowned out by the screeching naked woman to my left. She's at once translucent, and then solid, sometimes in a Civil War Bonnet and sometimes in a 1920s bob, but always screeching and reaching, like a Japanese “Hungry Ghost.”

Then there's the baby behind me, melting and oozing across the cobblestone towards my ankles.

A pack of werewolves plot to take down Santa in Kingsley, Michigan.

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Kingsley, Michigan 2015
          
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” The elf screamed.

He tried to kick, but his feet were tied to an old wood table. He tried to punch, but his arms were restrained by a man.
No, not a man, a half man, half wolf with deep gray fur. A creature with only a hint of humanity illuminated by dim candlelight.

“It is December 23rd.” A second, red-furred creature growled. “You are his scout!”
          
“Just to assess the threat of your kind in the region. I don’t know his schedule. I’m not even supposed to check in until after Christmas!” The elf tried to hold back a whimper.

As an advanced scout for the timeless saint, he had received interrogation training. But the stakes in training only involved a letter grade.

A conservationist returns to her compound just after poachers have slaughtered everyone.

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Elena slapped a tree trunk for balance as she skidded past and flung herself down the faded trail to the lower stream. Her breath sobbed in her throat and hot tears threatened her vision.

They were close behind, but near the jackfruit tree she forced herself to a walk. She took small steps, rolling heel to toe, and counted the meter of “Rock-a-bye, Baby” as she stepped. She hesitated as she neared the rotting log and then veered to the right. Even in her haste—especially in her haste—Queenie was a safer bet than Elvis.
She glanced at the nearby mound and saw a telltale strip of olive-brown among the decomposing leaves. Nothing more. Her familiar tempo had bought her passage.

She veered left again, safely past the leaves and log, and reached the jackfruit tree. Its foliage was thin but with luck, she might go unnoticed among its enormous fruit. She hooked a leg over the lowest limb and wriggled as high as she trusted it.

She touched her phone, secure in its belt clip. It had no signal here, but she had to keep it close, for Dr. Morrison and Dr. Laghari.

She had been away when the poachers came.

Isabella charmed Demetrius with her innocent beauty and effortless grace from the moment they met. Her virtue hides a deadly secret that threatens to destroy their blossoming romance and everything he holds dear. Evil comes in many forms, but none so twisted and destructive as the promise of true love.

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The clear water of the reflecting pool shimmered like diamonds. The humidity made everything sticky, and the climbing mercury did nothing to temper the madness that came with it. Demetrius told himself he never intended for things to go as far as they did. He had always tried to maintain a calm and even demeanor as was demanded of him by breeding and upbringing. In stark contrast to his lifelong training, he lay half on and half off the stone bench surrounding the pool and stared into the water, tears streaming down his soot and blood covered face.

Everyone else was gone, and he was left to deal with the fallout alone. He remained partially on that bench throughout most of the day and into the evening, contemplating what had happened and what was next. One thing he knew for certain. His chance for a life in Paradise Valley had vanished.

A man wakes up in a cell with no memory of how he got there, and must find a way to escape before he is butchered like an animal.

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The shrill sound lasted for three seconds. Clangs and clacks quickly followed.

Dave’s eyes snapped open. He pulled his head from the floor, lungs working overtime. His heart boomed in his ears, and he could taste something metallic.

Blood, seeping from his right cheek.

Dave jerked into a sitting position and his vision swam. He planted his hands onto the thin blanket separating his naked flesh from the concrete floor. When his vision stabilized, he looked around.

The building was dark. There were metal bars on three sides and a cement wall behind, leaving him a 5x3 foot rectangle to sit in. Similar cells lined the walls of the long warehouse, a small alley running between them. A trickle of white light came from the end of the building to his right, followed by the faint sounds of machinery. He could smell urine and sweat.

A man hides in his attic as a creature stalks him from below.

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The wet stench of decaying wood lay heavy on the humid air that enveloped its victim.  The man moved his eyes slowly from side to side grasping only slivers of light from the jagged floor boards beneath him.  He released a long and slow breath through trembling lips as droplets of moisture trickled down his dirty skin. 

Pulling his arms around his weakened body, the man tried to remain silent and still - as if that would help him evade capture and certain death from the creature below him.  In reality, he was already dead and he knew it.  There was nothing that could change his fate at this point.  The only uncertainty that remained was how his final breaths of his life would be spent.  Would there be begging or pleading for mercy or would his body just lay helplessly paralyzed by the fear that now coursed throughout his nerve fibers?

After moving into the Deep South, Wallace's neighbors tell him to leave an offering for the Death Angel, or face the consequences.

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Heaps of dead leaves lined the streets of Smith’s Junction. Scarecrows, crudely fashioned out of broomsticks and old clothing, stood watch over the neighborhood. Fake spider-webbing clung to the eaves of each house like a fine layer of graveyard mist. White garbage bags filled with confetti had been made to look like ghosts floating above each roof. Stray strands of toilet paper dangled from a tree here and there-the remnants of teenage mischief.  There was no denying that this was October country.   

Wallace piloted his Buick through dark streets like the ferryman’s skiff through black waters. He kept waiting for his headlights to outline the small moving shape of a superhero or ballerina or a zombie with a meat cleaver buried in its head, but there didn’t seem to be any kids out yet. He checked his watch. Nearly 7:30.  Weird. 
He turned off on the boulevard, hoping to dodge as much Halloween traffic as possible. Above all else, he didn’t want to get trapped in a convoy of mini-vans. That didn’t seem to be a problem. The street was deserted, but it was far from empty.

Although they had lived in this town for a month now, Wallace still hadn’t gotten used to the way people in the South piled their trash at the edge of the street. Normally they just put out the customary bags of garbage in black bags. Tonight, however, the people of Smith’s Junction had put out everything but the kitchen sink…and upon closer inspection there were even one or two of those as well.

Old freezers, rusty wagons, wheelbarrows, galvanized metal buckets, trash cans, and a few discolored Igloo ice chests flanked either side of the blacktop.