adds heard during the podcast that are not in my voice or placed by third party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, it's Thriller Thursday and this time I have two tales to tell. We'll begin with a fictional tale of horror from G. L. Bauman called Acts of Vengeance and then we'll follow that up with a paranormal crime thriller from Finn McCool entitled Confessions of a Belfast Cop. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, Twitter contests to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com.  The bell above the door rang noisily as I entered the bookshop. My hopes of just browsing through the books without attracting the attention of a well-intentioned but usually annoying clerk were immediately dashed. I had to be bothered while perusing the shelves, but upon closing the door and getting my first glance at the stop itself and decided that due to the smallness of the shop and the type of books it contained, I was more likely to have to search out the proprietor myself if need be. The shop was hard to find and even more difficult to understand. While bookshelves covered nearly every wall from floor to ceiling, they were all completely empty. The only volumes I could see were the 20 or so that were displayed on a long wooden table in the middle of the room, along with just a few more that were on what I supposed passed for the counter where business was transacted. As I crossed the shop to look at the volumes on the table, I noticed how dim the lighting was and how old everything seemed to be. This building had housed some sort of shop for a long time and the wood and fixtures were definitely showing their age. It was just the kind of shop I loved to find. In my search for rare and unusual books, I find shops like this one usually hold the greatest treasures. All of the books were bound in leather, which was very encouraging to me. While leather does not necessarily mean a rare or valuable book, it certainly piques my interest. I traced my fingers along the surface of the books, admiring the craftsmanship of the leather bindings and the titles etched in them. May I help you? A voice asked, just behind my right shoulder. Startled, I turned very quickly and nearly spilled several of the books off the table. Please be careful, sir. The voice said again, these books are quite valuable. The voice belonged to a short, elderly man, dressed in a black suit that was probably as old as he was. Bald and slightly hunched over, he looked every bit the bookstore owner. Sorry, I said as I straightened the books. I didn't hear you come up behind me. That's quite all right, sir. He said as he extended his hand to shake mine, my name is William Gilchrist. Pleased to meet you, I said, shaking his hand. Alistair Fry. Welcome to my shop, Mr. Fry. Thank you. I must say, your selection of books is quite limited, given all the shelf space you have. I immediately regretted saying that, as I might very well have insulted him. However, if I had, he seemed not to care. As I have gotten older, Mr. Fry, I found my taste in literature has become, well, more specialized. I sold away, or given away, the majority of my inventory, and retained only the volumes that have special value to me. They have become more of a personal collection now. I take it they're still for sale? Gilchrist looked at me with a nervous smile. Oh, yes, but may I say that the prices are quite steep. Rarity and collectability are seldom inexpensive, I said, as I turned back to the book-laden table. I had a hard time finding your shop. It's quite well hidden among all these side streets and alleyways, I said, as I picked up the topmost book on the table. Rarity and collectability may sometimes require extra effort as well.  Very true, Mr. Gilchrist, very true. I was a long into examining the books on the table when I started to notice a pattern in the subjects of the books. Each of them seemed to deal with what I would call the darker side of humanity. There were many volumes about murders, torture in the Middle Ages, and several volumes about famous or, should I say, infamous crimes and their perpetrators. While I never held much esteem for this genre of literature, I must admit that, rather, I was curious about the contents of these books. I'm more than a little surprised at the subject matter of these books, and maybe even more surprised that these are the only books that you chose to hold on to out of your entire collection, I said to the shopkeeper. Mr. Fry, in spite of what the literary community may think of this type of literature, I've always been fascinated by the subject of man's inherent capability to bring harm to others. Man's inhumanity to man, as they say. His eyes seemed brightened as he spoke of this, and I found myself beginning to feel a twinge of apprehension about continuing this conversation. I took a half step towards the front door of the shop. Please, Mr. Fry, don't be put off by my affection for these books. I assure you, it is merely a hobby of mine, not a lifestyle. I only read about these subjects I do not participate. As he said this, his face took on a friendlier aura. His smile was genuine and reassuring. Come, let me show you some of my treasures. After what must have been a half hour or so, I was tiring of Gilcrest's endless sales pitch about his valueless but admittedly intriguing books. I found myself actually having some desire to read some of the books, but not enough to pay the exorbitant amounts of money he was asking for them. The subject matter alone brought on some degree of hesitancy on my part. Mr. Gilcrest, I said, interrupting his latest soliloquy on a book about unsolved murders in Europe. I believe that was the subject. From my mind, it started wandering some time back. While your collection is certainly interesting, I find them somewhat morbid and also very expensive. I believe I am ready to take my leave and to thank you for your time. Gilcrest looked disappointed and somewhat, well, frightened as strange as that seemed to me. Oh, no, Mr. Fry, please remain a short while longer. As I have one more book I would love to show you, I believe you will find its subject matter as well as its asking price to be quite attractive. Gilcrest turned and began to work his way toward the counter in the rear of the shop. Really, Mr. Gilcrest, I don't think I would be interested. Please, Mr. Fry, indulge in old man for just a few moments longer. I found both the look on his face and his genuine excitement to be enough to convince myself that a few moments more would not inconvenience me that much. It was very apparent that he did not get many opportunities to show off his rather meager collection. Very well, sir. One last volume. His gleeful reaction was such that while I value my time very much, I knew I had made the right decision in humoring Mr. Gilcrest for a few more moments. He removed a leather-bound volume from a back shelf that, until now, had completely escaped my notice. As he brought it to me to look at, he carefully wiped away any dust from the cover and with a great amount of care placed the book on the table. This book is the prize of my collection, said Gilcrest. I keep it on the back shelf to protect it from those who may not realize its value. I trust you, however, Mr. Fry. Please, take a look. The book was bound in very expensive-looking brown leather. It also had a leather strap with a bronze buckle so that the book could be securely closed. While still in quite good condition, it was obvious that the book was very old and had been handled frequently. However, there was no title to the book, either on the cover or on the binding. I was quite puzzled by that, and it must have shown on my face as Gilcrest picked up my thoughts right away. The title is on the opening page. You'll have to undo the buckle to discover what it is. While I found having to do as he asked to be somewhat tedious, I had gone this far, so I undid the buckle and strapped to open the book. Mr. Gilcrest was nearly giddy with excitement. The title of the book was Act of Vengeance. Our story, Act of Vengeance by G. L. Bellman continues in just a moment when Weird Darkness returns.  If that feeling transfers to your taste buds as well, I've got some great news for you. Weird dark roast nutty mummy coffee. Wrap your taste buds around this medium dark roast blend with shrouds of almond, honey, and chocolate. Each bag of nutty mummy is exclusive to Weird Darkness and is roasted to order.  Entomb your old coffee and bring your taste buds back from the dead with Weird Dark Roast Nutty Mummy at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. What struck me most about this book, Act of Vengeance, is that its title, as was the rest of the book I would soon discover, was handwritten. I was amazed that a book of this size, which consisted of what had to be nearly a thousand pages, was totally written in longhand. Being a connoisseur of valuable books, it was apparent to me that this book was a journal or diary of some sort. My interest in this book was increasing by the moment. I must admit that this book is very unusual, I said, turning to Mr. Gilchrist. How is it that you came by it? I purchased it when I was a young lad, and I've had it in my possession for a very long time, Gilchrist said. Well, it certainly is curious. I'll have to say again that the subject matter is of little interest to me, but the book itself would be a great conversation piece to add to my personal collection. Gilchrist agreed. I can assure you, Mr. Fry, that the book will become a welcome addition to your library. Would you have any interest in purchasing it? Taking up the book and examining it again, I replied, Yes, Mr. Gilchrist, I believe I might if your asking price isn't too steep. Gilchrist took a moment to think about how to begin the negotiation. Finally, he offered up a price that was half the price he was asking for every other book in the shop. That is a very reasonable price, Mr. Gilchrist, maybe too reasonable. I can't help but feel I'd be taking advantage of you, I said, knowing full well in my mind that I would pay much more for this book if need be. I was developing a sort of attachment to it. Nonsense, Mr. Fry, you'd be doing me a great service. I've been the proprietor of this shop for a very long time, and I'm in hopes of retiring soon. It would be of great comfort to me to know that the book is in the hands of someone who will take care of it and treasure it for what it is. I can hardly refuse, then, can I? I have a bag left to put it in. He said, as he took the money I gave him and stuffed it into the pocket of his suitcoat. That isn't necessary, sir. I have my satchel here. It'll protect it very well until I return home. I'm very grateful for your time and your generosity. Gilchrist looked at me with a look of both relief and sadness. It is I whom grateful, sir. You placed my mind at ease much more than you will ever know. Good day. Good day to you, sir, I said as I turned and opened the door. I remembered the little bell over the door singing out again as I exited the shop. However, this time I found it to be not quite so annoying. As Gilchrist watched the door to the shop close behind Alistair Fry, he could begin it feel to happen. His part in this nightmare was nearing completion. After decades of frustration, he had finally finished. He felt terrible for Mr. Fry, but that emotion was far outweighed by the relief he was experiencing. Gilchrist made sure the door was locked and slowly turned to walk to the rear of the shop. He passed through a curtain leading to the back room which had long since ceased to be a storage room. It was his living quarters and had been for many years. He walked up to an old dresser with many old photographs on top of it. The tear came to his eye as he looked upon the faded photographs of his wife and family for the last time. They had all passed away long ago. Gilchrist had outlived them all. Not surprising at all, given the fact that Gilchrist was almost 200 years old. Lovingly touching each photograph, Gilchrist spoke very softly. Please forgive me, I had no choice. Gilchrist turned away, removed all his torn and tattered clothing, and went to sit in an old chair, the fabric of which had worn thin with age. Tears began to pour from his eyes as he fearfully realized what would happen next. At last, this is over. God, forgive me. Gilchrist began to moan as the pain began. Almost tolerable at first, but as the seconds passed by, his groans turned to screams. His body began to shrivel as if all of the moisture it contained was being slowly drained out.  