Untold Podcast

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?

Lightning Jack Davis says he could beat the devil in his race car. As he heads to Talladega, he might have to prove it.

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All my life I wanted to race at Talladega. But the night before that contest, I sat in my apartment shakin’ like a leaf. Me, Lightnin’ Jack Davis; the guy who went around sayin’ he could beat the devil. My big promo poster showed me leanin’ against the side of my car, black number 21, with my catchphrase at the bottom: Speed is my friend.

Hottest rookie on the circuit and didn’t mind sayin’ so. A few days ago I lived just to win the Cup. Now, all I wanted was a way to skip out on the biggest race of my life.

A young boy’s new friend gives him a magical jewel that can control his parents.

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Milo Peterson couldn’t remember how many of his eight years he’d spent playing in the woods behind his house. He seemed to have always gone on adventures among the tall trees and in the meadow.
 
Today he was a knight, pursuing a goblin who’d stolen a valuable map from the king’s library. As Milo rushed between two trees, waving a stick like a sword, he burst out of the woods and into the meadow.
 
A boy appeared in front of him. Milo jumped back. The boy had mischievous green eyes and curly brown hair filled with leaves. His clothes looked like those of a young peasant from medieval times.
 
The boy smiled. “Hi! What’s your name?”
 
Milo took another step back.
 
The boy giggled. “Are you scared of me? I just moved here.”
 
“Oh.” Milo held out his hand. “I’m Milo Peterson.”
 
The boy shook his hand enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you. My name is Earl King.”

After taking his own life, a man finds a strange world on the other side filled with red souls.

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Does your purpose die when you do?

Who I am doesn’t matter. My name…irrelevant. Why? You tell me. You didn’t seem to care very much about me when you knew me; why should now be different? Is it because of what I’m about to do? That’s very hypocritical, don’t you think? Not caring about me while I’m here, but not wanting me to go away either…do you want me stuck in this miserable limbo? Does my pointless existence somehow make you feel better about yours, or do you even think about me that much?

Who I am doesn’t matter. I’m just another nobody that you’ve passed by on your way to something that you think matters, and soon, all my hopes, dreams, fears, and pain will fade away, and I’ll be remembered as nothing more than a statistic.

Four friends find themselves in a strange bar whose owner isn't exactly what he appears to be.

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Greg slid his long form into the back seat of his friend's car. He was the last one picked up, and the four were now heading to a bar for their customary Friday-night hang out. After a quick fist bump for each of his friends, he buckled in. It was already 10:00, but the bar scene in Buffalo really didn't start happening until almost 11:00. The four men worked together.

Jeff, the brown-haired driver, said to Greg, "Philosophy question of the night is 'if a genie appeared before you, offering your fondest wish, would you take it?’ We've all answered. Your turn."

Greg shook his head. "Not a chance. Even if he didn't spin my wish into something I wouldn't want, I believe God wants us to work for our dreams."

Jeff shook his head. "You're an idiot. You've spent years working hard and where has it gotten you? Divorced before you're 32 and scraping by. I'd take it in a heartbeat."

A corrupt Catholic priest is unexpectedly offered the chance of redemption in the antebellum South.

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When Father James McLaren opened his eyes from the grand sleep of death, it was not upon the heavenly throne room. His was not the celestial vision of the enthroned Deity, but a bag of hay seeds and a pile of manure. He rose from the wheelbarrow in which his body rested and took the measure of his situation.

The first observation was that he was not in hospital garb. Instead he was wearing his clerical collar and all the accoutrement of his calling. His right pocket even contained a bottle of anointing oil and a small cross.

The second observation was that he was in no pain whatsoever and he could breathe like a kid of sixteen. All of this was remarkable because the last thing he knew of himself was that some ten minutes earlier —and for about eight years—he had been killing himself with alcohol and cigarettes. But now, the cirrhosis and the lung cancer were apparently gone.

His thoughts turned from himself to his surroundings. He was obviously in a shed or a barn. He had awakened to find a horse’s rear end in his face and had been thrown onto a pile of manure in a wheelbarrow.

Obviously, the Almighty had a sense of humor.

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.

Billy Fontenot navigates through his first day of school in a place filled with exorcists!

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Billy Fontenot's heart leaped as he climbed out of the cab.

He stood on the circular drive of the huge Victorian style home complete with gingerbread trim, and gables that pointed to the crystal blue sky.

“Kid!” barked the cabbie as he hauled Billy's bags out of the trunk. “Your stuff!”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Billy stammered. He moved his bags onto the sidewalk and tugged his wallet.

“Naw,” The cabbie said. “It's taken care of. Someone must want you to go to school here pretty bad.” The man read the sign above the entry way. “'School of the Exorcists.' Kid, they either love you or they wanna kill you. Good luck.”

A dreamer speaks with the Cross upon which Jesus was crucified.

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Lo! I will tell of the best of dreams,
what I dreamed in the middle of the night,
after the speech-bearers were in bed.
It seemed to me that I saw a very wondrous tree
lifted into the air, enveloped by light,
the brightest of trees. That beacon was all
covered with gold. Gems stood
beautiful at the surface of the earth, there were five also
up on the central joint of the cross. All those fair through eternal decree gazed
[on] the angel of the Lord. [It] was certainly not a wicked person’s gallows there,
but holy spirits, men over the earth,
and all this famous creation gazed on him.
Wondrous was that tree of victory, and I stained with sins
wounded sorely with defects, I saw the tree of glory,
honoured with garments, shining joyously,
adorned with gold. Gems had
splendidly covered the Lord’s tree.
I was able, however, to perceive through the gold,
the ancient hostility of wretched ones, [that] it first began
to bleed on the right side.

A noble knight sojourns home, but finds a benevolent spirit shadows his journeys.

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Home lay northward, beyond Palestine and the Great Sea. Colgan rode his faithful bay steadily towards the green fields of Ireland. This worthy knight had fought great battles in the Crusades, with many a friend at his side. Those who had journeyed with him to war against the infidels had died. Now he rode alone, tattered and torn. Yet, solitary as he was, the knight felt that he did not ride alone but that some shadow or spirit rode with him. This in itself was strange to think, for Colgan was not a superstitious man and worshiped our Lord greatly.            

The thoughts that refute or affirm a man’s fancy are his alone, and none can truly say why a man believes the things he believes; but, these were Colgan’s reasons for suspecting an invisible companion: no matter how dark the night, or how dense the forest, a strange light surrounded him. It shone even in the brightest daylight, and at night when he camped, it warmed him and gave him light. This too: it often seemed to him that as he rode homeward, the merry peasants and their richly-dressed princes, the poor bruised and bent serfs and their armor-clad lords, would begin to approach him.  Whether to ask tribute or to threaten harm, he did not know. For always it happened that as they neared him, they would halt suddenly, as if some force turned them aside or impelled them backward. Yes, even those little hamlets where returning crusaders were greeted with honor and laurel, even in these little towns the inhabitants would turn their eyes away from him as he passed by. All this the good knight wondered at. Therefore thought he, “Surely, a spirit rides with me.”