His arms and legs twisted into horrible angles and his chest and stomach receded until his backbone was visible from the front. Still screaming, Gilchrist began to fall apart, his jaw falling open in a horrible, gaping maw. As his screams finally began to fade, he managed to repeat once more. At last. Five minutes later, Gilchrist was gone. His body reduced to nothing more than an unrecognizable mound in the seat of the old chair, a mound of dust and bone. I quite forgot about the book for a short period of time. I brought it back home to my townhouse and placed it next to my reading chair in the library. Then, due to my life becoming completely unraveled, I spent very little time reading at all. My wife Grace chose that time to announce that she was leaving me. I was nearly overcome with shock at the news. I knew full well that our marriage was by no means perfect, but I had no inkling that she thought it imperfect enough to dissolve it. There were pressures on our marriage since the beginning. My long hours at the accounting firm where I was employed, my passion for books, which Grace deemed ridiculous, are a constant absence from home. Working at various charities throughout the city and most damaging of all, our marriage was childless. Not because we were unable to have a child, but because Grace would have none of it. I'd resolved myself to never being a father, and it still remained an open sore of resentment between us. I tried to speak to Grace on several occasions about the possibility of saving our marriage, but she was immovable on the subject. She kept to her room, only emerging to leave the house. One night, upon returning home from work, she and everything she considered hers was gone. I sat alone in the dark all that night, trying to decide what I would do now. I finally determined that the best course of action for me was to hate her. The carriage pulled up in front of the two-story brick building located just off the main square of the city. The sign over the door read, D. Cross Accountant. That would be Damien Cross, my employer. I likeable enough fellow, but a bit full of himself for owning the most well-known accounting firm in the city. What was not well-known is that Damien Cross knew very little about accounting. He'd inherited the firm from his father, and if not for the expertise of his employees, the doors would have been shuttered long ago. Just as I have for a thousand other mornings, I entered the front door and made my way to my desk, situated in the very back corner of the room. My desk was away from any window or door. I'd become accustomed to this spot because I could get far more work done. I seldom was disturbed. On this particular day, that was not to be the case. It was late afternoon, and I was doing very well with lessening my workload. I liked to have a clear desk when I leave for the day.  Raising my head for my work, I was startled by the sight of Damien Cross staring down at me, his arms virtually loaded with papers and ledger books. Sorry, Mr. Cross. I was lost in what I was doing, and I didn't realize that you were standing there, I said as I nervously rose to my feet. That's quite alright, Fry. He said as he took all the documents he was carrying and loudly dropped them on my desk. I appreciate employees who are so involved in their work. Thank you, sir. I was developing a bad feeling about what was going to happen next, which is exactly why I have chosen you to finish this large project for me. Mr. Danford expects all of his accounts to be in order for a presentation to a potential buyer by Monday morning. They are quite a mess, I'm afraid. Damien said, obviously enjoying himself, I'm sure that it'll take the rest of this evening and most of the weekend to complete. But Mr. Cross, I stammered, I have commitments for this weekend which have long been in the planning. I'm sure you do, Fry, he said, obviously bothered by my objection, but I have made this commitment to Mr. Danford, and it's one I intend to fulfill. My hope is that your commitment, and shall I say dependence on your employment here, is equally as important to you. After all, it's not like you have a wife or family to go home to. Instantly, I was both ashamed and infuriated. How dare he bring up my home life and use it as a weapon against me in this battle of wills. Mr. Cross, I am appalled, I yelled. Yes, yes, I'm sure you are, Cross said as he began to turn away. The question is, Fry, how appalled are you enough to end your employment here or not? Resisting every urge to pummel Cross for his unbelievable behavior, I sat back in my chair. Given my present situation, which Cross was very well aware of, I could not refuse. Very well, Mr. Cross.  I'll finish the project. I knew you would Fry, he said with his usual arrogance. I knew you would. Now, as you can see, while you were making a much bigger issue out of this than it should have been, everyone else has gone home. Here's the key to the front door. Let yourself in and out as much as you need to in order to finish the work this weekend. Now, lock the door behind me when I leave, he said, getting his coat. My new lady friend awaits me in the carriage outside.  As he stepped through the door, I saw the carriage that awaited him. As the carriage driver opened the door for him, I caught a glimpse of the woman that was waiting for him. She nodded ever so slightly when she saw me, with a rye smile that clearly demonstrated her air of superiority. Damien Cross leaned over as he sat down and gave her a kiss. His new lady friend was my wife, Grace. I instantly flew into a rage. I began to throw papers and ledgers from all the desks. I sent lamps and inkwells flying against the walls. I wanted to do so much more damage, but eventually I just sank down to the floor and wept. How long was I there? I don't recall, but I eventually left to begin what would be a very long walk home. I left the front door to the accounting firm wide open when I left, hoping that one of the more nefarious people who wandered the street at night would find their way in and wreak more havoc upon Cross's office. It served him right. I arrived at my home in the middle of the night. Exhausted, I sat down rather heavily into my reading chair in the library, determined to drink myself into a stupor. Before I could accomplish that, however, I noticed the book I had purchased at the bookshop. For some reason it stood out to me, even though it was nearly buried in a pile of books I had yet to read. Maybe it caught my eye because of the title, Acts of Vengeance. How appropriate. For on my long walk home, I had been deliberating on how I would seek vengeance and retribution from both my harlot wife and that bastard ex-boss of mine Damien Cross. I removed the book from the pile and held it for a moment. I was anxious to discover what was written inside, but for some unknown reason I was hesitant to do so. It was almost as if it would be a point of no return for me should I open this book. I continued to hold the book without opening it. Eventually, after much thought, my curiosity began to outweigh my trepidation and I opened the book. Upon first inspection, the book seemed to be normal and not at all unusual, albeit well worn. However, I did notice that it had no print date or copyright. Even more strangely, it did not list the author's name anywhere. I found that very odd. The title page simply offered up just that, the title, Acts of Vengeance. It was clearly handwritten in a very strong and exaggerated style of calligraphy. I found the page that followed most intriguing. It had several lines of what I determined to be a language I was not familiar with. There were very angled but straight lines, along with other symbols I did not recognize and was unable to decipher. I considered this to be a puzzle to be solved later as I wanted to explore the rest of the book. As I turned the pages, I found the book to be divided into many sections, each written in distinctively different handwriting. Some sections were incursive and some printed, some easy to read, some almost illegible. I turned back to the beginning of the book and began to read the first section. As I read, I was astounded to find that it was the full account of a man that had sought revenge against a neighboring landowner who he accused of stealing food from his barns. It was very apparent by the wording that he used in telling his story that it had happened a long time ago. The story was complete in every detail, up to and including the gory retelling of how the man had exacted his revenge by finding the man out working his fields and running him through dozens of times with a pitchfork. The delight the author took in this vengeful act was very apparent by his writing, while I found myself sickened by his grim tale. He even signed his writing, Horace Black. While I was taken aback by the story, I became fascinated enough that I had to read the rest of the chapters. Each one was a grisly tale of vengeance authored by the person who exacted their revenge. As I read, I began to have my own thoughts of vengeance against those who had wronged me. Morbid fantasies filled my mind as I considered seeking justice against them. However, I knew that I was not cut of that cloth. Violence just wasn't in me. I read a few more of the chapters, those that were legible, and found myself becoming physically ill as I read how people had gone to great and violent lengths to get back at those who had wronged them. Without realizing it, I had read all night. The sunlight was just inching its way across the floor as I came to the last entry in the book. Exhausted, I considered saving it for another time, but my mind was far from being capable of sleep, so I decided to read it after all. This last entry was by far the most disturbing. The author wrote of how his siblings had conspired to cheat him out of his rightful inheritance. He has shown little interest in the family business, instead choosing to pursue a degree in literature. This infuriated his brothers who considered him lazy and unworthy of a share of the family fortune. Using deception and unscrupulous lawyers, they were successful in denying him his share. Something in his mind snapped. Betrayal and vengeance drove him beyond the limits of what he thought himself capable of. His entry went on to describe how one evening soon after the betrayal, under the guise of reconciliation with his brothers, he arranged to visit them in their inherited mansion. While appearing to be sincere about mending the rift in the family, his motives were much more sinister. About halfway through dinner, the drug he had managed to slip into their food began to take effect. The drug was not meant to kill, but rather to incapacitate. The brothers were not able to move, but remained fully conscious. The author taunted them and laughed in their faces.  Then, in one last ultimate act of vengeance, he set fire to the room. He stayed as long as he could, watching the flames lick at the flesh of his brothers, their eyes wide with terror. He laughed maniacally as he left the house, more than a little disappointed that he would not be able to watch them burn. How horrible! This entry was by far the most diabolical and disturbing. It occurred to me that each entry was worse than the one before in terms of how gruesome the murderous acts were. I was glad to be done with the book. As I began to close it, I noticed that the last entry, like many of the others, bore the signature of its author. As I read it, sheer terror took over my every thought. I had met this murderer just a short time ago. The author's name was William Gilchrist, the proprietor of the bookstore. As soon as I recognized the author's name, a jolt like a powerful electric current coursed through my body. I wanted desperately to jump out of my chair, but I found myself unable to move. The pain was excruciating. I resigned myself to the fact that the pain had rendered me motionless except for the violent spasms that every muscle in my body was experiencing. My only hope was that this seizure or whatever it was would be short-lived. My mind had remained very clear through this ordeal so far, but that was soon to end. I became disoriented, not dizzy rather, but unable to maintain my thought processes. I could no longer concentrate. It was as though my thoughts were no longer my own. A montage of pictures and ideas swirled before my eyes, which were tightly closed due to the pain I was in. The thoughts in my mind were horrible. My mind was creating terrible visions of the stories of vengeance I had just read. They were rapidly appearing in my mind's eye, was startling in vivid detail. It was as if I was witnessing all the brutal murders that had taken place in the book. The book, that's it. In some mystic way, the book has to be the cause of this. If I can just get away from it, I could remove myself from this nightmare. With every bit of strength and will I could muster, I tried to force myself to release the book which was still open in my hands. But however hard I tried, I could not let go. Fighting through the pain, I lifted the book from my lap. What I saw nearly drove me beyond the limits of my own sanity. The words in the book had turned red as if they were written in blood. There were rivulets of red running down the pages, dripping off the bottom of the book and landing in my lap as large awful drops. Once again, I attempted to throw the book away from me, but I could not. It was as if the book was glued to my hands when in fact it was much worse. I began to scream as I realized that I was not gripping the book. The book was gripping me. The leather cover of the book had somehow grown over my fingers and hands and engulfed them almost up to the wrist. I was virtually a prisoner of the book. The pain grew more and more intense until I felt myself losing consciousness. Trapped in a dreamlike state, the visions of murder and torture became incredibly vivid.  It was as if I was witnessing each death from above and as I watched I found my attitude towards them changing. I began to be less offended by them and actually started admiring some of the ingenuity that went into some of them and also took some amount of joy in the sheer viciousness of the crimes. As I watched, something incredible began to happen. As each scenario played out in my mind, I noticed that the murderer in each of the visions was somehow becoming familiar to me. His back was always toward me, so I had not recognized him before. Now, however, in one last blood-soaked vision, the murderer turned to look at me. I screamed in pure terror. It was like looking into a mirror. My face was twisted into the most terrifying maniacal smile. I realized that the familiar figure in all of these diabolical acts had been me and just before I passed out, I saw that the victim of my butchery in this last vision had been Damien Cross. I am not sure how much time passed before I woke up. However, judging by my ruddy appearance and aching muscles, it had been quite a while. I prepared a light breakfast and went into the bathroom to make myself somewhat presentable. Halfway through shaving, I realized that I did not really have any reason to actually be presentable, since my wife was now gone and I am certain that my actions at the accounting firm had resulted in my termination. As I thought about my present circumstances, I sensed a growing fury inside of me. I had done absolutely nothing to deserve what was happening to me.  I stood to lose everything I had worked so hard for, my career, my marriage, even my dignity. No one could take that away from me. No one!  I held it in front of me and admired the ivory handle and the brightness of the blade. It was so beautiful. I was taken with the idea that while the razor was designed to be a useful tool, it was also a dangerous and effective weapon. As I continued to look at it and began to picture in my mind how the razor could certainly be a perfect instrument of justice and revenge. Looking into the mirror, I noticed the dark circles under my eyes, the disheveled look of a broken man and the evil smile of someone who had just realized what he must do. Up next, it's the conclusion to our story Acts of Vengeance by G. L. Bellman on Weird Darkness. It is the dark and lonely road. You drive, you're tired, and falling asleep behind the wheel. The windows are down, the cool air blowing through your hair as you crank up the stereo. AC DC blurs on the radio and you're screaming out the chorus. Then a set of headlights emerges from the darkness and your night has become a nightmare. Welcome to Last Exit, an anthology of 17 horrific tales where life on the road can sometimes take a dark and unexpected turn. Last Exit by Jason R. Davis, narrated by Weird Darkness host Darren Marlar. You're a free sample on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. I was becoming quite accustomed to the dark, both the dark of the night and ever darkening condition of my soul. I reveled in it as I crouched in the shrubs outside Damien Cross' mansion. I'm sure when he purchased it, he gave no thought to the fact that living outside the city in a long way off the road would be a considerable help to anyone who may wish him harm. I had no problem approaching his house unseen. The remoteness of the property and the darkness which I now so enjoyed made it very easy. I waited for several hours, watching for the lights to go out in the house. As the hour grew later, they were extinguished one by one. Now only one light in the upstairs bedroom remained lit. I had somewhat of a working knowledge of the house as I was often called here to bring work to Damien on the days when he did not want to come into the firm. When the last lone light went out, I approached the back of the house and proceeded to work on opening the rear entrance. Not being very well versed in burglary, it took me longer than I would have liked. I worked with great care and caution, and eventually the lock opened. I stood in the entrance way for a few moments. Not because I was unsure or even afraid, but because I wanted to prepare myself for the deed that I had come to perform. I took several deep breaths and shook my arms and legs to loosen them. Then with razor in hand, I stepped across the threshold. I was being so careful to be cautious and quiet that it seemed to take an eternity before I reached the bottom of the staircase leading upstairs. I was getting so close. I didn't want to make a mistake now and ruin my opportunity for vengeance. As I placed my foot on the bottom step, the wood creaked faintly. I froze in terror and waited without moving a muscle until I was sure that the sound had not awakened my prey. I took another step, this time placing my foot as close to the end of the step as possible. Grasping the railing of the staircase as tightly as I could, I climbed the stairs at a painstakingly slow pace. I hesitated at the top of the stairs, suddenly realizing that I had never been in the upstairs of the house. Which room was Damien's bedroom? My confidence began to waver as I had no desire to search all the rooms while attempting to avoid detection. After a few moments, I collected my wits and realized that I could determine where the bedroom was by remembering the last light to go out in the house. It only made sense that it would be the right room. Knowing where that light had been, I was able to find my way to what I believed to be the correct door. I put my ear against the door and listened for several minutes. It was hard to hear anything because my heart was pumping so fast that all I could hear was my own blood rushing through my veins, willing myself to calm down. Eventually, I was able to hear someone snoring in the room. This was the moment I had been waiting for. There was no turning back. I could hardly contain myself as I reached for the doorknob. I pulled my hand back quickly to cover my mouth. I had this insane urge to laugh.  Finally, I was ready. I slowly turned the doorknob and entered the room ever so quietly. The bedroom was pitch black. Long, heavy fabric curtains cut off almost all of whatever light was trying to enter through the window. I stopped just inside the doorway to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. In just a few moments, I was able to make out where everything was in the room. The large four-poster bed was directly across the room from where I stood. Straight razor in hand, I proceeded ever so slowly towards the bed. Damien Cross was fast asleep, snoring, annoyingly. I was thankful for the noise, as it would help to cover up any sounds I might make as I crossed the room. After what seemed to be hours, I finally stood above him next to the bed. He was sleeping on his back and very conveniently had his throat exposed to the night. This was it. This was my moment of revenge. This is where I exacted vengeance upon the man who had cost me everything. Still, I hesitated. Not because I was having second thoughts or because I had grown afraid.  I had envisioned this moment in my mind many times. Now, I wanted to make sure I did this right. I wanted him to feel the pain. I wanted him to suffer. Most importantly, I wanted him to know who his killer was. I wanted him to know it was me. I bent over him low enough to hold the razor just a hair's breadth from his throat. I had timeness perfectly. Damien was a large man and should he begin to struggle, this could all go horribly wrong. I placed my other hand a few inches above his mouth.  My hands were shaking in anticipation. I had to strike now.  His eyes flew open, focusing on me almost immediately. I could see so much in his eyes, the recognition of who I was and the terror of realizing what I was about to do. Damien began to kick at me and strike at my face. I would have no more time to savor the moment I must strike. I drew the razor across his throat. I had never seen so much blood. It sprayed out like a geyser, covering both him and me. Instincts drove me to jump away from him for just a second. Miraculously, he rose from the bed, hands to his throat, and he tried to run, but his body was already failing him. Recovered from the initial shock of what I had done, my anger consumed me. Die, you bastard! I yelled as I slashed at him again. The blade hit his face, cutting through his left cheek and exiting through the right. I began to slash wildly as he stood helplessly in front of me. You took my wife. Slash. You took my career. Slash. You took my whole life. Slash. I suddenly realized that my blows were no longer striking anything. I was flailing the razor in the air, completely out of breath. I stopped. Damien lay on the floor between me and the bed. His face and hands were sliced to ribbons. Fingers and eyes were missing, the blood pooling on the floor around his head. I had done it.  I had taken my revenge. I stood in the dark for what seemed a long while, but probably was only a few moments. I could only describe what I was feeling as pure ecstasy. I felt no remorse or fear.  I felt complete. Then everything was shattered with one sound. Damien, a female voice said, Are you all right? I spun around to find the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Dressed in a flowing nightdress with a lit candle in her hand was my wife, Grace. We both recognized each other at the same instant. Her first reaction was to retreat back into the hallway in an effort to run away down the hall. My first reaction was to smile and take a moment, however brief, to revel in the idea that my revenge was not yet complete. This was more than I could hope for. It must have been quite a sight. Grace running toward the stairway, one hand holding up the hems of her nightdress while the other held onto the candle lamp to light her way, and I, one hand stretching out to grab her, in the other hand, brandishing the straight razor. Her screaming at the top of her lungs while I called to her to stop. I must admit I was laughing as well. I called up to her at the top of the stairway and grabbed her by the back of the neck. As I spun her around, she tried to strike me with the candle lamp. She missed and only succeeded in spraying us both with hot wax. Neither of us noticed the pain. Stop, Alistair, stop! She pleaded with me.  You just can't. But I can, I replied. Why are you doing this? She asked, choking back tears and gasping for breath. How can you ask me that question? I yelled back at her, spittle splashing onto her face.  You only wanted what my salary could get you. When that wasn't enough, you left me for that, that dead man in the other room, and now I find you living in his house. Are you sleeping in his bed, too? No, Alistair, she cried. I am only, oh poor Damien.  I have no desire to hear your excuses or your pleas for mercy. Your words mean nothing to me, as mine have meant nothing to you for years. I brought the razor up to her face and pressed it up against her cheek. The only thing that matters to me now is that you pay the price for your disloyalty and infidelity. I leaned forward and kissed her. It was a hard, violent kiss.  I shoved her backwards as hard as I could. She had no time to react.  I heard her neck snap, her screams ending abruptly. She continued to roll down the steps, finally coming to rest at the bottom of the staircase, with her body broken and her arms and legs at impossible angles. As I looked at her lying there, I was struck with sadness, sadness that her suffering was over so quickly. I did not want this night to end. I had no idea that vengeance and murder could be so joyful or fulfilling. Before leaving, I made sure there was no one else in the house, such as a butler or a maid. Regrettably, I found no one. I left the house of Damien Cross that night, knowing that I had exacted the ultimate revenge on those who had wronged me. I returned to my home just before dawn. I discarded the razor and the sewers on the way.  I would leave no evidence of ever being in the cross home that night. I sat at my desk in the library and pondered about what I had done. The more I thought about it, the happier I became. My vengeance was complete, and I was ecstatic about it. As I sat there, I found myself drawn to the book that had started this journey into murder. Remembering what happened the last time I handled it, I was hesitant to pick it up. However, my curiosity finally got the best of me. Very gently, I picked up the book. This time there was no pain or disorientation. Rather, there was more of a calming but invigorating effect. The cover of the book did not envelop me again. However, there was a feeling of oneness, of joy and accomplishment. I flipped through the now familiar pages, remembering some of the written accounts as I saw them. Eventually, I came to William Gilchrist's gruesome account of his act of vengeance. I was no longer repulsed by his actions. Instead, the story of his revenge gladdened me. I could now relate to what he had done. In some strange way, we were now brothers, albeit murderous brothers. I was about to close the book when I noticed a change in the pages. Terror reclaimed me as I saw that Gilchrist's story was no longer the last one in the book. There was another entry, and as I began to read it, I instantly began to shake uncontrollably. This cannot be. This new story was mine. It was the written account of every horrible atrocity I had committed in the crosshouse. Every grisly detail was written down. It was all in my handwriting and my signature was on the last page. My mind began to spin, and I felt as if my actions were no longer my own. I began to thrash about uncontrollably in my chair, eventually falling to the floor, frothing at the mouth. I tried to scream, but my throat was so constricted in fear I could not. The book fell from the desk, landing open directly in front of my face. To my horror, the pages began to turn, working their way to the front of the book. I was physically and mentally trapped. I could not move, and I could not look away. Finally, the pages stopped turning. I realized that the book was now open to the page that contained the strange language and symbols. The lines began to blur and change. I could not look away. The lines started to become recognizable. The words began to appear in English. I was afraid to read them, afraid of what they might say. My fears, it turned out, were well-founded. I felt as though I would lose whatever fragile grip I had on my sanity, as I read. Vengeance has been exacted on those who deserve it most, doled out by the spirits of this book to whom you have played host. Many are they that deserve this fate. As many are those who have died. Where and when will vengeance strike next? The spirits in the book will decide. It was clear to me now what had happened. I had been, and woefully still am, possessed by the book to carry out its plan to kill those who it decided had committed evil. I was no more than a tool of this horrible spirit. At the same time I realized this, it became clear that I was never going to be released from this horror. I was doomed to obey the wishes of whatever spirit this was, and would be forced to do his bidding. I lay on the floor of my library for a very long time, as I lamented the effect this would have on the rest of my life. After many hours of resisting the power of this spirit, I realized my efforts were futile. With mind, body, and soul, I gave in to the spirit of the book. I knew what I must do. The bell above the door rang annoyingly as I entered the old bookstore. I had never known that this bookstore existed until I just felt the need to come to this side of town. Being a collector of rare books, I was excited to come across this tiny shop. Just as I began to look over the small inventory that the shop had to offer, I was interrupted by the appearance of a very old man, nervous and shaking. Welcome to my shop, the old man said. I'm the proprietor, Alastair Frye. Coming up, we continue Thriller Thursday with a paranormal crime story from Finn McCool, entitled Confessions of a Belfast Cup, When Weird Darkness Returns. I'm a man of habits. Okay, truth be told, my bride says I'm boring. I like the same stuff, and that's what I stick with. And that includes what I eat. Even for breakfast, I used to opt for a leftover pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers. Did I mention pizza? Anyway, now that I'm trying to lose weight and cut back on the carbs, I've had to make changes for breakfast. Now, instead of a big, heavy breakfast, I just grabbed one of my built-fars, the best-tasting protein bar on the planet. Built-fars satisfy my hunger with up to 19 grams of protein and also satisfy my sugar craving, despite being less than 3 grams of sugar, and at only about 150 calories per bar, if I'm really hungry in the morning, I can grab two of them and still feel good about it. Try replacing your dessert, or even a meal like breakfast, with a built bar. You won't even know it's not really a candy bar. Visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Built and build a box of your own.  That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Built promo code WeirdDarkness. My mother died suddenly and unexpectedly sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning. The coroner said she suffered a massive stroke, and her death would have been instantaneous. This brought me some small comfort, knowing that she had not suffered in the end. I was the one who found her. I arrived at her tidy, semi-detached suburban house that Sunday, lunchtime, bringing with me her food shopping for the coming week. I feared the worst when she didn't answer the door after repeated knocks and rings. It was with great trepidation that I used my spare key and marched through the hallway, shouting my mother's name in a panic as I frantically searched, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst outcome. I found her lying down on the sofa, her eyes shut. Mum looked peaceful, like she'd simply fallen asleep. For a fleeting second, I believed this might be the case. But when I touched her skin, it was ice cold. It didn't take me long to realize she had no pulse and wasn't breathing. Finding my mother's lifeless body was obviously a very traumatic experience. However, at the time, I felt oddly calm as I went through the ritual of calling an ambulance and waiting for the paramedics to arrive and tell me what I already knew. My father had died one year before, having lost a long battle against cancer. My parents had been married for 36 years and Mum dedicated herself to caring for her husband after his diagnosis. When he died, the largest part of her died with him. She was overcome with grief, barely able to function and having little interest in life. I asked her to move in with us, thinking it would do her good to be around family, but she said fastly refused to leave the home that she had shared with her husband for three decades. Instead, we compromised. I went to see her each and every day, doing her shopping and making sure she was eating, washing, looking after herself. I always hoped she'd bounce back, but deep down, I realized it was only a matter of time. Mum's death certificate said she succumbed to a stroke, but I knew she died of a broken heart.  I'm married and have two children, so I'm very blessed, but I still miss my mum and dad every day. Lots of people will be able to relate to my loss, I'm sure, but that's not why I'm writing this story up. What I'm here to talk about is, well, the 40-year-old diary that I found in my mother's attic. I never met my uncle. My mother's brother died a few years before I was even born. Mum spoke fondly of her older brother and how he'd looked out for her when they were little. She didn't like talking about his death, though, only saying that he was a policeman killed in the line of duty. We took this to mean that he served in the Royal Ulster Constabulary and was probably killed during the Troubles, the ethno-religious conflict that plagued our home country of Northern Ireland for nearly 30 years. Mum got upset every time the topic was brought up, and so she rarely talked about my uncle's police career when I was growing up. My sister and I had taken on the emotionally draining task of clearing out my parents' house after Mum died. We found this quite difficult, as just about every photograph, ornament, and knick-knack had some sort of sentimental value or memory attached to it. We shared more than a few tears during those days of work, and I found it upsetting to be in a house where I had discovered Mum's dead body. But we supported each other and persevered. I found the dust-covered old box in the back of the attic, buried under years' worth of memorabilia and assorted junk. It contained what little remainder of my late uncle's possessions, mostly related to his service with the RUC. Inside, I found this neatly folded uniform and peaked cap, both in miraculously good condition given their age. Thankfully, the mods hadn't gotten to the material. Other than this, there were a few old black-and-white photographs of my uncle on his graduation day from the police training college. There he was, looking smart and handsome in his dress uniform, standing to attention whilst smiling for the camera. He looked very impressive. I guess my uncle was slightly younger than me when these photos were taken, but I could definitely see the family resemblance. I dug deeper into the box of forgotten memories, finding a number of dog-eared and faded papers relating to his service and postings, and there was something else. The small leather-bound notebook. I flicked through the first few pages and was taken aback to discover it was my uncle's diary, recording his service as a cop on the front lines of West Belfast during the 1970s, some of the worst years of the troubles. I informed my sister of my discovery, but she wasn't overly interested, and so I inherited my late uncle's possessions, including his diary. I took the notebook home, intending to study the journal entries in detail. I believed the diary would be of historical interest and provide an insight into an uncle that I had never met. I hoped it would serve as a link to the past, a connection to my family that would otherwise be lost after my mother's death. However, I became increasingly disturbed the more I read. My uncle clearly had a very difficult job. As a CID detective, he was tasked with investigating some of the most brutal sectarian murders of the period, while at the same time being a target for the paramilitaries. His entries demonstrated he was working under tremendous mental strain. I trained as a counselor and would conclude from his writings that my uncle suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. His detailed and visceral descriptions of murder scenes and atrocities make for difficult reading. But there are elements of his story that I can't explain, incidents and occurrences beyond rational understanding. For this reason, I've decided to transcribe and post my uncle's diary entries in the hopes that someone with more insight than me may be able to shed some light on the bizarre and disturbing events described by my late uncle. And so here it is. 1976. I've never kept a diary before. Never had any inclination to. The truth is, I'm not much of a writer. Essays and police reports. Usually, that's my lot. That's not to say I'm uneducated. I was the first in my family to go to university, an achievement my parents were proud of. I grew up in a Protestant working-class community in East Belfast. Our family wasn't wealthy, but we weren't hard up either. My father worked all his life as a welder in the shipyards, as his father had done before him. It was expected that I would follow in their footsteps, but I surprised everyone by excelling in my education, gaining a place in a prestigious grammar school before going to Queen's University to study for my law degree. By the time I graduated, my homeland was in turmoil. Civil rights protests had turned violent, with rioting on the streets. The army was deployed to keep the peace, but the violence escalated, with hundreds of deaths during the early years of the decade.  This made my decision of a career path easier. I hated what the terrorists were doing to my country, and wanted to play my part in ending the violence, and so the RUC was the obvious choice. To be fair, my motives weren't entirely altruistic. Northern Ireland's police force was being rapidly expanded due to the security situation, and so, thanks to my university degree, I was able to apply for a fast track into the CID, with a prospect of further promotions to follow. I finished my training during the summer of 1973, graduating from the police college with my parents and little sister in attendance. A proud day, but soon I was thrown in at the deep end, with my first posting in golf barracks. I've seen some terrible things over the last three years. The aftermath of bombings, human bodies torn to shreds by bullets and shrapnel, and colleagues gunned down whilst carrying out their duties. These atrocities had an impact on me, but I got through my first posting. But in a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire, I got redeployed to the CID section in West Belfast. In recent months, my life has spiraled out of control as the stresses of the job have taken their toll. My girlfriend left me a couple weeks ago. She could no longer deal with my erratic behavior and violent outbursts. I can't really blame her. I hardly speak with my family and friends anymore. My job has become all-encompassing, and I have little time for anything else. When I'm not working, I drink heavily, trying to down my sorrows and forget the horrific things I've seen out on the streets. It doesn't really help, but I can't stop. As 1976 draws to a close, I'm working on two major investigations. One is against a skilled and ruthless Provisional IRA bombmaker, codenamed Nemesis. This dangerous individual has been responsible for dozens of attacks against the security forces and commercial businesses in the city center. We've come close to capturing Nemesis, but the bastard keeps slipping through our fingers. I have no doubt that he'll keep bombing until we either capture him or kill him. The second investigation relates to a loyalist murder gang led by a terrorist known as the Butcher. The gang specializes in kidnapping Catholic men and brutally torturing their victims before slitting their throats. The sheer brutality of this gang has shocked and terrified the population. Even though this city has long become hardened to violence and death, blood is running through the streets of Belfast, and we're barely able to hold the line. I was raised in the Protestant faith and was made to go to Sunday school when younger. Nevertheless, I have never been particularly religious. I'm not a superstitious man, but some of what I have witnessed over the last few months defies any logical explanation. I honestly don't know whether I'm going mad, but I have become increasingly convinced that the bloodshed has unleashed something truly evil onto the war-torn streets of Belfast, a shadowy entity that stalks me and haunts my dreams. For this reason, I decided to keep this journal and record what I see and hear, in the hope that one day, somebody will be able to make some sense of it all. For with God as my witness, but the first time in my life, I am truly scared. I'll have more of our story, Confessions of a Belfast Cop, by Finn McCool, when Weird Darkness returns. No matter the time of day or season, sometimes you need to find a way to rid yourself of those ghostly chills that bring raised hairs and goose bumps to your skin. Other times, you're looking for those ghostly chills. Either way, it sounds like you need a mug of Weird Dark Roast coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee has deep notes of cocoa, caramel, and a touch of sinister sweetness that'll send shivers down your taste buds. This is an exclusive coffee that I selected specifically for you, my Weirdo family. Weird Dark Roast is not available in stores, coffee houses, mad scientist labs, or even the dark web, but you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee. Fresh roasted to order so it's as fresh as it can be when it lands on your doorstep and knocks three times. Grab yours now at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee does not actually knock on your door because it doesn't have arms or hands, so if you hear knocks at the door and no one answers when you ask who it is, it's probably paranormal and you should just leave the door shut and locked. 1976. The butcher is struck again. A housewife discovered the body dumped in a back alley of Agnes Street. At first she assumed the corpse was a discarded mannequin doll as the wounds were so severe. The victim's injuries were consistent with the previous murders. The man is still to be identified, but we've determined he's in his early 20s. There were multiple stab wounds and deep cuts across his hands, arms, and torso, none of which would have proved fatal, though. The cause of death was the man's throat being slit, cut so deep that the bone was exposed. The torture and killing evidently occurred at a different location, though the body being dumped here by the murder gang. We'll trace the victim's identity over the next day or two after we trawl through the missing person's list. The family will be notified and the press will need to be updated. Doubtless there will be more sensationalist headlines in the tabloid papers. This is the third murder by the butcher gang in the last six months. All the victims have been young Catholic males kidnapped at random from the streets. Undoubtedly there will be a statement released by some anonymous paramilitary spokesman, a generic claim that the victim confessed under interrogation to membership of the IRA and had been executed for crimes against the people of Ulster. Our investigations focused upon three loyalist terror cells operating in the Shankill area. I have strong suspicions as to the butcher's identity, but so far we have no evidence. The gang has been good at covering their tracks and witnesses are in short supply. We spent most of the day at the crime scene, freezing on a gray, drizzly afternoon. The army set up a security cordon, as was our standard procedure. A number of locals gathered around the cordon, the usual combination of nosy neighbors and ghoulish voyeurs hoping for a glance at the body. A few journalists showed up during the course of the afternoon, snapping photos, taking notes. They asked for a statement, but we weren't willing to give them any information at this early stage. Night had fallen by the time we moved to the corpse, shifting his remains into a body bag and putting the poor fellow into the back of awaiting ambulance.  They'd seen it all before, after all. I scanned the cordon as my colleagues moved the body, spotting one solitary figure lingering at the far side of the street, lurking in the shadows and glaring in my direction. The stranger was clad in all black with a hood covering his head. I couldn't see his face or make out any of his features. I'm not a man who scares easily, but the sight of this mysterious figure brought a chill down my spine. He looked like a man out of his time, a throwback to a previous age. Nevertheless, despite his odd appearance, there was something strangely familiar about this interloper, and I felt sure I'd seen him before, although where and when I cannot recall. I stared at this individual for the best part of two minutes, trying to get the measure of him. He didn't move an inch during the whole time, standing perfectly still and seemingly not reacting to anything occurring around him. Even though I could not see his eyes, I could nevertheless feel his harsh glare burning through me. My first instinct was to turn and flee, but as a policeman I needed to show strength. This individual hadn't technically committed an offense, but security legislation gave me the right to detain and question him. I decided to do so, but before I could make my move, I got temporarily distracted by one of my colleagues asking me a question. When I turned back, the dark figure had gone, apparently disappearing without a trace. I asked the Army Lieutenant-in-Command at the Security Court in about the mysterious man, but the officer, he couldn't recall seeing him, nor could any of his men. The whole incident left me feeling shaken and confused. Had I imagined this figure? I don't believe so. I have an unnerving feeling that I have seen this stranger before somewhere, perhaps more than once, but always lurking in the shadows, somewhere on the periphery. I fear I am being stalked. Perhaps the IRA or some other paramilitary group is targeting me, gathering intelligence for a possible hit. I've therefore decided to become more vigilant regarding my personal security. Hopefully I'm overreacting, but you can't be too careful these days. December 5, 1976. I've been receiving threatening phone calls to my home line. Three nights in a row now. All during the early hours. The first night, it was a little more than heavy breathing and low groans, making me think it was just a sex pest.  The next night, I could hear low whispers down the line. So soft, I couldn't make out a single word. By the third night, I could make out words, but they were spoken in a language I could not understand. The male voice at the other end of the line has a detached, almost inhuman quality to it. I've been unable to make out any accent or speech patterns, which could help identify the caller. I've developed this unsettling feeling that I'm being watched, and these late night calls seem to confirm a pattern of intimidation. Tomorrow, I'll make a report to the duty officer, and I plan to sleep with my service revolver close to hand from now on. I was called to the scene of a bombing this morning. An army patrol was hit on the lower falls by a small but deadly device hidden inside of a beer keg, detonated by a hidden command wire. Four soldiers were injured in the blast, but the man closest to the bomb took the brunt of it, losing both legs and also suffering severe chest wounds. He was still alive when we arrived at the scene, his body reduced to a bloody mess.  They rushed him to the hospital in a Saracen APC, but he died from massive blood loss before they got there.  We evacuated the wounded and secured the scene. What remained of the device was removed for further forensic investigation, although the design and M.O. all pointed to the bomb maker we were pursuing, an IRA operative code named Nemesis. His devices are becoming increasingly lethal as he applies his deadly trade. We didn't get long to examine the scene. The crowd soon gathered on the edge of the security cordon, including a number of young men who jeered and mocked the wounded men. The soldiers manning the blockade were from the same company as the dead private, and understandably they were upset and angry. A few soldiers reacted to the provocation, moving into the crowd, whilst swinging their batons and attempting in vain to make arrests. Soon, more local youths arrived on the scene carrying half bricks and glass bottles which they flung at the line of soldiers. Within minutes, the situation is descended into a full-scale riot. As the violence escalated, the Army officer in command on the ground told us he could no longer guarantee our safety, as intelligence suggested the IRA might use the riot as a cover to launch a gun attack upon our personnel. So, we had little choice but to evacuate the scene, knowing all too well that potential forensic evidence would be destroyed in the rioting. I was being shoved into the back of an APC when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. The dark figure, the same mysterious man I had seen that night in November on Agnes Street. It was broad daylight this time, so I got a better look at him.   The chaos seemed to have no effect on the Interlover, as he showed no fear of being shot or struck. I honestly couldn't tell whether he was directing the riot or was oblivious to it. However, once again he appeared to be looking straight at me, as if he'd come to this violent place specifically to confront me. But I only cast my eyes on the hooded man for a brief moment before an Army NCL physically dragged me into the back of the vehicle, slamming the steel door shut behind me. This time I'm certain that the dark figure wasn't a figment of my imagination. He is real, and he's deliberately turning up at crime scenes where he knows I'll be posted, stalking me through these war-torn streets.  The late night phone calls have become less frequent, but more sinister in their tone. Last night he spoke in an understandable English for the first time, speaking just three terrifying words in a low, croaking voice. I see you. I'm now convinced there is a direct link between the shadowy figure and the threatening calls. It must remain vigilant. I didn't sleep at all last night, but instead drank until dawn with my service revolver by my side. These images keep running through my head, the butchered victim, the screaming soldier without his legs, and always the dark figure watching and taunting me. Honestly, I don't know how much more of this I can take. January 15, 1977 I'm still off duty, but got a call from one of my colleagues. The chief suspect in the butcher gang has been arrested on a weapons charge. With a successful conviction, he'll get at least five years. It's not what we had hoped for.  The news has boosted my spirits somewhat, but the violence continues across the city. Yesterday, there were a series of bombings across the town center, and no doubt Nemesis played his role. Streets are awash with blood and terror stalks the streets. What can one man do against such unrelenting hatred? January 20, 1977 Last night was my first shift back on duty following my leave of absence. The boss has taken me off the murder investigations. I objected, but not too hard. I got put on night duty with a squad of uniformed officers. This was meant to be an easy job to get me back into the swing of things, but it didn't turn out that way. It was a freezing cold night, and me and the boys were warming ourselves up with hot mugs of tea when the call came in. A disturbance was reported on a back street of the Antrim Road in the north of the city. Local residents have reported strange activity and raised voices emanating from inside of an abandoned Victorian mill at the end of the street. We went out in strength, eight heavily armed officers traveling in two armored land rovers as we sped through the dark city streets. The area was mixed religion but known for IRA activity, and so we were understandably cautious as we feared a potential setup and ambush. Our suspicions were heightened when we reached the scene and discovered the street abandoned and eerily quiet. Proceeding with caution, the sergeant in command ordered two officers to set up a cordon at the end of the street, while the rest of us proceeded with guns drawn. The road was typical of those throughout the working-class districts of Belfast, with rows of red-bricked terraced houses, old two-ups and two-downs dating back to the Victorian era. The mill sat at the far end of the street, its dark structure casting an ominous shadow over these small houses beneath it. At one time, the mill would have provided employment to the men and women in this area, but it had long since closed, like so many others resulting in high unemployment in communities such as this. The abandoned industrial building held a sinister appearance, reminding me of a grim citadel from some kind of dark fairy tale. We had no idea what to expect. I hoped we were dealing with minor vandalism caused by bored teenagers, but something didn't seem right about the whole situation. There was a terrible tension in the air. We all felt it. Once again, I had the feeling that I was being watched. I carefully scanned up and down the road, but it was too dark to see anything. My fear was back, worse than ever. I worried then that I'd come back to duty too early. My head was still a mess and my paranoia was taking over, but there was nothing I could do in that moment except march forward. Suddenly, the street was no longer silent. We heard a faint noise emanating from the supposedly abandoned mill, growing gradually louder the closer we came. It took me a moment to comprehend what I was hearing. There were multiple voices chanting in unison, singing deeply in a language that clearly wasn't English. I thought I recognized a few words in Latin but couldn't be sure. This was a bizarre occurrence and the last thing any of us had expected to encounter on this night. There was something very sinister about the strange chanting. It felt out of place and time, yet oddly familiar. I could tell the other officers were just as uneasy as I was. No doubt we all wanted to turn around and run for the hills, but we were professionals and had to do a job. The unsettling chanting continued, growing louder and faster until it reached a crescendo before it suddenly stopped. And then we heard the scream, blood curdling as it cut through the cold night air, chilling me to my very bones. Move, move, move! Our sergeant cried out as he surely realized someone was in trouble. We began to sprint along the cobblestones, making for the sealed front entrance of the mill, clutching our weapons close, ready for action. The serge raged the door first, smashing it open with his heavy boot. He barged inside and we all followed. I feared what we would discover inside but what we found was beyond my wildest imagination. The interior of the derelict building was largely shrouded in darkness, with the only light coming from lit candles and torches on the floor and hanging from the walls. In the center of the empty space was a circle drawn in the middle of the floor, surrounded by candles. The serge used a handheld battery-powered torch to illuminate the scene. To my horror, I realized the circle was in fact a pentagram and at its very center lay a slaughtered animal, a goat by the look of it. The creature's throat had been cut and its stomach sliced open, exposing its intestines and internal organs. The place stank like an abattoir and the ground was covered in blood. Took me a second to comprehend what I was seeing here. The satanic symbol and slaughtered animal. It was some sort of sacrifice. How could this be possible? The sergeant nervously raised his torch and shone the light upwards to reveal a half-dozen figures dressed in black robes and hooded masks. Each one stood perfectly still, glaring with menace in our direction. All were armed with daggers stained with the blood of the slaughtered goat. The serge screamed at them to drop their weapons and surrender. We covered them with our guns as we waited to see whether they would comply. I clutched hold of mine with both hands, aiming at the chest of the closest dagger-wielding maniac. I was perfectly prepared to shoot the sicko down if he showed even the slightest sign of resistance. But this proved unnecessary, as suddenly all six dropped their knives and calmly got down on their knees, allowing us to move in and handcuff them. I breathed a sigh of relief, but this feeling proved to be short-lived. When we unmasked the suspects, we discovered there were four males and two females of varied ages. They refused to give their names and carried no forms of ID or any personal items for that matter. We arrested them on suspicion of trespassing, animal cruelty and possession of offensive weapons. The serge seemed unsettled by the whole affair, saying he'd never seen anything like it in all of his twenty years of service. But what really shook me to my core was when one of the suspects turned his head around and looked me directly in the eye, specifically picking me out from the crowd. He was an unpleasant looking man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. He had one of those thin, weasel-like faces, pale skin and bloodshot eyes. His chin was covered in a thick, untidy stubble, and he stank to the high heavens, which suggested that he hadn't bathed or showered in days. I experienced a cold chill inside me whenever he made eye contact, but I stood my ground, knowing I couldn't show this low life any fear. He opened his mouth to reveal chipped, yellow teeth, and he spoke in broken English. I didn't recognize the accent, but thought it sounded Eastern European. In what he said was this, Our master, he sees you. He will come for you. Soon, you will have nowhere left to hide. I stood glued to the spot, my jaw hanging in disbelief. His words terrified me and I had no response.  Two officers dragged the man away, while I remained frozen, unable to speak or move, until the Sarge padded my back, telling me to head back to the waiting Land Rovers. I didn't sleep a wink last night after I got home. Instead, I turned to the bottle once again, drinking until dawn. I realized this isn't a solution, but I needed something to settle me after what I'd been through. In the morning, I received a phone call from the duty sergeant. He told me that all six suspects arrested at the mill had been released without charge. Apparently the orders had come from the top, but no explanation was given. The sergeant mentioned reports of other ritualistic animal sacrifices and black masses occurring across Ulster and have rumored links to British military intelligence. The theory was some kind of psychological operation aimed against the paramilitaries and their supporters. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Is there no end to this madness? Is this entire city descended into the depths of hell? How much more can one man be expected to take? Up next, it's the conclusion to Confessions of a Belfast Cop by Finn McCool when Weird Darkness returns. What goes on in the mind of a murderous killer? What is it about some people that lead them to commit murder? Is there something that is different or is it simply a switch that gets turned on? Murderous minds, stories of real life murderers that escaped the headlines, offers a look into the lives of individuals who didn't just become killers, but who managed to avoid the media storm that usually accompanies them. Inside, you will hear about people like Sante Kheims, a 65-year-old mother who was driven by greed and who committed multiple murders with her son. Robert James Akramat, the MBA graduate who murdered three people in order to continue getting lap dances from a stripper that he became infatuated with. Larry Jean Ashbrook, who became deluded into thinking that strangers were accusing him of murder. When he could not take it anymore, he carried out a massacre at the Wedgewood Baptist Church and more. Each story harbors its own distinct narrative and reasoning for the perpetrators of these heinous crimes, along with the background to the case, their lives, and the aftermath of their actions. Sometimes, the truth is more appalling than anything fiction can provide, and murderous minds proves it once again. Murderous minds, volume one, stories of real-life murderers that escaped the headlines by Ryan Becker, narrated by Weird Darkness host Darren Marlar. Hear a free sample or purchase the title on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. They literally came within inches of taking me out. I've had a quiet couple of weeks, or at least as quiet as a cop working in Belfast could have. I was still on the beat with the uniformed patrols. There had been incidents, of course, but none as bizarre and unsettling as that encounter in the old mill. I hadn't received any threatening phone calls in the last fortnight. I'd cut down on my drinking and was even sleeping better. I truly believed I had turned a corner, but you can never take your eye off the ball in this job. Our unit got called out to a crime scene in Ballet Murphy. The switchboard received a call reporting a break-in and so we were sent out to investigate. As usual, we went out in strength, attending in armored landrovers and fully armed. Details were sketchy and so we were naturally suspicious, rightfully so as it transpired because this caution saved our lives. The device was hidden inside a dustbin left down a side alley. I was only about 12 feet away from the bomb when it detonated. I remember a blinding light and a deafening den followed a split second later by a powerful wave of heat which blew me off my feet throwing me backwards. I hit the ground hard, feeling a sharp pain shoot through my entire body. After that, I lay dazed on the pavement, my head throbbing, vision blurred, my ears still ringing from the blast. The dark figure appeared from nowhere and stood right above me. My eyesight was still affected and so I could not make out his facial features.  Nevertheless, I knew it was him, the same shadowy figure who has been stalking me for weeks. And now he had me, wounded and helpless, left completely at his mercy. My vision was starting to come back but I couldn't bear to look at this hideous figure and so I closed my eyes and prepared for the end. Seconds passed and slowly my hearing returned. I heard men shouting and heavy clumps of boots against the pavement. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and to my great relief the dark man was gone, his shadowy figure replaced by the concerned looks of my comrades as they came to my aid. Miraculously, I walked away from the blast with only minor injuries. Cuts and bruises and a slight concussion. A piece of flying shrapnel had grazed my head a couple of inches to the right and it would have been embedded in my skull. It didn't take long for the investigating officers to establish that the device was the work of Nemesis, the IRA bomber responsible for so many previous attacks in this part of the city. The bomb design and style of attack were both very similar to that which killed the young soldier back in January. Seems that on this occasion the IRA member tasked with detonating the device had missed his mark. The bomb had gone off a tad too early. If he'd waited just a couple more seconds to detonate, then I'd be dead and several of my colleagues severely maimed. As it turned out, we all walked away from the blast in one piece. I should be feeling like the luckiest man alive right now, but I don't. The dark figure is back. I don't know whether he's a man or some kind of ghoulish entity, but I do know he's out to get me. My colleagues think I'm either mad or delusional and my boss has put me on an extended leave of absence. But it won't matter. He or it failed on this occasion, but he won't stop. Not until I'm in the ground. My days are numbered and it's only a matter of time now. February 7, 1977. Calls have started again. Worse than ever this time. The things I have listened to were surely never meant for human ears. I'm disconnecting my phone. There's no reason for anybody to be calling me. I'm still on a leave of absence from work, but I find no respite.  I can't sleep for any length of time. Every time I close my eyes, my mind is filled by these horrifying images. He's always there, haunting my dreams. I know he's watching me. I'll never be free. 1877. A sister came to my house this afternoon. I guess she's worried about me. Probably she's been trying to call me, but I can't get through with the phone unplugged. She was at the door for more than 15 minutes, repeatedly banging the knocker and ringing the bell. I didn't answer. All my curtains were drawn and the lights turned off. She must have thought I was out, so she eventually gave up. I can't bear for her to see me like this. Her big brother reduced to a cowardly, drunken mess. It's for the best anyway. Whatever is happening to me, whoever and whatever is after me, I can't let my little sister get involved. I need to protect her. 1937. The IRA bomber, known as Nemesis, is dead. The security forces played no role in his demise. Ironically, he died by his own hands after a bomb he was working on detonated prematurely, blowing him to bits and demolishing the safe house he was sequestered inside. It's an occupational hazard for those in his line of work. My bosses would rather have arrested and convicted the sicko, but they weren't necessarily displeased with the outcome. Either was I. Not at first, anyway. My commander invited me to attend the scene. I was still technically on suspension, but my boss was willing to bend the rules to allow me to be there when they carried the bomber's dismembered body parts out from the rubble.  We arrived on the street to discover a chaotic scene, with the road cordoned off at both ends while soldiers and police officers dug through the rubble of the demolished house. While the security forces worked, the predictable crowds gathered around the cordons. Some young men swore and shouted abuse at the soldiers, but mostly people were just curious. One woman stood out, though. The young woman with long red hair tied back in a bun. She was clearly upset and very agitated, screaming at the troops about a missing child. It took us some time to establish what had happened. The woman's child was an eight-year-old girl called Eva. She had been playing on the street in front of the safe house at the exact moment the bomb exploded. We found her dead body, buried underneath the rubble about an hour later.  I have seen a lot of terrible things during my time, but nothing as tragic as this. And he was there, of course. The dark man, lingering in the shadows, just outside of the cordon, watching on and mocking me. It seems he's drawn to death, destruction and human agony. I think he thrives on it.  I returned home afterwards and instantly hit the bottle. I couldn't stop thinking about that poor little girl. What had she ever done to deserve this? I thought of my younger sister and how I'd feel if something so awful happened to her. Later that night when I turned on the radio to listen to the news reports of today's incident, the IRA had released a statement describing the dead bomber as a brave Irish patriot who gave his life in the cause of freedom, while young Ifa's death was a tragic accident and a painful reminder of the British occupation of our country. I saw red when I heard those words, grabbing an empty vodka bottle and flinging it across the room at the radio, smashing both into pieces. I couldn't stand the hypocrisy. There'd be condemnations, of course, but it would make no difference. The war would go on. The horror never ends. 77. He came to my home last night. My safe haven has been breached. Happened at about two in the morning. Finally, after weeks of insomnia, I'd managed to nod off and get some sleep, only to be awoken by a noise outside my window during the early hours. I rubbed my tired eyes and got out of bed, creeping across the room and sheepishly peeking through the curtains at the street below. My heart almost stopped when I saw him standing there as bold as you like. Again, I could see little in the dim light, but it was definitely him, the same dark figure who'd been stalking me for weeks. He stood perfectly still on the opposite side of the street, glaring up at my bedroom window, his dark shape casting a foreboding shadow across the pavement. I was frozen in fear for a moment, unable to avert my gaze or move from the window. It was one thing to see this dark stalker at a crowded crime scene, but now he was here at my home. I had no soldiers or police colleagues to back me up, and I'd never felt so alone in my whole life. I knew he'd come for me, and we sure this was the end game. But suddenly, my fear was replaced by angry defiance. I was determined not to go down without a fight. Tearing myself away from the window, I grabbed my revolver from my bedside drawer and stormed out of the room, tearing down the staircase and making for the front door. I flung the door open and dashed out onto the pavement, brandishing my loaded revolver as I went. I was determined to unload six bullets into the bastard's head, but my enemy was gone, having seemingly disappeared without a trace. I frantically searched the street in both directions, but there was nothing. After several minutes, I realized it wouldn't look good if my neighbors saw me brandishing a gun out in the middle of our quiet suburban street, so I retreated back inside my house. I knew he'd be back, so I barricaded the doors and stood guard by the window. My weapon drawn and at the ready. I didn't expect to last the night, but I made it to dawn. I'm sure the dark band is taunting me, prolonging my misery before he finally strikes. I'm not a religious man, but tonight, tonight I prayed. I don't think anyone's listening. I just want this to end one way or another. February 16, 1977.  I know he or it will be back. I've had a lot of time to think during these long and tense hours to recall all the awful scenes I've witnessed over these last few weeks. I truly believe that evil has taken hold of this country, infecting the hearts of men, making them commit the most heinous of crimes. It seems like God has abandoned this land, leaving us in the hands of demons that walk the earth. What is this creature that stalks me? I'm sure it's not of this world. The morning was quiet, a calm before the storm. At lunchtime, I heard a mighty blast in the distance, probably caused by a bomb attack in the town center. The violence continues unabated, and this evil entity feeds off of it. I've made it to dusk, but know that he'll come for me under the cover of darkness. 1977. He's here, standing in the exact same spot as last night. I'm watching him as I write this. He's staring right back at me. I'm tired of living in fear.  I saw its face. I looked into its eyes. Dear God, those eyes. He's not a man, not a human being. Of this, I have no doubt. When he lowered his hood, I saw something I could not comprehend. Those demonic orbs in place of its eyes stared into my very soul. It took everything from me, leaving nothing but an empty shell. I can never forget what I saw. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I see the bodies, the bomb sites, all the evil that has taken hold to go on like this. There is only one way out. Whoever finds this diary, please tell my parents and sister that I love them, and I'm sorry. Please, God. Well, that's it. My late uncle's lost journal, transcribed word for word. Needless to say, I found it very emotional to read, and I've been having difficulties coming to terms with this story. And I understand why my mother refused to talk about her brother's death throughout her whole life. After reading his account, I dug deeper, carrying out my own research in an attempt to verify the details. As you probably guessed, my uncle killed himself soon after writing his final entry. He shot himself through the head using a service revolver. Sadly, suicides were all too common for serving RUC officers. Unsurprising, given the immense stress of their job. I was able to confirm most of the incidents he described, including the murders and bombings. They all happened. However, there's no record of the arrests at the Black Mass. If this sort of thing did occur, it must have been kept out of the history books. I really don't know what to think about my uncle's account. The most logical explanation is that he suffered a mental breakdown due to the stresses of his job or was suffering from PTSD. Isolated and without professional help, he was unable to sleep and drank heavily to dull his pain. This, in turn, could have resulted in paranoid delusions, making him see things that weren't really there. I'd like to believe this and find some closure to the whole affair. However, there is one detail I have not been able to explain away. While making my inquiries, I was able to speak with one of the officers who attended my uncle's house after his suicide. The man has long since retired from the police force, but he remembered that day vividly. He described manning a cordon while my uncle's body was removed from the house and loaded into awaiting ambulance. During this grim procession, he recalls seeing a solitary figure watching from the end of the street. A hooded man dressed in dark robes, his face covered. The officer said he was momentarily distracted by the ambulance driving off when he turned back. The figure was gone. Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. And please, leave a rating and review of the show and the podcast app you listen from. Doing so helps the show to get noticed. You can also email me anytime with your questions or comments through the website at WeirdDarkness.com. That's also where you can find all of my social media, listen to free audiobooks that I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness store, sign up for the email newsletter to win monthly prizes, find other podcasts that I host and find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Plus, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. Stories on Thriller Thursdays are works of fiction and links to the stories or the authors can be found in the show notes. Acts of Vengeance was written by G. L. Bauman and Confessions of a Belfast Cop was written by Finn McCool. Both stories can be found at creepypasta.com. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Matthew 6, verse 27 Who of you, by worrying, can add a single hour to his life? And a final thought from Friedrich Koenig. We tend to forget that happiness doesn't come as a result of getting something we don't have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Hey, Weirdos. You've got a murder shift. Our next Weirdo Watch Party is Saturday, March 2nd. Who killed her? She was a wild dog. Boy, this couldn't be done by a human bird. We'll be spending two hours with Hexen Arcane. Sisters Morgan and Celeste Parker, these sexy sirens, these gorgeous ghouls, will be presenting 1972's Moon of the Wolf, starring David Janssen, Barbara Rush and Bradford Dillman. What did you find when you examined Ellie? Just that she was murdered? Dogs didn't do it. Like I said. After several locals are viciously murdered, a Louisiana sheriff starts to suspect he might be dealing with a werewolf. He's saying Lou Gauru. Come on, how can you go wrong with a werewolf flick, am I right? Werewolf. He's saying werewolf. Our Weirdo Watch Party is always free to watch online, so grab your popcorn, candy and soda and jump into the fun and even get involved in a live chat as we watch the movie. It's Moon of the Wolf on Saturday, March 2, hosted by Hexen Arcane. The show begins at 10 p.m. Eastern, 9 p.m. Central, 8 p.m. Mountain and 7 p.m. Pacific. You can watch a trailer for the film and watch horror hosts and schlocky B-movies anytime, day or night on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com. He says that I'm its next victim. Hope to see you March 2. Our brain is a wonderful thing, allowing us to make decisions, work on problems, plan for the future, live for today and remember our past. But that last item, remembering our past, can sometimes be painful if we're stuck going back to those memories again and again feeling shame for something we did or didn't do. How can we deal with our yesterdays? That's the topic of this week's message over at The Church of the Undead podcast, which you can get to by going to WeirdDarkness.com slash church.


Related to what is this? This is a Feather M4 and it's on a tripler board with a floppy featherwing connected to this floppy drive. It's got a diskette that I've got some files in it And this feather is actually running circuit python. It's a build that jebler just gave me because he just implemented Adafruit floppy, which is hardware native support for eating mfm floppies. So let's uh We run the code And it'll actually list all the files. I put some old frack text files and I have a little bit of a ASCII code here that will let me Page through the text file. So it's reading the fat. It's reading the files I can read my old text files if I like on a diskette And this is coming soon to circuit python. So we have native floppy disk file system support Nice work. Thanks jebler